Soul Music

" 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.

" Free," he muttered. "Did you put it about that anyone who plays at this Festival is right out of the Guild?"

" Yes, sir. I don't think they're worrying, sir. I mean, some of 'em have been getting together, sir. See, they say since there's a lot more people want to be musicians than we'll allow in the Guild then we should–"

" It's mob rule!" said Clete. "Banding together to force unacceptable rules on a defenceless city!"

" Trouble is, sir," said Satchelmouth, "if there's a lot of them... if they think of talking to the palace... well, you know the Patrician, sir..."

Clete nodded glumly. Any Guild was powerful just so long as it self‑evidently spoke for its constituency. He thought of hundreds of musicians flocking to the palace. Hundreds of non­Guild musicians...

The Patrician was a pragmatist. He never tried to fix things that worked. Things that didn't work, however, got broken.

The only glimmer of hope was that they'd all be too busy messing around with music to think about the bigger picture. It had certainly worked for Clete.

Then he remembered that the blasted Dibbler man was involved.

Expecting Dibbler not to think about anything concerning money was like expecting rocks not to think about gravity.

" Hello? Albert?"

Susan pushed open the kitchen door. The huge room was empty.

" Albert?"

She tried upstairs. There was her own room, and there was a corridor of doors that didn't open and possibly never could ‑ the doors and frames had an all‑in‑one, moulded‑together look. Presumably Death had a bedroom, although proverbially Death never slept. Perhaps he just lay in bed reading.

She tried the handles until she found one that turned.

Death did have a bedroom.

He'd got many of the details right. Of course. After all, he saw quite a lot of bedrooms. In the middle of the acres of floor was a large four‑poster bed, although when Susan gave it an experimental prod it turned out that the sheets were as solid as rock.

There was a full‑length mirror, and a wardrobe. She had a look inside, just in case there was a selection of robes, but there was nothing in there except a few old shoes in the bottom.

A dressing table held a jug‑and‑basin set with a motif of skulls and omegas, and a variety of bottles and other items.

She picked them up, one by one. After‑shave lotion. Pomade. Breath freshener. A pair of silver‑backed hair­brushes.

It was all rather sad. Death clearly had picked up an idea of what a gentleman should have on his dressing table, without confronting one or two fundamental questions.

Eventually she found a smaller, narrower staircase.

" Albert?"

There was a door at the top.

" Albert? Anyone?"