There was a smell of stale beer, dying cabbages, barbecue embers and insufficient sanitation.
He leaned against Seth’s livery stable. It shifted slightly.
It was fine when he was on stage or, as it had been tonight, on an old barn door set on a few bricks. Everything was in bright colours. He could feel white-hot images arcing across his mind. His body felt as though it were on fire but also, and this was the important bit, as if it was meant to be on fire. He felt alive.
And then, afterwards, he felt dead.
There was still colour in the world. He could recognize it as colour, but it seemed to be wearing Cliff’s smoked glasses. Sounds came as if through cotton wool. Apparently the barbecue had been good, he had Glod’s word for that; but to Buddy it had been texture and not much else.
A shadow moved across the space between two buildings . . .
On the other hand, he was the best. He knew it, not as some matter of pride or arrogance, but simply as a matter of fact. He could feel the music flowing out of him and into the audience . . .
‘This one, sir?’ whispered a shadow beside the livery stable, as Buddy wandered along the moonlit street.
‘Yes. This one first and then into the tavern for the other two. Even the big troll. There’s a spot on the back of the neck.’
‘But not Dibbler, Sir?’
‘Strangely, no. He’s not here.’
‘Shame. I bought a meat pie off him once.’
‘It’s an attractive suggestion, but no-one’s paying us for Dibbler.’
The Assassins drew their knives, the blades blackened to avoid the tell-tale shine.
‘I could give you twopence, sir, if that’d help.’
‘It’s certainly tempting-‘
The senior Assassin pressed himself against the wall as Buddy’s footsteps grew louder.
He gripped his knife at waist height. No-one who knew anything about knives ever used the famous over-arm stabbing motion so beloved of illustrators. It was amateurish and inefficient. A professional would strike upwards; the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.
He drew his hand back and tensed
An hourglass, glowing faintly blue, was suddenly thrust in front of his eyes.
LORD ROBERT SELACHII? Said a voice by his ear. THIS IS YOUR LIFE.
He squinted. There was no mistaking the name engraved on the glass. He could see every little grain of sand, pouring into the past . . .
He turned, took one look at the hooded figure, and ran for it.
His apprentice was already a hundred yards away, and still accelerating.
‘Sorry? Who’s that?’
Susan tucked the hourglass back into her robe and shook out her hair.
Buddy appeared.
‘You?’
‘Yes. Me,’ said Susan.
Buddy took a step nearer.
‘Are you going to fade away again?’ he said.
‘No. I have actually just saved your life, as a matter of fact.’
Buddy looked around at the otherwise empty night.
‘From what?’
Susan bent down and picked up a blackened knife.
‘This?’ she said.
‘I know we’ve had this conversation before, but who are you? Not my fairy godmother, are you?’
‘I think you have to be a lot older,’ said Susan. She backed away. ‘And probably a lot nicer, too. Look, I can’t tell you any more. You’re not even supposed to see me. I’m not supposed to be here. Neither are you-,
‘You’re not going to tell me to stop playing again, are you?’ said Buddy angrily. ‘Because I won’t! I’m a musician! If I don’t play, what am I then? I might as well be dead! Do you understand? Music is my life!’
He took a few steps nearer.
‘Why’re you following me around? Asphalt said there’d be girls like you!’
‘What on Disc do you mean, “girls like me”?’
Buddy subsided a bit, but only a little.
‘They follow actors and musicians around,’ he said, ‘because of, you know, the glamour and everything-‘
‘Glamour? Some smelly cart and a tavern that smells of cabbages?’
Buddy held up his hands.
‘Listen,’ he said urgently. ‘I’m doing all right. I’m working, people are listening to me . . . I don’t need any more help, all right? I’ve got enough to worry about, so please keep out of my life-‘
There was the sound of running feet and Asphalt appeared, with the other members of the band behind him.
‘The guitar was screaming,’ said Asphalt. ‘Are you all right?’
‘You’d better ask her,’ muttered Buddy.
All three of them looked directly at Susan.
‘Who?’ said Cliff.
‘She’s right in front of you.’
Glod waved a stubby hand in the air, missing Susan by inches.
‘It was probably dat cabbage,’ said Cliff to Asphalt.
Susan stepped backwards quietly.
