Soul Music - Terry Pratchett [102]
“You see dat troll in der front row?” he said. “The one Asphalt’s jumping on der fingers of?”
“The one that looks like a spoil heap?”
“She was in Pseudopolis,” said Cliff, beaming. “She keeps looking at me!”
“Go for it, lad,” said Glod, emptying the spit from his horn. “In like Flint, eh?”
“You think she’s one of dem groupies Asphalt told us about?”
“Could be.”
Other news had traveled fast, too. Dawn saw another redecorated hotel room, a royal proclamation from Queen Keli that the band was to be out of the city in one hour on pain of pain, and one more rapid exit.
Buddy lay in the cart as it bumped over the cobbles toward Quirm.
She hadn’t been there. He’d scanned the audience on both nights, and she hadn’t been there. He’d even got up in the middle of the night and walked through the empty streets, in case she was looking for him. Now he wondered if she existed. If it came to that, he was only half-certain that he existed, except for the times when he was onstage.
He half listened to the conversation from the others.
“Asphalt?”
“Yes, Mr. Glod?”
“Cliff and me can’t help noticing something.”
“Yes, Mr. Glod?”
“You’ve been carrying a heavy leather bag around, Asphalt.”
“Yes, Mr. Glod.”
“It was a bit heavier this morning, I think.”
“Yes, Mr. Glod.”
“It’s got the money in it, yes?”
“Yes, Mr. Glod.”
“How much?”
“Er. Mr. Dibbler said I wasn’t to worry you with money stuff,” said Asphalt.
“We don’t mind,” said Cliff.
“That’s right,” said Glod. “We want to worry.”
“Er.” Asphalt licked his lips. There was something deliberate in Cliff’s manner. “About two thousand dollars, Mr. Glod.”
The cart bounced on for a while. The landscape had changed a little. There were hills, and the farms were smaller.
“Two thousand dollars,” said Glod. “Two thousand dollars. Two thousand dollars. Two thousand dollars.”
“Why d’you keeping saying two thousand dollars?” said Cliff.
“I’ve never had a chance to say two thousand dollars.”
“Just don’t like it so loud.”
“TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS!”
“Ssh!” said Asphalt, desperately, as Glod’s shout echoed off the hills. “This is bandit country!”
Glod eyed the satchel. “You’re telling me,” he said.
“I don’t mean Mr. Dibbler!”
“We’re on the road between Sto Lat and Quirm,” said Glod patiently. “This isn’t the Ramtops road. This is civilization. They don’t rob you on the road in civilization.” He glanced darkly at the satchel again. “They wait until you’ve got into the cities. That’s why it’s called civilization. Hah, can you tell me the last time anyone was ever robbed on this road?”
“Friday, I believe,” said a voice from the rocks. “Oh, bugg—”
The horses reared up and then galloped forward. Asphalt’s crack of the whip had been an almost instinctive reaction.
They didn’t slow down until they were several miles farther along the road.
“Just shut up about money, all right?” hissed Asphalt.
“I’m a professional musician,” said Glod. “Of course I think about money. How far is it to Quirm?”
“A lot less now,” said Asphalt. “A couple of miles.”
And after the next hill the city lay before them, nestling in its bay.
There was a cluster of people at the town’s gates, which were closed. Afternoon sunlight glittered off helmets.
“What do you call them long sticks with axes on the end?” said Asphalt.
“Pikes,” said Buddy.
“There’s certainly a lot of them,” said Glod.
“Dey can’t be for us, can dey?” said Cliff. “We’re only musicians.”
“And I can see some men in long robes and gold chains and things,” said Asphalt.
“Burghers,” said Glod.
“You know that horseman that passed us this morning…” said Asphalt. “I’m thinking that maybe news travels.”
“Yes, but we didn’t break up dat theater,” said Cliff.
“Well, you only gave them six encores,” said Asphalt.
“We didn’t do all dat rioting in der streets.”
“I’m sure the men with the pointy blades will understand that.”
“Maybe dey don’t want der hotels redecorated. I said it was a mistake, orange curtains with yellow wallpaper.”
The cart came to a halt. A rotund man with a