Soul Music - Terry Pratchett [66]
“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