He raised his hands.
He hesitated.
He lowered his hands again and pulled out the Vox Humana, the Vox Dei and the Vox Diabolica.
The moan of the organ took on a more urgent tone.
He raised his hands.
He hesitated.
He lowered his hands and pulled out all the rest of the stops, including the twelve knobs with ‘?’ on them and the two with faded labels warning in several languages that they were on no account to be touched, .ever, in any circumstances.
He raised his hands.
He raised his feet also, positioning them over some of the more perilous pedals.
He shut his eyes.
He sat for a moment in contemplative silence, a test pilot ready to slit the edge of the envelope in the starship Melody.
He let the plangent memory of the music fill his head and flow down his arms and fill his fingers.
His hands dropped.
‘What did we do? What did we do?’ said Imp. Excitement ran its barefoot races up and down his spine.
They were sitting in the tiny cramped room behind the bar.
Glod took off his helmet and wiped the inside.
‘Would you believe four beats to the bar, two-four time, melody led, with the bass beat forward in the melody?’
‘What’s all dat?’ said Lias. ‘What’s all dem words mean?’
‘You’re a musician, ain’t you?’ said Glod. ‘What do you think you do?’
‘I hits ’em with de hammers,’ said Lias, one of nature’s drummers.
‘But that bit you did . . .’ said Imp, ‘you know . . . in the middle . . . you know, bam-bah bam-bah bambamBAH . . . how did you know how to do that bit?’
‘It was just de bit dat had to go dere,’ said Lias.
Imp looked at the guitar. He’d put it on the table. It was still playing quietly to itself, like a cat purring.
‘That’s not a normall instrument,’ he said, shaking a finger at it. ‘I was just standing there and it started pllaying all by itsellf!’
‘Probably belonged to a wizard, like I said,’ said Glod.
‘Nah,’ said Lias. ‘Never knew any wizard who was musical. Music and magic don’t mix.’
They looked at it.
Imp had never heard of an instrument that played itself before, except the legendary harp of Owen Mwnyy, which sang when danger threatened. And that had been back in the days when there were dragons around. Singing harps went well with dragons. They seemed out of place in a city with guilds and everything.
The door swung open.
‘That was . . . astonishing, boys,’ said Hibiscus Dunelm. ‘Never heard anything like it! Can you come back tomorrow night? Here’s your five dollars.’
Glod counted the coins.
‘We did four encores,’ he said darkly.
‘I’d complain to the Guild, if I was you,’ said Hibiscus.
The trio looked at the money. It looked very impressive to people whose last meal had been twenty-four hours ago. It wasn’t Guild rate. On the other hand, it had been a long twenty-four hours.
‘If you come back tomorrow,’ said Hibiscus, ‘I’ll make it . . . six dollars, how about that?’
‘Oh, wow,’ said Glod.
Mustrum Ridcully was jolted upright in bed, because the bed itself was being gently vibrated across the floor.
So it had happened at last!
They were out to get him.
The tradition of promotion in the University by filling dead men’s shoes, sometimes by firstly ensuring the death of the man in those shoes, had lately ceased. This was largely because of Ridcully himself, who was big and kept himself in trim and, as three latenight aspirants to the Archchancellorship had found, also had very good hearing. They had been variously hung out of the window by their ankles, knocked unconscious with a shovel, and had their arm broken in two places. Besides, Ridcully was known to sleep with two loaded crossbows by his bed. He was a kind man and probably wouldn’t shoot you in both ears.
That sort of consideration encouraged a more patient
type of wizard. Everyone dies sooner or later. They could wait.
Ridcully took stock and found his first impression was mistaken.
There appeared to be no murderous magic going on. There was just sound, cramming the room to every corner.
Ridcully shuffled into his slippers and went out into the corridor, where other members of the faculty were milling around and blearily asking one another what the hell was happening. Plaster rained down on them from the ceiling in a steady fog.
‘Who’s causing that din?’ shouted Ridcully. There was a mute chorus of unheard replies, and much shrugging of shoulders.
