Soul Music

" No, er, not in pain, er, I wouldn't say that," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, beginning to go red, "but, er, when the young man was waggling his hips like that–"

" He definitely looks elvish to me," said Ridcully.

" –er, I think she threw some of her, er, under... things on to the stage."

This silenced even Ridcully, at least for a while. Every wizard was suddenly busy with his own private thoughts.

" What, Mrs Whitlow?" the Chair of Indefinite Studies began.

" Yes."

" What, her‑?"

" I, er, think so."

Ridcully had once seen Mrs Whitlow's washing line. He'd been impressed. He'd never believed there was so much pink elastic in the world.

" What, really her‑?" said the Dean, his voice sounding as though it was coming from a long way away.

" I'm, er, pretty sure."

" Sounds dangerous to me," said Ridcully briskly. "Could do someone a serious injury. Now then, you lot, back to the University right now for cold baths all round."

" Really her‑?" said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. Somehow, none of them felt able to leave the idea alone.

" Make yourself useful and find the Bursar," snapped Ridcully. "And I'd have you lot up in front of the University authorities first thing in the morning, if it wasn't for the fact that you are the University authorities..."

Foul Ole Ron, professional maniac and one of Ankh‑Morpork's most industrious beggars, blinked in the gloom. Lord Vetinari had excellent night vision. And, unfortunately, a well-developed sense of smell.

" And then what happened?" he said, trying to keep his face turned away from the beggar. Because the fact was that although in actual size Foul Ole Ron was a small hunched man in a huge grubby overcoat, in smell he filled the world.

In fact Foul Ole Ron was a physical schizophrenic. There was Foul Ole Ron, and there was the smell of Foul Ole Ron, which had obviously developed over the years to such an extent that it had a distinct personality. Anyone could have a smell that lingered long after they'd gone somewhere else, but the smell of Foul Ole Ron could actually arrive somewhere several minutes before he did, in order to spread out and get comfortable before he arrived. It had evolved into something so striking that it was no longer perceived with the nose, which shut down instantly in selfdefence; people could tell that Foul Ole Ron was approaching by the way their ear wax started to melt.

" Buggrit, buggrit, wrong side out, I told 'em, buggrem..."

The Patrician waited. With Foul Ole Ron you had to allow time for his wandering mind to get into the same vicinity as his tongue .

" ... spyin' on me with magic, I told 'em, bean soup, see here... and then everyone was dancing, you see, and then afterwards there were two of the wizards in the street and one of them was going on about catching the music in a box and Mr Dibbler was interested and then the coffee house exploded and they all went back to the University... buggrit, buggrit, buggrem, see if I don't."

" The coffee house exploded, did it?"

" Frothy coffee all over the place, yerronner... bugg–"

" Yes, yes, and so on," said the Patrician, waving a thin hand. "And that's all you can tell me?"

" Well... bug–"

Foul Ole Ron caught the Patrician's eye and got a grip on himself. Even in his own highly individualized sanity he could tell when not to push his threadbare luck. His Smell wandered around the room, reading documents and examining the pictures.

" They say," he said, "that he drives all the women mad." He leaned forward. The Patrician leaned back. "They say after he moved his hips like that... Mrs Whitlow threw her... wossnames... on to the stage."

The Patrician raised an eyebrow.

" "Wossnames"?"

" You know." Foul Ole Ron moved his hands vaguely in the air.

" A pair of pillow cases? Two sacks of flour? Some very baggy trou‑ oh. I see. My word. Were there any casualties?"

" Dunno, yerronner. But there's something I do know."

" Yes?"

" Uh... Cumbling Michael says yerronner sometimes pays for information... ?"

" Yes, I know. I can't imagine how these rumours get about," said the Patrician, getting up and opening a window. "I shall have to have something done about it."

Once again, Foul Ole Ron reminded himself that while he was probably insane he definitely wasn't as mad as all that.

" Only I got this, yerronner," he said, pulling something out of the horrible recesses of his clothing. "It says writing on it, yerronner."

It was a poster, in glowing primary colours. It couldn't have been very old, but an hour or two as Foul Ole Ron's chest­warmer had aged it considerably. The Patrician unfolded it with a pair of tweezers.

" Them's the pictures of the music players," said Foul Ole Ron helpfully, "and that's writing. And there's more writing there, look. Mr Dibbler had Chalky the troll run 'em off just now, but I nipped in after and threatened to breathe on everyone less'n they gives me one."