Российское респираторное общество 11 страница

“They threw axes at you in the Drum,” said Dibbler, reasonably.

“Yes, but only in fun. It’s not as if they were aiming.”

“Anyway,” said Cliff, “only trolls and damn silly young humans go there who think it clever to drink in a troll bar. You won’t get an audience.”

Dibbler tapped the side of his nose.

“You play,” he said. “You’ll get an audience. That’s my job.”

“The doors aren’t big enough for me to go in!” snapped Glod.

“They’re huge doors,” said Dibbler.

“They ain’t big enough for me “cos if you try to get me in there you’ll have to drag the street in too, on account of me holding on to it!”

“No, be sensible—”

“No!” screamed Glod. “And I’m screaming for all three of us!”

The guitar whined.

Buddy swung it around until he could hold it, and played a couple of chords. That seemed to calm it down.

“I think it... er... likes the idea,” he said.

“It likes the idea,” said Glod, simmering down a little bit. “Oh, good. Well, do you know what they do to dwarfs who go into the Cavern?”

`We do need the money, and it’s probably not worse than what the Guild’ll do to us if we play anywhere else,” said Buddy. “And we’ve got to play.”

They stood looking at one another.

“What you boys should do now,” said Dibbler, blowing out a smoke ring, `is find somewhere nice and quiet to spend the day. Have a bit of a rest.”

“Damn right,” said Cliff. “I never expected to carry these rocks around the whole time—”

Dibbler raised a finger. “Ah,” he said, “I thought of that, too. You don’t want to waste your talents lugging stuff around, that’s what I told myself. I hired you a helper. Very cheap, only a dollar a day, I’ll take it straight out of your wages so’s you don’t have to bother about it. Meet Asphalt.”

“Who?” said Buddy.

“'S me,” said one of the sacks beside Dibbler.

The sack opened up a bit and turned out not to be a sack at all, but a... a sort of crumbled... a kind of mobile heap of...

Buddy felt his eyes watering. It looked like a troll, except that it was shorter than a dwarf. It wasn’t smaller than a dwarf—what Asphalt lacked in height he made up in breadth and, while on the subject, also in smell.

“How come,” said Cliff, “he’s so short?”

“N'elephant sat on me,” said Asphalt, sulkily.

Glod blew his nose.

“Only sat?”

Asphalt was already wearing a “Band With Rocks In' shirt. It was tight across the chest but reached down to the floor.

“Asphalt’ll look after you,” said Dibbler. “There isn’t anything he doesn’t know about show business.”

Asphalt gave them a big grin.

“You’ll be OK with me,” he said. “I’ve worked with “em all, I have. Been everywhere, done it all.”

“We could go to the Fronts,” said Cliff. “No-one around there when the University’s on holiday.”

“Good. Got things to organize,” said Dibbler. “See you tonight. The Cavern. Seven o'clock.”

He strode off.

“You know the funny thing about him?” said Glod.

“What?”

“The way he was smoking that sausage. Do you think he knew?”

Asphalt grabbed Cliff’s bag and slung it easily over his shoulder.

“Let’s go, boss,” he said.

“An elephant sat on you?” said Buddy, as they crossed the square.

“Yup. At the circus,” said Asphalt. “I used to muck “em arht.”

“That’s how you got like that?”

“Nope. Dint get like this “til elephants had sat on me tree, fo' times,” said the small flat troll. “Dunno why. I’d be cleanin' up after “em, next minute it’d all be dark.”

“I’d have quit after the first time, me,” said Glod.

“Nah,” said Asphalt, with a contented smile. “Couldn’t do that. Show business is in me soul.”

Ponder looked down at the thing they had hammered together.

“I don’t understand it either,” he said. “But... it looks as though we can trap it in a string, and it makes the string play the music again. It’s like an iconograph for sound.”

They’d put the wire inside the box, which resonated beautifully. It played the same dozen bars, over and over again.

“A box of music,” said Ridcully. “My word!”

