“Haha, in fact you could say it was crunched up very big,” said Ponder, who always walked into it. “The reason being, space didn’t exist until there was a universe, so anything there was, was everywhere.”
“The same everywhere we had just now?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Go on.”
“Riktor said he thought that the sound came first. One great big complicated chord. The biggest, most complicated sound there ever was. A sound so complex that you couldn’t play it within a universe, any more than you can open a box with the crowbar that’s inside it. One great chord which…as it were…played everything into being. Started the music, if you like.”
“A sort of ta-dahhh?” said Ridcully.
“I suppose so.”
“I thought the universe came into being because some god cut off some other god’s wedding tackle and made the universe out of it,” said Ridcully. “Always seemed straightforward to me. I mean, it’s the kind of thing you can imagine happenin’.”
“Well—”
“Now you’re telling me someone blew a big hooter and here we are?”
“I don’t know about someone,” said Ponder.
“Noises don’t just make themselves, that I do know,” said Ridcully. He relaxed a bit, certain in his own mind that reason had prevailed, and patted Ponder on the back.
“It needs some work, lad,” he said. “Old Riktor was a bit…unsound, y’know. He thought everything came down to numbers.”
“Mind you,” said Ponder, “the universe does have a rhythm. Day and night, light and dark, life and death—”
“Chicken soup and croutons,” said Ridcully.
“Well, not every metaphor bears close examination.”
There was a knock on the door. Tez the Terrible entered, carrying a tray. He was followed by Mrs. Whitlow, the housekeeper.
Ridcully’s jaw dropped.
Mrs. Whitlow curtsied.
“Good morning, Hyour Grace,” she said.
Her ponytail bobbed. There was a rustle of starched petticoats.
Ridcully’s jaw rose again, but only so that he could say: “What have you done to your—”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Whitlow,” said Ponder quickly, “but have you served breakfast to any of the faculty this morning?”
“That’s right, Mister Stibbons,” said Mrs. Whitlow. Her ample and mysterious bosom shifted under its sweater. “None of the gentlemen came down, so I got trays taken up to them all. Daddio.”
Ridcully’s gaze continued downward. He’d never thought of Mrs. Whitlow as having legs before. Of course, in theory the woman needed something to move around on, but…well…
But there were two pudgy knees protruding from the huge mushroom of skirts. Farther down there were white socks.
“Your hair—” he began, hoarsely.
“Is there something wrong?” said Mrs. Whitlow.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Ponder. “Thank you very much.”
The door closed behind her.
“She was snapping her fingers as she went out, just like you said,” said Ponder.
“Wasn’t the only thing that’s snapped,” said Ridcully, still shuddering.
“Did you look at her shoes?”
“I think my eyes shut themselves protectively about there.”
“If it’s really alive,” said Ponder, “then it’s very contagious.”
This scene took place in Crash’s father’s coach house, but it was an echo of a scene evolving all around the city.
Crash hadn’t been christened Crash. He was the son of a rich dealer in hay and feedstuffs, but he despised his father for being dead from the neck up, totally concerned with material things, unimaginative, and also for paying him a ridiculous three dollars a week allowance.
Crash’s father had left his horses in the coach house. At the moment they were both trying to squeeze into one corner, having tried fruitlessly to kick a hole in the walls.
“I reckon I nearly had it that time,” said Crash, as hay dust poured down from the roof and woodworm hurried off to find a better home.
“It isn’t—I mean, it ain’t like the sound we heard in the Drum,” said Jimbo critically. “It’s a bit like it, but it isn—it ain’t it.”
Jimbo was Crash’s best friend and wished he was one of the people.
“It’s good enough to start with,” said Crash. “So you and Noddy, you two get guitars. And Scum, you…you can play the drums.”
“Dunno how,” said Scum. It was actually his name.
“No one knows how to play the drums,” said Crash patiently. “There’s nothing to know. You just hit them with the sticks.”
“Yeah, but what if I sort of miss?”
“Sit closer. Right,” said Crash, sitting back. “Now…the important thing, the really important thing is…what’re we going to call ourselves?”
