‘But we’re certainly dwarfs,’ said one of the dwarfs.
‘”We’re Certainly Dwarfs”,’ said Dibbler. ‘Yes, that might work. OK. I can book you in at the Bunch of Grapes on Thursday. And into the Free Festival, of course. Since it’s free you don’t get paid, of course.’
‘We’ve written this song,’ said the head dwarf, hopefully.
‘Good, good,’ said Dibbler, scribbling on his notepad.
‘It’s called “Something’s Gotten Into My Beard”.’
‘Good.’
‘Don’t you want to hear it?’
Dibbler looked up.
‘Hear it? I’d never get anything done if I went around listening to music. Off you go. See you next Wednesday. Next! You all trolls?’
‘Days right.’
In this case, Dibbler decided not to argue. Trolls were a lot bigger than dwarfs.
‘All right. But you’ve got to spell it with a Z. Trollz.
Yep, looks good. Mended Drum, Friday. And the Free Festival. Yes?’
‘We’ve done a song-‘
‘Good for you. Next!’
‘It’s us, Mr Dibbler.’
Dibbler looked at Jimbo, Noddy, Crash and Scum.
‘You’ve got a nerve,’ he said, ‘after last night.’
‘We got a bit carried away,’ said Crash. ‘We was wondering if we could have another chance?’
‘You did say the audience loved us,’ said Noddy.
‘Loathed you. I said the audience loathed you,’ said Dibbler. ‘Two of you kept looking at Blert Wheedown’s guitar primer!’
‘We’ve changed our name,’ said Jimbo. ‘We thought, well, Insanity was a bit daft, it’s not a proper name for a serious band that’s pushing back the boundaries of musical expression and is definitely going to be big one day.’
‘Thursday,’ nodded Noddy.
‘So now we’re Suck,’ said Crash.
Dibbler gave them a long, cool look. Bear-baiting, bullharassing, dog-fighting and sheep-worrying were currently banned in Ankh-Morpork, although the Patrician did permit the unrestricted hurling of rotten fruit at anyone suspected of belonging to a street theatre group. There was perhaps an opening.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You can play at the Festival. After that . . . we’ll see.’
After all, he thought, there was a possibility that they’d still be alive.
A figure climbed slowly and unsteadily out of the Ankh on to a jetty by the Misbegot Bridge, and stood for a moment as mud dripped off him and formed a puddle under the planks.
The bridge was quite high. There were buildings on it, lining it on both sides so that the actual roadway was quite cramped. The bridges were quite popular as building sites, because they had a very convenient sewage system and, of course, a source of fresh water.
There was the red eye of afire in the shadows under the bridge. The figure staggered towards the light.
The dark shapes around it turned and squinted into the gloom, trying to fathom the nature of the visitor.
‘It’s a farm cart,’ said Glod. ‘I know a farm cart when I see one. Even if it is painted blue. And it’s all battered.’
‘It’s all you can afford,’ said Asphalt. ‘Anyway, I put fresh straw in.’
‘I thought we were going in the stagecoach,’ said Cliff.
‘Oh, Mr Dibbler says artistes of your calibre shouldn’t travel in a common public vehicle,’ said Asphalt. ‘Besides, he said you wouldn’t want the expense.’
‘What do you think, Buddy?’ said Glod.
‘Don’t mind,’ said Buddy vaguely.
Glod and Cliff shared a glance.
‘I bet if you were to go and see Dibbler and demand something better, you’d get it,’ said Glod hopefully.
‘It’s got wheels,’ said Buddy. ‘It’ll do.’ .
He climbed aboard and sat down in the straw.
‘Mr Dibbler’s had some new shirts done,’ said Asphalt, aware that there was not a lot of jolliness in the air. ‘It’s for the tour. Look, it says on the back everywhere you’re going, isn’t that nice?’
‘Yes, when the Musicians’ Guild twist our heads round we’ll be able to see where we’ve been,’ said Glod.
Asphalt cracked his whip over the horses. They ambled off at a pace that suggested they intended to keep it up all day, and no idiot too soft to really use a whip properly was going to change their minds.
‘Buggrit, buggrit! The grawney man, says I. Buggrit. He’s a yellow gloak, so he is. Ten thousand years! Buggrit.’
REALLY?
Death relaxed.
There were half a dozen people around the fire. And they were convivial. A bottle was circling the group. Well, actually it was half a tin, and Death hadn’t quite worked out what was in it or in the rather larger tin that was bubbling on the fire of old boots and mud.
