Soul Music

Albert, in front of a scrap of mirror in his bedroom, brushed his hair furiously. It was white. At least, long ago it was white. Now it was the colour of a tobacco addict's index finger.

"It's my duty, that's what it is," he muttered. "Don't know where he'd be without me. Maybe he does remember the future, but he always gets it wrong! Oh, he can go on worrying about the eternal verities, but who has to sort it out when all's said and done… Muggins, that's who."

He glared at himself in the mirror.

"Right!" he said.

There was a battered shoe-box under the bed. Albert pulled it out very, very carefully and took the top off. It was half full of cotton wool; nestling in the wool, like a rare egg, was a lifetimer.

Engraved on it was the name: Alberto Malich.

The sand inside was frozen, immobile, in mid-pour. There wasn't much left in the top bulb.

No time passed, here.

It was part of the Arrangement. He worked for Death, and time didn't pass, except when he went into the World.

There was a scrap of paper by the glass. The figures '91' had been written at the top, but lower numbers trailed down the page after it. 73… 68… 37

Nineteen!

He must have been daft. He'd let his life leak away by hours and minutes, and there had been a lot more of them lately. There'd been all that business with the plumber, of course. And shopping. The Master didn't like to go shopping. It was hard to get served. And Albert had taken a few holidays, because it was nice to see the sun, any sun, and feel wind and rain; the Master did his best, but he could never get them right. And decent vegetables, he couldn't do them properly either. They never tasted grown.

Nineteen days left in the world. But more than enough.

Albert slipped the lifetimer into his pocket, put on an overcoat, and stamped back down the stairs.

"You," he said, pointing to the Death of Rats, "you can't sense a trace of him? There must be something. Concentrate."

SQUEAK.

"What did he say?"

"He said all he can remember is something about sand."

"Sand," said Albert. "All right. Good start. We search all the sand."

SQUEAK?

"Wherever the Master is, he'll make an impression."

Cliff awoke to a swish-swish sound. The shape of Glod was outlined in the light of dawn, wielding a brush.

"What're you doing, dwarf?"

"I got Asphalt to get some paint," said Glod. "These rooms are a disgrace."

Cliff raised himself on his elbows and looked around.

"What do you call the colour on the door?"

"Eau-de-Nil."

"Nice."

"Thank you," said Glod.

"The curtains are good, too."

The door creaked open. Asphalt came in, with a tray, and kicked the door shut behind him.

"Oh, sorry," he said.

"I'll paint over the mark," said Glod.

Asphalt put the tray down, trembling with excitement.

"Everyone's talking about you guys!" he said. "And they're saying it was about time they built a new theatre anyway. I've got you eggs and bacon, eggs and rat, eggs and coke, and… and… what was it… oh, yes. The Captain of the Watch says if you're still in the city at sunrise he will personally have you buried alive. I've got the cart all ready by the back door. Young women have been writing things on it in lipstick. Nice curtains, by the way."

All three of them looked at Buddy.

"He hasn't moved," said Glod. "Flopped down right after the show and out like a light."

"He was certainly leaping around last night," said Cliff.

Buddy continued to snore gently.

"When we get back," said Glod, "we ought to have a nice holiday somewhere."

"Days right," said Cliff. "If we get out of dis alive, I'm going to put my rock kit on my back and take a long walk, and the first time someone says to me, "What are dem things on your back?" days where I'm gonna settle down."

Asphalt peered down into the street.

"Can you all eat fast?" he said. "Only there's some men in uniform out there. With shovels."

Back in Ankh-Morpork, Mr Clete was astonished.

"But we hired you!" he said.

"The term is "retained", not "hired"," said Lord Downey, head of the Assassins' Guild. He looked at Clete with an expression of unconcealed distaste. "Unfortunately, however, we can no longer entertain your contract."

"They're musicians," said Mr Clete. "How hard can they be to kill?"

"My associates are somewhat reluctant to talk about it," said Lord Downey. "They seem to feel that the clients are protected in some way. Obviously, we will return the balance of your fee."

"Protected," muttered Clete, as they stepped thankfully through the archway of the Assassins' Guild.

"Well, I told you what it was like in the Drum when—" Satchelmouth began.

"That's just superstition," snapped Clete. He glanced up at a wall, where three Festival posters flaunted their primary colours.

"It was stupid of you to think Assassins would be any good outside the city," muttered Clete.

"Me? I never—"

"Get them more than five miles from a decent tailor and a mirror, and they go all to pieces," Clete added.

He stared at the poster.