Cliff looked around.
“Well, I reckon we look at every house and I’m damned if I see der name Dibbler anywhere,” he growled.
Buddy nodded. Most of Sator Square was the frontage of the University, but there was room for a few other buildings. They were the sort that have a dozen brass plates by the door. The sort that hinted that even wiping your feet on the doormat was going to cost you dear.
“Hello, boys.”
They turned. Dibbler beamed at them over a tray of possibly sausages and buns. There were a couple of sacks beside him.
“Sorry we’re late,” said Glod, “but we couldn’t find your office anywhere—”
Dibbler spread his arms wide.
“This is my office,” he said, equally expansively. “Sator Square! Thousands of square feet of space! Excellent communications! Passing trade! Try these on,” he added, picking up one of the sacks and opening it. “I had to guess at sizes.”
They were black, and made of cheap cotton. One of them was XXXXL.
“A vest with words on?” said Buddy.
“‘The Band With Rocks In,’” Cliff read, slowly. “Hey, dat’s us, isn’t it?”
“What do we want these for?” said Glod. “We know who we are.”
“Advertising,” said Dibbler. “Trust me.” He put a brown cylinder in his mouth and lit the end. “Wear them tonight. Have I got a gig for you!”
“Have you?” said Buddy.
“That’s what I said!”
“No, you asked us,” said Glod. “How should we know?”
“Has it got dat livery on der side?” said Cliff.
Dibbler started again.
“It’s a big place, you’ll get a great audience! And you’ll get…” he looked at their trusting, open faces, “ten dollars over Guild rate, how about that?”
Glod’s face split into a big grin. “What, each?” he said.
Dibbler gave them another appraising look. “Oh…no,” he said. “Fair do’s. Ten dollars between you. I mean, be serious. You need exposure.”
“There’s dat word again,” said Cliff. “The Musicians’ Guild’ll be right on our necks.”
“Not this place,” said Dibbler. “Guaranteed.”
“Where is it, then?” said Glod.
“Are you ready for this?”
They blinked at him. Dibbler beamed, and blew a cloud of greasy smoke.
“The Cavern!”
The beat went on…
Of course, there were bound to be a few mutations…
Gortlick and Hammerjug were songwriters, and fully paid-up members of the Guild. They wrote dwarf songs for all occasions.
Some people say this is not hard to do so long as you can remember how to spell “Gold,” but this is a little bit cynical. Many dwarf songs* are on the lines of “Gold, gold, gold” but it’s all in the inflection; dwarfs have thousands of words for “gold” but will use any of them in an emergency, such as when they see some gold that doesn’t belong to them.
They had a small office in Tin Lid Alley, where they sat either side of an anvil and wrote popular songs to mine alo
ng to.
“Gort?”
“What?”
“What do you think of this one?”
Hammerjug cleared his throat.
“I’m mean and turf and I’m mean and turf and I’m mean and turf and I’m mean and turf,
“And me an’ my friends can walk towards you with our hats on backwards in a menacing way,
“Yo!”
Gortlick chewed the end of his composing hammer thoughtfully.
“Good rhythm,” he said, “but the words need some work.”
“You mean more gold, gold, gold?”
“Ye-es. What’re you thinking of calling it?”
“Er…r…rat…music…”
“Why rat music?”
Hammerjug looked puzzled.
“Couldn’t really say,” he said. “It was just an idea I had in my brain.”
Gortlick shook his head. Dwarfs were a burrowing race. He knew what they liked.
“Good music’s got to have hole in it,” he said. “You ain’t got nothing if you ain’t got hole.”
“Now calm down, calm down,” said Dibbler. “It’s the biggest venue in Ankh-Morpork, that’s why. I don’t see what the problem is…”
“The Cavern?” screamed Glod. “Chrysoprase the troll runs it, that’s the problem!”
“Dey say he’s a godfather in der Breccia,” said Cliff.
“Now now, that’s never been proved…”
“Only ’cos it’s very hard to prove things when someone’s scooped a hole in your head and buried your feet in it!”