“What I’d like to try,” said Ponder, “is getting the musicians to play in front of a lot of strings like this. Perhaps we could trap the music.”

“What for?” said Ridcully. “What on Disc for?”

“Well... if you could get music in boxes you wouldn’t need musicians any more.”

Ridcully hesitated. There was a lot to be said for the idea. A world without musicians had a certain appeal. They were a scruffy bunch, in his experience. Quite unhygienic.

He shook his head, reluctantly.

`Not this sort of music,” he said. `We want to stop it, not make more of it.”

“What exactly is wrong with it?” said Ponder.

`It’s... well, can’t you see?” said Ridcully. “It makes people act funny. Wear funny clothes. Be rude. Not do what they’re told. I can’t do a thing with them. It’s not right. Besides... remember Mr Hong.”

“It’s certainly very unusual,” said Ponder. “Can we get some more? For study purposes? Archchancellor?”

Ridcully shrugged. “We follow the Dean,” he said.

“Good grief,” breathed Buddy, in the huge echoing emptiness. “No wonder they call it the Cavern. It’s huge. ”

“I feel dwarfed,” said Glod.

Asphalt ambled to the front of the stage.

“One two, one two,” he said. “One. One. One two, one tw-—”

“Three,” said Buddy helpfully.

Asphalt stopped and looked embarrassed.

“Just trying the, you know, just trying the... trying out the...” he muttered. “Just trying... it.”

“We’ll never fill this,” said Buddy.

Glod poked in a box by the side of the stage.

He said, “We might. Look at these.”

He unrolled a poster. The others clustered around.

“Days a picture of us,” said Cliff. “Someone painted a picture of us.”

“Looking mean,” said Glod.

“S a good one of Buddy,” said Asphalt. “Waving his guitar like that.”

“Why’s there all that lightning and stuff?” said Buddy.

“I never look that mean even when I’m mean,” said Glod.

“'The New Sounde Dat’s Goin' Arounde",” Cliff read, his forehead wrinkling with the effort.

“'The Bande With Rockes",” said Glod.

“Oh, no. It says we’re going to be here and everything,” moaned Glod. “We’re dead.”

“"Bee There Orr Bee A Rectangular Thyng",” said Cliff. “I don’t understand that.”

“There’s dozens of these rolls in here,” said Glod. “They’re posters. You know what that means? He’s been having them stuck up in places. Talking of which, when the Musicians’ Guild get hold of us—”

“Music’s free,” said Buddy. “It has to be free.”

“What?” said Glod. “Not in this dwarf’s town!”

“Then it should be,” said Buddy. “People shouldn’t have to pay to play music.”

“Right! That boy’s right! That’s just what I’ve always said! Isn’t that what I’ve always said? That’s what I’ve said, right enough.”

Dibbler emerged from the shadows in the wings. There was a troll with him who, Buddy surmised, must have been Chrysoprase. He wasn’t particularly big, or even very craggy. In fact he had a smooth and glossy look to him, like a pebble found on a beach. There wasn’t a trace of lichen anywhere.

And he was wearing clothes. Clothes, other than uniforms or special work clothes, weren’t normally a troll thing. Mostly they wore a loincloth to keep stuff in, and that was that. But Chrysoprase had a suit on. It looked badly tailored. It was in fact very well tailored, but even a troll with no clothes on looks fundamentally badly tailored.

Chrysoprase had been a very quick learner when he arrived in Ankh-Morpork. He began with an important lesson: hitting people was thuggery. Paying other people to do the hitting on your behalf was good business.

“I’d like you lads to meet Chrysoprase,” said Dibbler. “An old friend of mine. Me and him go way back. That right, Chrys?”

“Indeed.” Chrysoprase gave Dibbler the warm friendly smile a shark bestows on a haddock with whom it suits it, for now, to swim in the same direction. A certain play of silicon muscles in the corners also suggested that, one day, certain people would regret “Chrys”.