They hadn’t asked him who he was.
None of them had names, as far as he could tell. They had . . . labels, like Stalling Ken and Coffin Henry and Foul Ole Ron, which said something about what they were but nothing about what they had been.
The tin reached him. He passed it on as tactfully as he could, and lay back peacefully.
People without names. People who were as invisible as he was. People for whom Death was always an option. He could stay here awhile.
‘Free music,’ Mr Clete growled. ‘Free! What sort of idiot makes music for free? At least you put a hat down, get people to drop the odd copper in. Otherwise what’s the point?’
He stared at the paperwork in front of him for so long that Satchelmouth coughed politely.
‘I’m thinking,’ said Mr Clete. ‘That wretched Vetinari. He said it’s up to Guilds to enforce guild law-‘
‘I heard they’re leaving the city,’ said Satchelmouth. ‘On tour. Out in the country, I heard. It’s not our law out there.’
‘The country,’ said Mr Clete. ‘Yes. Dangerous place, the country.’
‘Right,’ said Satchelmouth. ‘There’s turnips, for a start.’
Mr Clete’s eye fell on the Guild’s account books. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that far too many people put their trust in iron and steel when gold made some of the best possible weapons.
‘Is Mr Downey still head of the Assassins’ Guild?’ he said.
The other musicians looked suddenly nervous.
‘Assassins?’ said Herbert ‘Mr Harpsichord’ Shuffle. ‘I don’t think anyone’s ever called in the Assassins. This is guild business, isn’t it? Can’t have another guild interfering.’
‘That’s right,’ said Satchelmouth. ‘What’d happen if people knew we’d used the Assassins?’
‘We’d get a lot more members,’ said Mr Clete in his reasonable voice, ‘and we could probably put the subscriptions up. Hat. Hat. Hat.’
‘Now hang on a minute,’ said Satchelmouth. ‘I don’t mind us seeing to people who won’t join. That’s proper guild behaviour, that is. But Assassins . . . well . . .’
‘Well what?’ said Mr Clete.
‘They assassinate people.’
‘You want free music, do you?’ said Mr Clete.
‘Well, of course I don’t want-‘
‘I don’t remember you talking like this when you jumped up and down on that street violinist’s fingers last month,’ said Mr Clete.
‘Yeah, well, that wasn’t, like, assassination,’ said Satchelmouth. ‘ I mean, he was able to walk away. Well, crawl away. And he could still earn a living; he added. ‘Not one that required the use of his hands, sure, but-‘
‘And that penny whistle lad? That one who plays a chord now every time he hiccups? Hat. Hat. Hat.’
‘Yeah, but that’s not the sa-‘
‘Do you know Wheedown the guitar-maker?’ said Mr Clete.
Satchelmouth was unbalanced by the change in direction.
‘I’m told he’s been selling guitars like there was no next Wednesday; said Mr Clete. ‘But I don’t see any increase in membership, do you?’
‘Well-‘
‘Once people get the idea that they can listen to music for nothing, where will it end?’
He glared at the other two.
‘Dunno, Mr Clete,’ said Shuffle obediently.
‘Very well. And the Patrician has been ironical at me,’ said Mr Clete. ‘ I’m not having that again. It’s the Assassins this time.’
‘I don’t think we should actually have people killed,’ said Satchelmouth doggedly.
‘I don’t want to hear any more from you,’ said Mr Clete. ‘This is guild business.’
‘Yes, but it’s our guild-‘
‘Exactly! So shut up! Hat! Hat! Hat!’
The cart rattled between the endless cabbage fields that led to Pseudopolis.
‘I’ve been on tour before, you know,’ said Glod. ‘When I was with Snori Snoriscousin And His Brass Idiots. Every night a different bed. You forget what day of the week it is after a while.’
‘What day of the week is it now?’ said Cliff.
‘See? And we’ve only been on the road . . . what . . . three hours?’ said Glod.
‘Where’re we stopping tonight?’ said Cliff.
‘Scrote,’ said Asphalt.
‘Sounds a really interesting place,’ said Cliff.
‘Been there before, with the circus,’ said Asphalt. ‘It’s a onehorse town.’
Buddy looked over the side of the cart, but it wasn’t worth the effort. The rich silty Sto Plains were the grocery of the continent, but not an awe-inspiring panorama unless you were the kind of person who gets excited about fifty-three types of cabbage and eighty-one types of bean.