‘Well-‘
YOU DON’T KNOW, DO YOU?
‘Not exactly. The whole thing is meant to be a mystery, see?’
The stranger stared at the holy man for some time, causing the man to feel that his head had become transparent.
THEN I WILL ASK YOU A SIMPLER QUESTION. HOW DO HUMANS FORGET?
‘Forget what?’
FORGET ANYTHING. EVERYTHING.
‘It . . . er . . . it happens automatically.’ The prospective acolytes had turned the bend on the mountain path. The holy man hastily picked up his begging bowl.
‘Let’s say this bowl is your memory,’ he said, waving it vaguely. ‘It can only hold so much, see? New things come in, so old things must overflow-‘
NO. I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING. DOORKNOBS. THE PLAY OF SUNLIGHT ON HAIR. THE SOUND OF LAUGHTER. FOOTSTEPS. EVERY LITTLE DETAIL. AS IF IT HAPPENED ONLY YESTERDAY. AS IF IT HAPPENED ONLY TOMMOROW. EVERYTHING. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
The holy man scratched his gleaming bald head.
‘Traditionally,’ he said, ‘the ways of forgetting include joining the Klatchian Foreign Legion, drinking the waters of some magical river, no-one knows where it is, and imbibing vast amounts of alcohol.’
AH, YES.
‘But alcohol debilitates the body and is a poison to the soul.’
SOUNDS GOOD TO ME.
‘Master?’
The holy man looked around irritably. The acolytes had arrived.
‘Just a minute, I’m talking to-‘
The stranger had gone.
‘Oh, master, we have travelled for many miles over-‘ said the acolyte.
‘Shut up a minute, will you?’
The holy man put out his hand, palm turned vertical, and waved it a few times. He muttered under his breath.
The acolytes exchanged glances. They hadn’t expected this. Finally, their leader found a drop of courage.
‘Master-‘
The holy man turned and caught him across the ear. The sound this made was definitely a clap.
‘Ah! Got it!’ said the holy man. ‘Now, what can I do for-‘
He stopped as his brain caught up with his ears.
‘What did he mean, humans?’
Death walked thoughtfully across the hill to the place where a large white horse was placidly watching the view.
He said, GO AWAY.
The horse watched him warily. It was considerably more intelligent than most horses, although this was not a difficult achievement. It seemed aware that things weren’t right with its master.
I MAY BE SOME TIME, said Death.
And he set out.
It wasn’t raining in Ankh-Morpork. This had come as a big surprise to Imp.
What had also come as a surprise was how fast money went. So far he’d lost three dollars and twenty-seven pence.
He’d lost it because he’d put it in a bowl in front of him while he played, in the same way that a hunter puts out decoys to get ducks. The next time he’d looked down, it had gone.
People came to Ankh-Morpork to seek their fortune. Unfortunately, other people sought it too.
And people didn’t seem to want bards, even ones who’d won the mistletoe award and centennial harp in the big Eisteddfod in Llamedos.
He’d found a place in one of the main squares, tuned up and played. No-one had taken any notice, except sometimes to push him out of the way as they hurried past and, apparently, to nick his bowl. Eventually, just when he was beginning to doubt that he’d made the right decision in coming here at all, a couple of watchmen had wandered up.
‘That’s a harp he’s playing, Nobby,’ said one of them, after watching Imp for a while.
‘Lyre.’
‘No, it’s the honest truth, I’m-‘ The fat guard frowned and looked down.
‘You’ve just been waiting all your life to say that, ain’t you, Nobby,’ he said. ‘ I bet you was born hoping that one day someone’d say “That’s a harp” so you could say “lyre”, on account of it being a pun or play on words. Well, har har.’
Imp stopped playing. It was impossible to continue, in the circumstances.
‘It is a harp, actualllly,’ he said. ‘I won it in-‘
‘Ah, you’re from Llamedos, right?’ said the fat guard. ‘I can tell by your accent. Very musical people, the Llamedese.’
‘Sounds like garglin’ with gravel to me,’ said the one identified as Nobby. ‘You got a licence, mate?’
‘Llicence?’ said Imp.
‘Very hot on licences, the Guild of Musicians,’ said Nobby. ‘They catch you playing music without a licence, they take your instrument and they shove-‘
‘Now, now,’ said the other watchman. ‘Don’t go scaring the boy.’