“Mr Throat tells me youse boys is the best ting since slicing bread,” he said. “Youse got everyting youse need?”

They nodded, mutely. People tended not to speak to Chrysoprase in case they said something that offended him. They wouldn’t know it at the time, of course. They’d know it later, when they were in some dark alley and a voice behind them said: Mr Chrysoprase is really upset.

“Youse go and rest up in your dressing room,” he went on. “Youse wants any food or drink, youse only got to say.”

He’d got diamond rings on his fingers. Cliff couldn’t stop staring at them.

The dressing room was next to the privies and half full of beer barrels. Glod leaned on the door.

“I don’t need the money,” he said. “Just let me get out of here with my life, that’s all I ask.”

“Oo ownt ave oo orry—” Cliff began.

“You’re trying to speak with your mouth shut, Cliff,” said Buddy.

“ I said, you don’t have to worry, you’ve got der wrong sort of teeth,” said the troll.

There was a knock on the door. Cliff slammed his hand back over his mouth. But the knock turned out to belong to Asphalt, who was carrying a tray.

There were three types of beer. There were even smoked rat sandwiches with the crusts and tails cut off. And there was a bowl of finest anthracite coke with ash on it.

“Crunch it up good,” moaned Glod, as Cliff took his bowl. “It may be the last chance you get—”

“Maybe no-one’ll turn up and we can go home?” said Cliff.

Buddy ran his fingers over the strings. The others stopped eating as the chords filled up the room.

“Magic,” said Cliff, shaking his head.

“Don’t you boys worry,” said Asphalt. “If there are any problems, it’s the other guys who’ll get it in the teeth.”

Buddy stopped playing.

“What other guys?”

“S funny thing,” said the little troll, “suddenly everyone’s playing music with rocks in it. Mr Dibbler’s signed up another band for the concert, too. To kind of warm it up.”

“S called Insanity,” said Asphalt.

“Where are they?” said Cliff.

“Well, put it like this... you know how your dressing room is next to the privy?”

Crash, behind the Cavern’s raggedy curtain, tried to tune his guitar. Several things got in the way of this simple procedure. Firstly, Blert had realized what his customers really wanted and, praying forgiveness from his ancestors, had spent more time gluing on bits of glittery stuff than he had on the actual functioning sections of the instrument. To put it another way, he’d knocked in a dozen nails and tied the strings to them. But this wasn’t too much of a problem, because Crash himself had the musical talent of a blocked nostril.

He looked at Jimbo, Noddy and Scum. Jimbo, now the bass player (Blert, giggling hysterically, had used a bigger lump of wood and some fence wire), was holding up his hand hesitantly.

“What is it, Jimbo?”

“One of my guitar strings has broke.”

“Well, you’ve got five more, ain’t you?”

“Yur. But I doesn’t know how to play them, like.”

“You didn’t know how to play six, right? So now you’re a bit less ignorant.”

Scum peered around the curtain.

“Crash?”

“Yes?”

“There’s hundreds of people out there. Hundreds! A lot of “em have got guitars, too. They’re sort of waving “em in the air!”

Insanity listened to the roar from the other side of the curtain. Crash did not have too many brain-cells, and they often had to wave to attract one another’s attention, but he had a tiny flicker of doubt that the sound that Insanity had achieved, while a good sound, was the sound that he’d heard last night in the Drum. The sound made him want to scream and dance, while the other sound made him... well... made him want to scream and smash Scum’s drum-kit over its owner’s head, quite frankly.

Noddy took a peek between the curtains.

“Hey, there’s a bunch of wiz... I think they’re wizards, right in the front row,” he said. “I’m... pretty sure they’re wizards, but, I mean...”

“You can tell, stupid,” said Crash. “They’ve got pointy hats.”

“There’s one with... pointy hair...” said Noddy.

The rest of Insanity applied eyes to the gap.

“Looks like... a kind of unicorn spike made out of hair...

“What’s that he’s got on the back of his robe?” said Jimbo.

