Soul Music

Then he watched the troll carry the beat and hammer the rocks until the walls shook. The Librarian's fingers swooped along the keyboard. Then his toes did the same. And all the time the guitar hooted and screamed and sang out the melody.

The wizards were bouncing in their seats and twirling their fingers in the air.

Ridcully leaned over to the Bursar and screamed at him.

"What?" shouted the Bursar.

"I said, they've all gone mad except me and you!"

"What?"

"It's the music!"

"Yes! It's great!" said the Bursar, waving his skinny hands in the air.

"And I'm not too certain about you!"

Ridcully sat down again and pulled out the thaumometer. It was vibrating crazily, which was no help at all. It didn't seem to be able to decide if this was magic or not.

He nudged the Bursar sharply.

"This ain't magic! This is something else!"

"You're exactly right!"

Ridcully had the feeling that he suddenly wasn't speaking the right language.

"I mean it's too much!"

"Yes!"

Ridcully sighed.

"Is it time for your dried frog pill?"

Smoke was coming out of the stricken piano. The Librarian's hands were walking through the keys like Casanunda in a nunnery.

Ridcully looked around. He felt all alone.

Someone else hadn't been overcome by the music. Satchelmouth had stood up. So had his two associates.

They had drawn some knobbly clubs. Ridcully knew the Guild laws. Of course, they had to be enforced. You couldn't run a city without them. This certainly wasn't licensed music ‑ if ever there was unlicensed music, this was it. Nevertheless… he rolled up his sleeve and prepared a quick fireball, just in case.

One of the men dropped his club and clutched his foot. The other one spun around as if something had slapped his ear. Satchelmouth's hat dented, as if someone had just hit him on the head.

Ridcully, one eye watering terribly, thought he made out the Tooth Fairy girl bringing the handle of a scythe down on Satchelmouth's head.

The Archchancellor was quite a bright man but often had trouble in forcing his train of thought to change tracks. He was having difficulty with the idea of a scythe, after all, grass didn't have teeth ‑ and then the fireball burned his fingers, and then, as he sucked frantically at them, he realized that there was something in the sound. Something extra.

"Oh, no," he said, as the fireball floated to the floor and set fire to the Bursar's boot, "it's alive."

He grabbed the beer mug, finished the contents hurriedly, and rammed it upside down on the tabletop.

The moon shone over the Klatchian desert, in the vicinity of the dotted line. Both sides of it got exactly the same amount of moonlight, although minds like Mr Clete's deplored this state of affairs.

The sergeant strolled across the packed sand of the parade ground. He stopped, sat down, and produced a cheroot. Then he pulled out a match, reached down and struck it on something sticking out of the sand, which said:

GOOD EVENING.

"I expect you've had enough, eh, soldier?" said the sergeant.

ENOUGH WHAT, SERGEANT?

"Two days in the sun, no food, no water… I expect you're delirious with thirst and are just begging to be dug out, eh?"

YES. IT IS CERTAINLY VERY DULL.

"Dull?"

I AM AFRAID SO.

"Dull? It's not meant to be dull! It's the Pit! It's meant to be a horrible physical and mental torture! After one day of it you're supposed to by a…" The sergeant glanced surreptitiously at some writing on his wrist, "… a raving madman! I've been watching you all day! You haven't even groaned! I can't sit in my… thing, you sit in it, there's papers and things…"

OFFICE.

"… working, with you outside like this! I can't bear it!"

Beau Nidle glanced upwards. He felt it was time for a kindly gesture.

HELP, HELP. HELP, HELP, he said.

The sergeant sagged with relief.

THIS ASSISTS PEOPLE TO FORGET, DOES IT?

"Forget? People forget everything when they're given…er…"

THE PIT.

"Yes! That's it!"

AH. DO YOU MIND IF I ASK A QUESTION?

"What?.

DO YOU MIND IF PERHAPS I HAVE ANOTHER DAY?

The sergeant opened his mouth to reply, and the D'regs attacked over the nearest sand‑dune.

"Music?" said the Patrician. "Ah. Tell me more."

He leaned back in an attitude that suggested attentive listening. He was extremely good at listening. He created a kind of mental suction. People told him things just to avoid the silence.

Besides, Lord Vetinari, the supreme ruler of Ankh‑Morpork, rather liked music.

People wondered what sort of music would appeal to such a man.

Highly formalized chamber music, possibly, or thunder‑andlightning opera scores.