Soul Music

"What's the problem?" said Asphalt. "It was great! Everyone was cheering. You did two hours! I had to keep kickin' 'em off the stage! I never felt so—"

He stopped.

"That's it, really," said Cliff. "The fing is, I go on dat stage, I sits down not knowing even what we're goin' to do, next minute Buddy plays something on his… on that thing, next I'm goin' bam-Bam-chcha-chcha-BAM-bam. Idon't know what I'm playing. It just comes in my head and down my arms."

"Yes," said Glod. "Me, too. Seems to me I'm getting stuff out of that horn I never put in there."

"And it ain't like proper playing," said Cliff. "That's what I'm saying. It's more like being played."

"You've been in show business a long time, right?" said Glod to Asphalt.

"Yep. Been there, done it. Seem 'em all."

"You ever seen an audience like that?"

"I've seen 'em throw flowers and cheer at the Opera House—'

"Ha! Just flowers? Some woman threw her… clothing at the stage!"

"Dat's right! Landed on my head!"

"And when Miss VaVa Voom did the Feather Dance down at the Skunk Club in Brewer Street, the whole audience rushed the stage when she was down to the last feather—"

"That was like this, was it?"

"No," the troll admitted. "I got to say it, I ain't never seen an audience so … hungry. Not even for Miss VaVa Voom, and they were pretty damn peckish then, I can tell you. Of course, no-one threw underwear on to the stage. She used to throw it off the stage."

"Dere's something else," said Cliff. "Dere's four people in this room and only three of 'em's talking."

Buddy looked up.

"The music's important," he mumbled.

"It ain't music," said Glod. "Music don't do this to people. It don't make them feel like they've been put through a wringer. I was sweating so much I'm going to have to change my vest any day now." He rubbed his nose. "Also, I looked at that audience, and I thought: they paid money to get in here. I bet it came to more than ten dollars."

Asphalt held up a slip of paper.

"Found this ticket on the floor," he said.

Glod read it.

"A dollar-fifty?" he said. "Six hundred people at a dollarfifty each? That… that's four hundred dollars!"

"Nine hundred," said Buddy, in the same flat tone, "but the money isn't important."

"The money's not important? You keep on saying that! What kind of musician are you?"

There was still a muted roar from outside.

"You want to go back to playing for half a dozen people in some cellar somewhere after this?" said Buddy. "Who's the most famous horn player there ever was, Glod?"

"Brother Charnel," said the dwarf promptly. "Everyone knows that. He stole the altar gold from the Temple of Offler and had it made into a horn and played magical music until the gods caught up with him and pulled his'

"Right," said Buddy, "but if you went out there now and asked who the most famous horn player is, would they remember some felonious monk or would they shout for Glod Glodsson?"

"They'd—"

Glod hesitated.

"Right," said Buddy. "Think about that. A musician has to be heard. You can't stop now. We can't stop now."

Glod waved a finger at the guitar.

"It's that thing," he said. "It's too dangerous."

"I can handle it!"

"Yes, but where's it going to end?"

"It's not how you finish that matters," said Buddy. "It's how you get there."

"That sounds elvish to me—"

The door burst open again.

"Er," said Dibbler, "boys, if you don't come back and play something else then we're in the deep brown…"

"Can't play," said Glod. "I've run out of breath through lack of money."

"I said ten dollars, didn't I?" said Dibbler.

"Each," said Cliff.

Dibbler, who hadn't expected to get away with less than a hundred, waved his hands in the air.

"Gratitude, is it?" he said. "You want me to cut my own throat?"

"We'll help. If you like," said Cliff.

"All right, all right, thirty dollars," said Dibbler. "And I go without my tea."

Cliff looked at Glod, who was still digesting the thing about the most famous horn player in the world.

"There's a lot of dwarfs and trolls in the audience," said Cliff.

""Cavern Deep, Mountain High"?" said Glod.

"No," said Buddy.

"What, then?"

"I'll think of something."

The audience spilled out into the street. The wizards gathered around the Dean, snapping their fingers.

"Wella-wella-wella—" sang the Dean happily.

"It's gone midnight!" said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, snapping his fingers, "and I don't care a bit! What shall we do now?"

"We could have a rumble," said the Dean.

"That's true," said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, "we did miss dinner."

"We missed dinner?" said the Senior Wrangler. "Wow! That's Music With Rocks In! We just don't care!"

"No, I meant…" The Dean paused. He wasn't quite sure, now he came to really think about it, what he had meant. "It's a long walk back to the University," he conceded. "I suppose we could at least stop for a coffee or something."

"Maybe a doughnut or two," said Recent Runes.

"And perhaps some cake," said the Chair.

"I could just fancy some apple pie," said the Senior Wrangler.

"And some cake."