Soul Music

" I'm sure that worked famously," said the Patrician.

He lit a candle and read the poster carefully. In the presence of Foul Ole Ron, all candles burned with a blue edge to the flame.

"'Free Festival of Music with Rocks In It"," he said.

" That's where you don't have to pay to go in," said Foul Ole Ron helpfully. "Buggrem, buggrit."

Lord Vetinari read on.

" In Hide Park. Next Wednesday. Well, well. A public open space, of course. I wonder if there'll be many people there?"

" Lots, yerronner. There was hundreds couldn't get into the Cavern."

" And the band looks like that, do they?" said Lord Vetinari. "Scowling like that?"

" Sweating, most of the time I saw 'em," said Foul Ole Ron.

"'Bee There Orr Bee A Rectangular Thyng"," said the Patrician. "This is some sort of occult code, do you think?"

" Couldn't say, yerronner," said Foul Ole Ron. "My brain goes all slow when I'm thirsty."

"'They Are Totallye Unable To Bee Seene! And A Longe Way Oute!"' said Lord Vetinari solemnly. He looked up. "Oh, I am sorry," he said. "I'm sure I can find someone to give you a cool refreshing drink..."

Foul Ole Ron coughed. It had sounded like a perfectly sincere offer but, somehow, he was suddenly not at all thirsty.

" Don't let me keep you, then. Thank you so very much," said Lord Vetinari.

" Er ..."

" Yes?"

" Er... nothing..."

" Very good."

When Ron had buggrit, buggrit, buggrem'd down the stairs, the Patrician tapped his pen thoughtfully on the paper and stared at the wall.

The pen kept bouncing on the word Free.

Finally he rang a small bell. A young clerk put his head around the door.

" Ah, Drumknott," said Lord Vetinari, "just go and tell the head of the Musicians' Guild he wants a word with me, will you?"

" Er... Mr Clete is already in the waiting room, your lordship," said the clerk.

" Does he by any chance have some kind of poster with him?"

" Yes, your lordship."

" And is he very angry?"

" This is very much the case, your lordship. It's about some festival. He insists youhave it stopped."

" Dear me."

" And he demands that you see him instantly."

" Ah. Then leave him for, say, twenty minutes, then show him up."

" Yes, your lordship. He keeps saying that he wants to know what you are doing about it."

" Good. Then I can ask him the same question."

The Patrician sat back. Si non confectus, non reficiat. That was the motto of the Vetinaris. Everything worked if you just let it happen.

He picked up a stack of sheet‑music and began to listen to Salami's Prelude to a Nocturne on a Theme by Bubbla.

After a while he looked up.

" Don't hesitate to leave," he snapped.

The Smell slunk away.

SQUEAK!

" Don't be stupid! All I did was frighten them off. It's not as though I hurt them. What's the good of having the power if you can't use it?"

The Death of Rats put his nose in his paws. It was a lot easier, with rats.

C. M. O. T. Dibbler often did without sleep, too. He generally had to meet Chalky at night. Chalky was a large troll but tended to dry up and flake in daylight.

Other trolls looked down on him because he came from a sedimentary family and was therefore a very low‑class troll indeed. He didn't mind. He was a very amiable character.

He did odd jobs for people who needed something unusual in a hurry and without entanglements and who had clinking money. And this job was pretty odd.

" Just boxes?" he said.

" With lids," said Dibbler. "Like this one I've made. And a bit of wire stretched inside."

Some people would have said 'Why?" or 'What for?" but Chalky didn't make his money like that. He picked up the box and turned it this way and that.

" How many?" he said.

" Just ten to start with," said Dibbler. "But I think there'll be more later. Lots and lots more."

" How many's ten?" said the troll.

Dibbler held up both hands, fingers extended.

" I'll do them for two dollar," said Chalky.

" You want me to cut my own throat?"

" Two dollar."

" Dollar each for these and a dollar‑fifty for the next batch."

" Two dollar."

" All right, all right, two dollars each. That's ten dollars the lot, right?"

" Right."

" And that's cutting my own throat."

Chalky tossed the box aside. It bounced on the floor and the lid came off.

Some time later a small, greyish‑brown mongrel dog, on the prowl for anything edible, limped into the workshop and sat peering into the box for a while.

Then it felt a bit of an idiot and wandered off.

Ridcully hammered on the door of the High Energy Magic Building as the city clocks were striking two. He was supporting Ponder Stibbons, who was asleep on his feet.

Ridcully was not a quick thinker. But he always got there eventually.

The door opened and Skazz's hair appeared.

" Are you facin' me?" said Ridcully.

" Yes, Archchancellor."

" Let us in, then, the dew's soaking through me boots."

Ridcully looked around as he helped Ponder in.