Soul Music

Asphalt heard the conversation:

"Have you done it?"

"Here you are, mister. Right as rain."

"Will it play? You know I said where you have to have spent a fortnight wrapped in a bullock hide behind a waterfall before you should touch one of these things."

"Listen, mister, for this kind of money it had me in the shower for five minutes with a chamois leather on me head. Don't tell me that's not good enough for folk music."

There was a pleasant sound, which hung in the air for a moment before being lost in the busy din of the street.

"We said twenty dollars, right?"

"No, you said twenty dollars. I said twenty‑five dollars."

"Just a minute, then."

Glod came out, and nodded at Cliff.

"All right," he said. "Cough up."

Cliff growled, but fumbled for a moment somewhere at the back of his mouth.

They heard the cunning artificer say, "What the hell's that?"

"A molar. Got to be worth at least—"

"It'll do."

Glod came out again with a sack, which he tucked under the seat.

"OK," he said. "Head for the park."

They went in through one of the back gates. Or, at least, tried to. Two trolls barred their way. They had the glossy marble patina of Chrysoprase's basic gang thugs. He didn't have henchmen. Most trolls weren't clever enough to hench.

"Dis is for der bands," one said.

"Days right," said the other one.

"We are The Band," said Asphalt.

"Which one?" said the first troll. "I got a list here."

"Days right."

"We're The Band With Rocks In," said Glod.

"Hah, you ain't them. I've seen them. Dere's a ‑guy with this glow round him, and when he plays der guitar it goes—'

Whauauauaummmmm‑eeeee‑gngngn.

"Dat's right—'

The chord curled around the cart.

Buddy was standing up, guitar at the ready.

"Oh, wow," said the first troll. "This are amazing!" He fumbled in his loincloth and produced a dog‑eared piece of paper. "You couldn't write your name down, could you? My boy Clay, he won't believe I met—'

"Yes, yes," said Buddy wearily. "Pass it up."

"Only it not for me, it for my boy Clay—" said the troll, jumping from one foot to the other in excitement.

"How d'you spell it?"

"It don't matter, he can't read anyway."

"Listen," said Glod, as the cart trundled into the backstage area, "someone's already playing. I said we—'

Dibbler hurried up.

"What kept you?" he said. "You'll be on soon! Right after… Boyz From The Wood. How did it go? Asphalt, come here."

He pulled the small troll into the shadows at the back of the stage.

"You brought me some money?" he said.

"About three thousand—'

"Not so loud!"

"I'm only whispering it, Mr Dibbler."

Dibbler looked around carefully. There was no such thing as a whisper in Ankh‑Morpork when the sum involved had the word 'thousand' in it somewhere; people could hear you think that kind of money in Ankh‑Morpork.

"You be sure and keep an eye on it, right? There's going to be more before this day's out. I'll give Chrysoprase his seven hundred dollars and the rest is all prof—" He caught Asphalt's little beady eye and remembered himself. "Of course, there's depreciation… overheads… advertising… market research… buns… mustard… basically, I'll be lucky if I break even. I'm practically cutting me own throat in this deal."

"Yes, Mr Dibbler."

Asphalt peered around the edge of the stage.

"Who's that playing now, Mr Dibbler?"

"'And you"."

"Sorry, Mr Dibbler?"

"Only they write it &U," said Dibbler. He relaxed a little and pulled out a cigar. "Don't ask me why. The right kind of name for musicians ought to be something like Blondie and his Merry Troubadours. Are they any good?"

"Don't you know, Mr Dibbler?"

"It's not what I call music," said Dibbler. "When I was a lad we had proper music with real words… "Summer is icumen in, lewdly sing cuckoo", that sort of thing."

Asphalt looked at &U again.

"Well, it's got a beat and you can dance to it," he said, "but they're not very good. I mean, people are just watching them. They don't just watch when The Band are playing, Mr Dibbler."

"You're right," said Dibbler. He looked at the front of the stage. In between the candles was a row of music traps.

"You'd better go and tell them to get ready. I think this lot are running out of ideas."

"Um. Buddy?"

He looked up from his guitar. Some of the othermusicians were tuning theirs, but he'd found he never had to. He couldn't, anyway. The pegs didn't move.

"What is it?"

"Um," said Glod. He waved vaguely at Cliff, who grinned sheepishly and produced the sack from behind his back.