Soul Music by Terry Pratchett

Author:Terry Pratchett
Format: mobi, epub, azw3, pdf
Published: 2010-01-29T22:46:28+00:00

In the wings, the noise of the audience was a solid wall of sound.

“There's lots of them,” said Glod. “I never played for that many in my entire life!”

Asphalt was arranging Cliff's rocks on the stage and getting massive applause and catcalls.

Glod glanced up at Buddy. He hadn't let go of the guitar all this time. Dwarfs weren't given to deep introspection, but Glod was suddenly aware of a desire to be a long way from here, in a cave somewhere.

“Best of luck, you guys,” said a flat little voice behind them.

Jimbo was bandaging Crash's arm.

“Er, thanks,” said Cliff. “What happened to you?”

“They threw something at us,” said Crash.

“What?”

“Noddy, I think.”

What could be seen of Crash's face broke into a huge and terrible smile.

“We done it, though!” he said. “We done music with rocks in all right! That bit where Jimbo smashed his guitar, they loved that bit!”

“Smashed his guitar?”

“Yeah,” said Jimbo, with the pride of the artist. “On Scum.”

Buddy had his eyes closed. Cliff thought he could see a very, very faint glow surrounding him, like a thin mist. There were tiny points of light in it.

Sometimes, Buddy looked very elvish.

Asphalt scurried off the stage.

“OK, all done,” he said.

The others looked at Buddy.

He was still standing with his eyes shut, as if he was asleep on his feet.

“We'll . . . get on out there, then?” said Glod.

“Yes,” said Cliff, “we'll get on out there, will we? Er. Buddy?”

Buddy's eyes snapped open suddenly.

“Let's rock,” he whispered.

Cliff had thought that the sound was loud before, but it hit him like a club as they trooped out of the wings.

Glod picked up his horn. Cliff sat down and found his hammers.

Buddy walked to the centre of the stage and, to Cliff's amazement, just stood there looking down at his feet.

The cheering began to subside.

And then died away altogether. The huge hall was filled with the hush of hundreds of people holding their breath.

Buddy's fingers moved.

He picked out three simple little chords.

And then he looked up.

“Hello, Ankh‑Morpork!”

Cliff felt the music rise up behind him and rush him forward into a tunnel of fire and sparks and excitement. He brought his hammers down. And it was Music With Rocks In.

C. M. O. T. Dibbler stood out in the street so that he didn't have to hear the music. He was smoking a cigar and doing calculations on the back of an overdue bill for stale buns.

Lessee . . . OK, have it outside somewhere, so there's no rent . . . maybe ten thousand people, one sausageinna‑bun each at a dollar‑fifty, no, say a dollar‑seventy‑five, mustard tenpence extra ‑ ten thousand Band With Rocks In shirts at five dollars each, make that ten dollars . . . add stall rental for other traders, because people who like Music With Rocks In could probably be persuaded to buy anything . . .

He was aware of a horse coming along the street. He paid it no attention until a female voice said: “How do I get in here?”

“No chance.

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