‘Thank you,’ she said.
She flicked through the pages of his life until she came to the last one, and stared. Then she hastily went back until she found, written neatly down, his death in the Drum. It was all there – all untrue. He hadn’t died. The book was lying. Or – and this she knew was a far more accurate way of looking at it – the book was true and reality was lying.
What was more important was that from the moment of his death the book was writing music. Page after page had been covered with neat staves. While Susan watched, a clef drew itself in a series of careful loops.
What did it want? Why should it save his life?
And it was vitally important that she save him instead. She could feel the certainty like a ball-bearing in her mind. It was absolutely imperative. She’d never met him up close, she’d not exchanged a word with him, he was just one person, but it was him she had to save.
Grandfather had said she shouldn’t do that sort of thing. What did he know about anything? He’d never lived.
Blert Wheedown made guitars. It was quiet, satisfying work. It took him and Gibbsson, the apprentice, about five days to make a decent instrument, if the wood was available and properly seasoned. He was a conscientious man who’d devoted many years to the perfection of one type of musical instrument, on which he himself was no mean performer.
In his experience, guitarists came in three categories. There were the ones he thought of as real musicians, who worked at the Opera House or for one of the small private orchestras. There were the folk singers, who couldn’t play but that was all right because most of them couldn’t sing either. Then there were the hemhem – troubadours and other swarthy types who thought a guitar was, like a red rose in the teeth, a box of chocolates and a strategically placed pair of socks, another weapon in the battle of the sexes. They didn’t play at all, apart from one or two chords, but they were regular customers. When leaping out of a bedroom window just ahead of an angry husband the one thing a paramour is least concerned about leaving behind is his instrument.
Blert thought he’d seen them all.
Mind you, first thing this morning he’d sold some to some wizards. That was unusual. Some of them had even bought Blert’s guitar primer.
The bell rang.
‘Yes-‘Blert looked at the customer, and made a huge mental effort ‘-sir?’
It wasn’t just the leather jerkin. It wasn’t just the wristbands with studs. It wasn’t just the broadsword. It wasn’t just the helmet with the spikes. It was the leather and the studs and the sword and the helmet. This customer couldn’t possibly be in categories one or two, Blert decided.
The figure stood, looking uncertain, hands gripping convulsively, clearly not at home in a dialogue situation.
‘This a guitar shop?’ it said.
Blert looked around at the merchandise hanging from walls and ceiling.
‘Er. Yes?’ he said.
‘I wants one.’
As for category three, he didn’t look like someone used to bothering with chocolates or roses. Or even ‘hello’.
‘Er . . .’ Blert grabbed one at random and held it out in front of him. ‘One like this?’
‘I wants one that goes blam-Blam-blamma-BLAM-blammmmooohieeee. Y’know?’
Blert looked down at the guitar. ‘I’m not sure it does that,’ he said.
Two enormous black-nailed hands took it out of his grasp.
‘Er, you’re holding it wro-‘
‘Got a mirror?’
‘Er, no-‘
One hairy hand was raised high in the air, and then plunged towards the strings.
Blert never wanted to repeat the next ten seconds. People shouldn’t be allowed to do that sort of thing to a defenceless musical instrument. It was like raising a little pony, feeding it and grooming it properly, plaiting ribbons in its tail, giving it a nice field with bunnies and daisies in it, and then watching the first rider take it out with spurs and a whip.
The thug played as if he were searching for something. He didn’t find it, but as the last discords faded away his features twisted into the determined expression of one who intends to go on looking.
‘Yer, right. How much?’ he said.
It was on sale for fifteen dollars. But Blert’s musical soul rebelled. He snapped.
‘Twenty-five dollars,’ was what he snapped.
‘Yer, right. Will this be enough, then?’
A small ruby was produced from somewhere in a pocket.
‘I can’t change that!’
Blert’s musical soul was still protesting, but his business head stepped in and flexed its elbows.
‘But, but, but I’ll throw in my guitar primer and a strap and a couple of pleckies, yes?’ he said. ‘It’s got pictures of where to put your fingers and everything, yes?’
‘Yer, right.’
The barbarian walked out. Blert stared at the ruby in his hand.
The bell rang. He looked up.
This one wasn’t quite so bad. There were fewer studs, and the helmet had only two spikes.
Blert’s hand shut around the jewel.
‘Don’t tell me you want a guitar?’ he said.
‘Yep. One of them that goes whoweeeooowweeeeoowwwwngngngng.’
Blert looked around wildly.
‘Well, there’s this one,’ he said, grabbing the nearest instrument. ‘I don’t know about wooeeoowweee but here’s my primer as well and a strap and some pleckies, that’ll be thirty dollars and I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll throw in the space between the strings for free, OK?’
‘Yep. Er. Got a mirror?’
The bell rang.
And rang.
An hour later Blert leaned on the door-frame of his workshop, a manic grin on his face and his hands on his belt to stop the weight of money in his pockets pulling his trousers down.
‘Gibbsson?’
‘Yes, boss?’
‘You know those guitars you made? When you were learning?’
‘The ones you said sounded like a cat going to the toilet through a sewn-up bum, boss?’
‘Did you throw them away?’
‘No, boss. I thought: I’ll keep them, so’s in five years’ time when I can make proper instruments, I’ll be able to take ’em out and have a good laugh.’
Blert wiped his forehead. Several small gold coins fell out with his handkerchief.
‘Where did you put them, out of interest?’
‘Chucked ’em inna shed, boss. Along with that whaney timber you said was about as useful as a mermaid in a chorus line.’
‘Just fetch them out again, will you? And that timber.’
‘But you said-‘
‘And bring me a saw. And then nip out and get me, oh, a couple of gallons of black paint. And some sequins.’
‘Sequins, boss?’
‘You can get them up at Mrs Cosmopilite’s dress shop. And ask her if she’s got any of those glittery ankhstones. And some fancy material for straps. Oh . . . and see if she can lend us her biggest mirror . . .’
Blert hitched up his trousers again.
‘And then go down to the docks and hire a troll and tell him to stand in the corner and if anyone else comes in and tries to play . . .’ he paused, and then remembered, ‘Pathway to Paradise, I think they said it’s called . . . he’s to pull their head off.’
‘Shouldn’t he give them a warning?’ said Gibbsson.
‘That will be the warning.’
It was an hour later.
Ridcully had got bored and sent Tez the Terrible over to the kitchens to see about a snack. Ponder and the other two had been busying themselves around the flask, messing around with crystal balls and wire. And now…
There was a wire stretched between two nails on the bench. It was a blur as it twanged an interesting beat.
Big curved green lines hung in the air above it.
‘What’s that?’ said Ridcully.
‘That’s what the sound looks like,’ said Ponder.
‘Sound looks like,’ said Ridcully. ‘Well, there’s a thing. I never saw sound looking like that. This is what you boys used magic for, is it? Looking at sound? Hey, we’ve got some nice cheese in the kitchen, how about we go and listen to how it smells?’
Ponder sighed.
‘It’s what sound would be if your ears were eyes,’ he said.
‘Really?’ said Ridcully, brightly. ‘Amazing!’
‘It looks very complicated,’ said Ponder. ‘Simple when you look at it from a distance and up close, very complex. Almost . . .’
‘Alive,’ said Ridcully, firmly.
‘Er …’
It was the one known as Skazz. He looked about seven stone and had the most interesting haircut Ridcully had ever seen, since it consisted of a shoulderlength fringe of hair all round. It was only the tip
of his nose poking out which told the world which way he was facing. If he ever developed a boil on the back of his neck, people would think he was walking the wrong way.
‘Yes, Mr Skazz?’ said Ridcully.