‘Well, I will find out,’ growled the Archchancellor, and set off for the stairs with the others trailing after him.
He walked without his knees or elbows bending very much, a sure sign of a forthright man in a bad temper.
The trio said nothing all the way out of the Drum. They said nothing all the way to Gimlet’s delicatessen. They said nothing while they waited in the queue, and then all they said was: ‘So . . . right . . . that’s one Quatre-rodenti with extra newts, hold the chillis, one Klatchian Hots with double salami and a Four Strata, no pitchblende.’
They sat down to wait. The guitar played a little four-note riff. They tried not to think about it. They tried to think about other things.
‘I think I change my name,’ said Lias, eventually. ‘I mean . . . Lias? Not a good name for the music business.’
‘What’ll you change it to?’ said Glod.
‘I thought . . . don’t laugh . . . I thought . . . Cliff?’ said Lias.
‘Cliff?’
‘Good troll name. Very stony. Very rocky. Nothing wrong with it,’ said Cliff n� Lias, defensively.
‘Well . . . yes . . . but, I dunno, I mean . . . well . . . Cliff? Can’t see anyone lasting long in this business with a name like Cliff.’
‘Better than Glod, anyway.’
‘I’m sticking with Glod,’ said Glod. ‘And Imp is sticking with Imp, right?’
Imp looked at the guitar. It’s not right, he thought. I hardly touched it. I just . . . And I feel so tired . . .
‘Not sure,’ he said, wretchedly. ‘Not sure if Imp is the right name for . . . this music.’ His voice trailed off. He yawned.
‘Imp?’ said Glod, after a while.
‘Hmm?’ said Imp. And he’d felt someone was watching him out there. That was daft, of course. He couldn’t say to someone ‘I was on stage and I thought someone was watching me’. They’d say ‘Really? That’s really occult, that is . . .’
‘Imp?’ said Glod, ‘why’re you snapping your fingers like that?’
Imp looked down.
‘Was I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just thinking. My name . . . it’s not right for this music, either.’
‘What does it mean in real language?’ said Glod.
‘Well, all my family are y Celyns,’ said Imp, ignoring the insult to an ancient tongue. ‘It means “of the holllly “. That’s allll that grows in Llamedos, you see. Everything else just rots.’
‘I wasn’t goin’ to say,’ said Cliff, ‘but Imp sounds a bit like elf to me.’
‘It just means “small shoot”,’ said Imp. ‘You know. Like a bud.’
‘Bud y Celyn?’ said Glod. ‘Buddy? Worse than Cliff, in my opinion.’
‘I . . . think it sounds right,’ said Imp.
Glod shrugged, and pulled a handful of coins out of his pocket.
‘We’ve still got more’n four dollars,’ he said. ‘I know what we should do with it, too.’
‘We should put it towards Guild membership,’ said the new Buddy.
Glod stared into the middle distance.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We haven’t got the sound right. I mean, it was very good, very . . . new,’ he stared hard at Imp-cum-Buddy, ‘but there’s still something missing . . .’
The dwarf gave Buddy n� Imp another penetrating stare.
‘Do you know you’re shaking all over?’ he said. ‘Moving around on your seat like you got a pant full of ant.’
‘I can’t help it,’ said Buddy. He wanted to sleep, but a rhythm was bouncing around inside his head.
‘I saw it too,’ said Cliff. ‘When we was walking here, you were bouncing along.’ He looked under the table. ‘And you is tapping your feet.’
‘And you keep snapping your fingers,’ said Glod.
‘I can’t stop thinking about the music,’ said Buddy. ‘You’re right. We need . . .’ he drummed his fingers along the table, ‘. . . a sound like . . . pang pang pang PANG Pang . . .
‘You mean a keyboard?’ said Glod.
‘Do I?’
‘They’ve got one of those new pianofortes just over the river in the Opera House,’ said Glod.
‘Yah, but dat sort of thing ain’t for our kind of music,’ said Cliff. ‘Dat sort of thing is for big fat guys in powdered wigs.’