‘She’s right there! But she’s going away now, can’t you see?’
‘That’s right, that’s right,’ said Glod, taking Buddy’s arm. ‘She’s going away now, and good riddance, so just you come on back-‘
‘Now she’s getting on that horse!’
‘Yes, yes, a big black horse-‘
‘It’s white, you idiot!’
Hoofprints burned red on the ground for a moment and then faded.
‘And it’s gone now!’
The Band With Rocks In stared into the night.
‘Yes, I can see dat, now you mention it,’ said Cliff. ‘Days a horse dat isn’t dere, sure enough.’
‘Yes, that’s certainly what a horse that’s gone looks like,’ said Asphalt carefully.
‘None of you saw her?’ said Buddy, as they manoeuvred him gently back through the pre-dawn greyness.
‘I heard where musicians, really good musicians, got followed around by these half-naked young women called Muses,’ said Glod.
‘Like Cantaloupe,’ said Cliff.
‘We don’t call ’em Muses,’ said Asphalt, grinning. ‘I told you, when I worked for Bertie the Balladeer and His Troubadour Rascals, we used to get any amount of young women hanging arou-‘
‘Amazing how legends get started, when you come to think about it,’ said Glod. ‘Just you come along now, my lad.’
‘She was there,’ Buddy protested. ‘She was there.’
‘Cantaloupe?’ said Asphalt. ‘You sure, Cliff?’
‘Read it in a book once,’ said the troll. ‘Cantaloupe. I’m pretty sure. Something like that.’
‘She was there,’ said Buddy.
The raven snored gently on top of his skull, counting dead sheep.
The Death of Rats came through the window in an arc, bounced off a dribbly candle, and landed on all fours on the table.
The raven opened one eye.
‘Oh, it’s you-‘
Then a claw was round its leg, and the Death of Rats jumped off the skull and into infinite space.
There were more cabbage fields next day, although the landscape did begin to change a bit.
‘Hey, that’s interesting,’ said Glod.
‘What is?’ said Cliff.
‘There’s a field of beans over there.’
They watched it until it was out of sight.
‘Nice of the people to give us all this food, though,’ said Asphalt. ‘ We shan’t be wanting for cabbages, eh?’
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Glod. He turned to Buddy, who was sitting with his chin resting on his arms.
‘Cheer up, we’ll be in Pseudopolis in a couple of hours,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Buddy, distantly.
Glod climbed back into the front of the cart and pulled Cliff towards him.
‘Notice the way he goes all quiet?’ he whispered.
‘Yup. Do you think it’ll be . . . you know . . . done by the time we get back?’
‘You can get anything done in Ankh-Morpork,’ said
Glod firmly. ‘I must have knocked on every damn door in the Street of Cunning Artificers. Twenty-five dollars!’
‘You’re complaining? It ain’t your tooth dat’s paying for it.’
They both turned to look at their guitarist.
He was staring out across the endless fields.
‘She was there,’ he muttered.
Feathers spiralled towards the ground.
‘You didn’t have to go and do that,’ said the raven, fluttering upright. ‘You could simply ask.’
SQUEAK.
‘All right, but before would have been better.’ The raven ruffled its feathers and looked around at the bright landscape under the dark sky.
‘This is the place then, is it?’ it said. ‘You’re sure you’re not the Death of Ravens too?’
SQUEAK.
‘Shape doesn’t mean much. Anyway, you’ve got a pointy snout. What was it you were wanting?’
The Death of Rats grabbed a wing and pulled.
‘All right, all right!’
The raven glanced at a garden gnome. It was fishing in an ornamental pond. The fish were skeletal, but this didn’t seem to interfere with their enjoyment of life, or whatever it was they were enjoying.
It fluttered and hopped along after the rat.
Cut-My-Own-Throat Dibbler stood back.
Jimbo, Crash, Noddy and Scum looked at him expectantly.
‘What’re all the boxes for, Mr Dibbler?’ said Crash.
‘Yeah,’ said Scum.
Dibbler carefully positioned the tenth box on its tripod.
‘You boys seen an iconograph?’ he said.
‘Oh, yes . . . I mean, yeah,’ said Jimbo. ‘They’ve got a little demon inside them that paints pictures of things you point it at.’
‘This is like that, only for sound,’ said Dibbler.