‘Let’s just say it’s not much fun if you’re a piccolo player,’ said Nobby.
‘But surelly music is as free as the air and the sky, see,’ said Imp.
‘Not round here it’s not. Just a word to the wise, friend,’ said Nobby.
‘I never ever heard of a Guilld of Musicians,’ said Imp.
‘It’s in Tin Lid Alley,’ said Nobby. ‘You want to be a musician, you got to join the Guild.’
Imp had been brought up to obey the rules. The Llamedese were very law-abiding.
‘I shallll go there directlly,’ he said.
The guards watched him go.
‘He’s wearing a nightdress,’ said Corporal Nobbs.
‘Bardic robe, Nobby,’ said Sergeant Colon. The guards strolled onwards. ‘Very bardic, the Llamedese.’
‘How long d’you give him, sarge?’
Colon waved a hand in the flat rocking motion of someone hazarding an informed guess.
‘Two, three days,’ he said.
They rounded the bulk of Unseen University and ambled along The Backs, a dusty little street that saw little traffic or passing trade and was therefore much favoured by the Watch as a place to lurk and have a smoke and explore the realms of the mind.
‘You know salmon, sarge,’ said Nobby.
‘It is a fish of which I am aware, yes.’
‘You know they sell kind of slices of it in tins . . .’
‘So I am given to understand, yes.’
‘Weell . . . how come all the tins are the same size? Salmon gets thinner at both ends.’
‘Interesting point, Nobby. I think-‘
The watchman stopped, and stared across the street. Corporal Nobbs followed his gaze.
‘That shop,’ said Sergeant Colon. ‘That shop there . . . was it there yesterday?’
Nobby looked at the peeling paint, the little grime-encrusted window, the rickety door.
“Course,’ he said. ‘It’s always been there. Been there years.’
Colon crossed the street and rubbed at the grime. There were dark shapes vaguely visible in the gloom.
‘Yeah, right,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s just that . . . I mean . . . was it there for years yesterday?’
‘You ail right, sarge?’
‘Let’s go, Nobby,’ said the sergeant, walking away as fast as he could.
‘Where, sarge?’
‘Anywhere not here.’
In the dark mounds of merchandise, something felt their departure.
Imp had already admired the Guild buildings – the majestic frontage of the Assassins’ Guild, the splendid columns of the Thieves’ Guild, the smoking yet still impressive hole where the Alchemists’ Guild had been up until yesterday. And it was therefore disappointing to find that the Guild of Musicians, when he eventually located it, wasn’t even a building. It was just a couple of poky rooms above a barber shop.
He sat in the brown-walled waiting room, and waited. There was a sign on the wall opposite. It said ‘For Your Comforte And Convenience YOU WILL NOT SMOKE’. Imp had never smoked in his life. Everything in Llamedos was too soggy to smoke. But he suddenly felt inclined to try.
The room’s only other occupants were a troll and a dwarf. He was not at ease in their company. They kept looking at him.
Finally the dwarf said, ‘Are you elvish?’
‘Me? No!’
‘You look a bit elvish around the hair.’
‘Not ellvish at allll. Honestlly.’
‘Where you from?’ said the troll.
‘Llamedos,’ said Imp. He shut his eyes. He knew what trolls and dwarfs traditionally did to people suspected of being elves. The Guild of Musicians could take lessons.
‘What dat you got dere?’ said the troll. It had two large squares of darkish glass in front of its eyes, supported by wire frames hooked around its ears.
‘It’s a harp, see.’
‘Dat what you play?’
‘Yes.’
‘You a druid, den?’
‘No!’
There was silence again as the troll marshalled its thoughts.
‘You look like a druid in dat nightie,’ it rumbled, after a while.
The dwarf on the other side of Imp began to snigger.
Trolls disliked druids, too. Any sapient species which spends a lot of time in a stationary, rock-like pose objects to any other species which drags it sixty miles on rollers and buries it up to its knees in a circle. It tends to feel it has cause for disgruntlement.
‘Everyone dresses like this in Llamedos, see,’ said Imp. ‘But I’m a bard! I’m not a druid. I hate rocks!’
‘Whoops,’ said the dwarf quietly.
The troll looked Imp up and down, slowly and deliberately. Then it said, without any particular trace of menace, ‘You not long in dis town?’
‘Just arrived,’ said Imp. I won’t even reach the door, he thought. I’m going to be mashed into a pullp.