Soul Music

Dibbler swallowed. He suddenly had the look of a man prepared to make the supreme sacrifice.

"I could… maybe go up… maybe… a dollar," he said, each word fighting its way out of the strongroom of his soul.

"If we go on stage now, I want us to do another performance," said Buddy.

Glod glared suspiciously at the guitar.

"What? No problem. I can soon—"Dibbler began.

"Free."

"Free?" The word got past Dibbler's teeth before they could snap shut. He rallied magnificently. "You don't want paying? Certainly, if—"

Buddy didn't move.

"I mean, we don't get paid and people don't have to pay to listen. As many people as possible."

"Free?"

"Yes!"

"Where's the profit in that?"

An empty beer bottle vibrated off the table and smashed on the floor. A troll appeared in the doorway, or at least part of it did. It wouldn't be able to get into the room without ripping the door‑frame out, but it looked as though it wouldn't think twice about doing so.

"Mr Chrysoprase says, what's happening?" it growled.

"Er—' Dibbler began.

"Mr Chrysoprase don't like being kept waiting."

"I know, it—"

"He gets sad if he's kept waiting—"

"All right!" shouted Dibbler. "Free! And that's cutting my own throat. You do know that, don't you?"

Buddy played a chord. It seemed to leave little lights in the air.

"Let's go," he said softly.

"I know this city," Dibbler mumbled, as The Band With Rocks In hurried towards the vibrating stage. "Tell people something's free and you'll get thousands of them turning up—"

Needing to eat, said a voice in his head. It had a twang.

Needing to drink.

Needing to buy Band With Rocks In shirts…

Dibbler's face, very slowly, rearranged itself into a grin.

"A free festival," he said. "Right! It's our public duty. Music should be free. And sausages in a bun should be a dollar each, mustard extra. Maybe a dollar‑fifty. And that's cutting my own throat."

In the wings, the noise of the audience was a solid wall of sound.

"There's lots of them," said Glod. "I never played for that many in my entire life!"

Asphalt was arranging Cliff's rocks on the stage and getting massive applause and catcalls.

Glod glanced up at Buddy. He hadn't let go of the guitar all this time. Dwarfs weren't given to deep introspection, but Glod was suddenly aware of a desire to be a long way from here, in a cave somewhere.

"Best of luck, you guys," said a flat little voice behind them.

Jimbo was bandaging Crash's arm.

"Er, thanks," said Cliff. "What happened to you?"

"They threw something at us," said Crash.

"What?"

"Noddy, I think."

What could be seen of Crash's face broke into a huge and terrible smile.

"We done it, though!" he said. "We done music with rocks in all right! That bit where Jimbo smashed his guitar, they loved that bit!"

"Smashed his guitar?"

"Yeah," said Jimbo, with the pride of the artist. "On Scum."

Buddy had his eyes closed. Cliff thought he could see a very, very faint glow surrounding him, like a thin mist. There were tiny points of light in it.

Sometimes, Buddy looked very elvish.

Asphalt scurried off the stage.

"OK, all done," he said.

The others looked at Buddy.

He was still standing with his eyes shut, as if he was asleep on his feet.

"We'll… get on out there, then?" said Glod.

"Yes," said Cliff, "we'll get on out there, will we? Er. Buddy?"

Buddy's eyes snapped open suddenly.

"Let's rock," he whispered.

Cliff had thought that the sound was loud before, but it hit him like a club as they trooped out of the wings.

Glod picked up his horn. Cliff sat down and found his hammers.

Buddy walked to the centre of the stage and, to Cliff's amazement, just stood there looking down at his feet.

The cheering began to subside.

And then died away altogether. The huge hall was filled with the hush of hundreds of people holding their breath.

Buddy's fingers moved.

He picked out three simple little chords.

And then he looked up.

"Hello, Ankh‑Morpork!"

Cliff felt the music rise up behind him and rush him forward into a tunnel of fire and sparks and excitement. He brought his hammers down. And it was Music With Rocks In.

C. M. O. T. Dibbler stood out in the street so that he didn't have to hear the music. He was smoking a cigar and doing calculations on the back of an overdue bill for stale buns.

Lessee… OK, have it outside somewhere, so there's no rent… maybe ten thousand people, one sausageinna‑bun each at a dollar‑fifty, no, say a dollar‑seventy‑five, mustard tenpence extra ‑ ten thousand Band With Rocks In shirts at five dollars each, make that ten dollars… add stall rental for other traders, because people who like Music With Rocks In could probably be persuaded to buy anything…

He was aware of a horse coming along the street. He paid it no attention until a female voice said: "How do I get in here?"

"No chance. Tickets all sold out," said Dibbler, without turning his head. Even Band With Rocks In posters, people had been offering three dollars just for posters, and Chalky the troll could knock out a hundred a–