“There’s no need for this prejudice just because he’s a troll—” said Dibbler.
“I’m a troll! So I can be prejudiced against trolls, all right? He’s one mean mutherlode! Dey say when dey found der De Bris gang none of ’em had any teef—”
“What is the Cavern?” said Buddy.
“Troll place,” said Cliff. “Dey say—”
“It’ll be great! Why worry?” said Dibbler.
“It’s a gambling joint, too!” *
“But the Guild won’t go in there,” said Dibbler. “Not if they know what’s good for them.”
“And I know what’s good for me, too!” shouted Glod. “I’m good at knowing that! It’s good for me not to go into a troll dive!”
“They threw axes at you in the Drum,” said Dibbler, reasonably.
“Yes, but only in fun. It’s not as if they were aiming.”
“Anyway,” said Cliff, “only trolls and damn silly young humans go dere who think it clever to drink in troll bar. You won’t get an audience.”
Dibbler tapped the side of his nose.
“You play,” he said. “You’ll get an audience. That’s my job.”
“The doors aren’t big enough for me to go in!” snapped Glod.
“They’re huge doors,” said Dibbler.
“They ain’t big enough for me ’cos if you try to get me in there, you’ll have to drag the street in too, on account of me holding on to it!”
“No, be sensible—”
“No!” screamed Glod. “And I’m screaming for all three of us!”
The guitar whined.
Buddy swung it around until he could hold it, and played a couple of chords. That seemed to calm it down.
“I think it…er…likes the idea,” he said.
“It likes the idea,” said Glod, simmering down a little bit. “Oh, good. Well, do you know what they do to dwarfs who go into the Cavern?”
“We do need the money, and it’s probably not worse than what the Guild’ll do to us if we play anywhere else,” said Buddy. “And we’ve got to play.”
They stood looking at one another.
“What you boys should do now,” said Dibbler, blowing out a smoke ring, “is find somewhere nice and quiet to spend the day. Have a bit of a rest.”
“Damn right,” said Cliff. “I never expected to carry dese rocks around de whole time—”
Dibbler raised a finger. “Ah,” he said, “I thought of that, too. You don’t want to waste your talents lugging stuff around, that’s what I told myself. I hired you a helper. Very cheap, only a dollar a day; I’ll take it straight out of your wages so’s you don’t have to bother about it. Meet Asphalt.”
“Who?” said Buddy.
“’S me,” said one of the sacks beside Dibbler.
The sack opened up a bit and turned out not to be a sack at all, but a…a sort of crumpled…a kind of mobile heap of…
Buddy felt his eyes watering. It looked like a troll, except that it was shorter than a dwarf. It wasn’t smaller than a dwarf—what Asphalt lacked in height he made up in breadth and, while on the subject, also in smell.
“How come,” said Cliff, “he’s so short?”
“’N elphant sat on me,” said Asphalt, sulkily.
Glod blew his nose.
“Only sat?”
Asphalt was already wearing a “Band With Rocks In” shirt. It was tight across the chest but reached down to the floor.
“Asphalt’ll look after you,” said Dibbler. “There isn’t anything he doesn’t know about show business.”
Asphalt gave them a big grin.
“You’ll be okay with me,” he said. “I’ve worked with ’em all, I have. Been everywhere, done it all.”
“We could go to der Fronts,” said Cliff. “No one around dere when de University’s on holiday.”
“Good. Got things to organize,” said Dibbler. “See you tonight. The Cavern. Seven o’clock.”
He strode off.
“You know the funny thing about him?” said Glod.
“What?”
“The way he was smoking that sausage. Do you think he knew?”
Asphalt grabbed Cliff’s bag and slung it easily over his shoulder.
“Let’s go, boss,” he said.
“An elephant sat on you?” said Buddy, as they crossed the square.
“Yup. At the circus,” said Asphalt. “I used to murk ’em arht.”
“That’s how you got like that?”
