Soul Music - Terry Pratchett [98]
Nineteen days left in the world. But more than enough.
Albert slipped the lifetimer into his pocket, put on an overcoat, and stamped back down the stairs.
“You,” he said, pointing to the Death of Rats. “You can’t sense a trace of him? There must be something. Concentrate.”
SQUEAK.
“What did he say?”
“He said all he can remember is something about sand.”
“Sand,” said Albert. “All right. Good start. We search all the sand.”
SQUEAK?
“Wherever the Master is, he’ll make an impression.”
Cliff awoke to a swish-swish sound. The shape of Glod was outlined in the light of dawn, wielding a brush.
“What’re you doing, dwarf?”
“I got Asphalt to get some paint,” said Glod. “These rooms are a disgrace.”
Cliff raised himself on his elbows and looked around.
“What do you call der color on der door?”
“Eau-de-nil.”
“Nice.”
“Thank you,” said Cliff.
“The curtains are good, too.”
The door creaked open. Asphalt came in, with a tray, and kicked the door shut behind him.
“Oh, sorry,” he said.
“I’ll paint over the mark,” said Glod.
Asphalt put the tray down, trembling with excitement.
“Everyone’s talking about you guys!” he said. “And they’re saying it was about time they built a new theater 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.”
“Dat’s 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 der first time someone says to me ‘what are dem things on your back?’ dat’s 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 here. 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 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 colors.
“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—”
“That’s mob rule!” said Clete. “Banding together to force unacceptable rules on a defenseless 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.