“Nope. Din’t get like this ’til elephants had sat on me t’ree, fo’ times,” said the small flat troll. “Dunno why. I’d be cleanin’ up after ’em, next minute it’d all be dark.”
“I’d have quit after the first time, me,” said Glod.
“Nah,” said Asphalt, with a contented smile. “Couldn’t do that. Show business is in me soul.”
Ponder looked down at the thing they had hammered together.
“I don’t understand it either,” he said. “But…it looks as though we can trap it in a string, and it makes the string play the music again. It’s like an iconograph for sound.”
They’d put the wire inside a box, which resonated beautifully. It played the same dozen bars, over and over again.
“A box of music,” said Ridcully. “My word.”
“What I’d like to try,” said Ponder, “is getting the musicians to play in front of a lot of strings like this. Perhaps we could trap the music.”
“What for?” said Ridcully. “What on Disc for?”
“Well…if you could get music in boxes you wouldn’t need musicians anymore.”
Ridcully hesitated. There was a lot to be said for the idea. A world without musicians had a certain appeal. They were a scruffy bunch, in his experience. Quite unhygienic.
He shook his head, reluctantly.
“Not this sort of music,” he said. “We want to stop it, not make more of it.”
“What exactly is wrong with it?” said Ponder.
“It’s…well, can’t you see?” said Ridcully. “It makes people act funny. Wear funny clothes. Be rude. Not do what they’re told. I can’t do a thing with them. It’s not right. Besides…remember Mr. Hong.”
“It’s certainly very unusual,” said Ponder. “Can we get some more? For study purposes? Archchancellor?”
Ridcully shrugged. “We follow the Dean,” he said.
“Good grief,” breathed Buddy, in the huge echoing emptiness.
“No wonder they call it the Cavern. It’s huge.”
“I feel dwarfed,” said Glod.
Asphalt ambled to the front of the stage.
“One two, one two,” he said. “One. One. One two, one tw—”
“Three,” said Buddy helpfully.
Asphalt stopped and looked embarrassed.
“Just trying the, you know, just trying the…trying out the…” he muttered. “Just trying…it.”
“We’ll never fill this,” said Buddy.
Glod poked in a box by the side of the stage.
He said, “They might. Look at these.”
He unrolled a poster. The others clustered round.
“Dat’s a picture of us,” said Cliff. “Someone painted a picture of us.”
“Looking mean,” said Glod.
“’S a good one of Buddy,” said Asphalt. “Waving his guitar like that.”
“Why’s there all that lightning and stuff?” said Buddy.
“I never look dat mean even when I’m mean,” said Glod.
“‘The New Sounde Dat’s Goin’ Arounde,’” Cliff read, his forehead wrinkling with the effort.
“‘The Bande With Rockes,’” said Glod.
“Oh, no. It says we’re going to be here and everything,” moaned Glod. “We’re dead.”
“‘Bee There Orr Bee A Rectangular Thyng,’” said Cliff. “I don’t understand that.”
“There’s dozens of these rolls in here,” said Glod. “They’re posters. You know what that means? He’s been having them stuck up in places. Talking of which, when the Musicians’ Guild gets hold of us—”
“Music’s free,” said Buddy. “It has to be free.”
“What?” said Glod. “Not in this dwarf’s town!”
“Then it should be,” said Buddy. “People shouldn’t have to pay to play music.”
“Right! That boy’s right! That’s just what I’ve always said! Isn’t that what I’ve always said? That’s what I’ve said, right enough.”
Dibbler emerged from the shadows in the wings. There was a troll with him who, Buddy surmised, must have been Chrysoprase. He wasn’t particularly big, or even very craggy. In fact he had a smooth and glossy look to him, like a pebble found on a beach. There wasn’t a trace of lichen anywhere.
And he was wearing clothes. Clothes, other than uniforms or special work clothes, weren’t normally a troll thing. Mostly they wore a loincloth to keep stuff in, and that was that. But Chrysoprase had a suit on. It looked badly tailored. It was in fact very well tailored, but even a troll with no clothes on looks fundamentally badly tailored.
Discworld 16 - Soul Music Page 17