“It says BORN TO RUNE,” said Crash, who was the fastest reader in the group and didn’t need to use his finger at all.

“The skinny one’s wearing a flared robe,” said Noddy.

“He must be old.”

“And they’ve all got guitars! Do you reckon they’ve come to see us?”

“Bound to have,” said Noddy.

“That’s a bodacious audience,” said Jimbo.

“Yeah, that’s right, bodacious,” said Scum. “Er. What’s bodacious mean?”

“Means... means it bodes,” said Jimbo.

“Right. It looks like it’s boding all right.”

Crash thrust aside his doubts.

“Let’s get out there,” he said, “and really show them what Music With Rocks In is about!”

Asphalt, Cliff and Glod sat in one corner of the dressing room. The roar of the crowd could be heard from here.

“Why’s he not saying anything?” Asphalt whispered.

“Dunno,” said Glod.

Buddy was staring at nothing, with the guitar cradled in his arms. Occasionally he’d slap the casing, very gently, in time with whatever thoughts were sluicing through his head.

“He goes like that sometimes,” said Cliff. “Just sits and looks at the air—”

“Hey, they’re shouting something out there,” said Glod. “Listen.”

The roar had a rhythm to it.

“Sounds like “Rocks, Rocks, Rocks",” said Cliff.

The door burst open and Dibbler half-ran, half-fell in.

“You’ve got to get out there!” he shouted. “Right now!”

“I thought the Insanitary boys—”Glod began.

“Don’t even ask,” said Dibbler. “Come on! Otherwise they’ll wreck the place!”

Asphalt picked up the rocks.

“OK,” he said.

“No,” said Buddy.

“What dis?” said Dibbler. “Nerves?”

“No. Music should be free. Free as the air and the sky.”

Glod’s head spun around. Buddy’s voice had a faint suggestion of harmonics.

“Sure, right, that’s what I said,” said Dibbler. “The Guild—”

Buddy unfolded his legs and stood up.

“I expect people had to pay to get in here, didn’t they?” he said.

Glod looked at the others. No-one else seemed to have noticed it. But there was a twang on the edge of Buddy’s words, a sibilance of strings.

“Oh, that. Of course,” said Dibbler. “Got to cover expenses. There’s your wages... wear and tear on the floor... heating and lighting... depreciation...”

The roar was louder now. It had a certain footstamping component.

Dibbler swallowed. He suddenly had the look of a man prepared to make the supreme sacrifice.

“I could... maybe go up... maybe... a dollar,” he said, each word fighting its way out of the strongroom of his soul.

“If we go on stage now, I want us to do another performance,” said Buddy.

Glod glared suspiciously at the guitar.

“What? No problem. I can soon—”Dibbler began.

“Free.”

“Free?” The word got past Dibbler’s teeth before they could snap shut. He rallied magnificently. “You don’t want paying? Certainly, if—”

Buddy didn’t move.

“I mean, we don’t get paid and people don’t have to pay to listen. As many people as possible.”

“ Free?”

“Yes!”

“Where’s the profit in that?”

An empty beer bottle vibrated off the table and smashed on the floor. A troll appeared in the doorway, or at least part of it did. It wouldn’t be able to get into the room without ripping the door-frame out, but it looked as though it wouldn’t think twice about doing so.

“Mr Chrysoprase says, what’s happening?” it growled.

“Er—” Dibbler began.

“Mr Chrysoprase don’t like being kept waiting.”

“I know, it—”

“He gets sad if he’s kept waiting—”

“All right!” shouted Dibbler. “Free! And that’s cutting my own throat. You do know that, don’t you?”

Buddy played a chord. It seemed to leave little lights in the air.

“Let’s go,” he said softly.

“I know this city,” Dibbler mumbled, as The Band With Rocks In hurried towards the vibrating stage. “Tell people something’s free and you’ll get thousands of them turning up—”

Needing to eat, said a voice in his head. It had a twang.

Needing to drink.

Needing to buy Band With Rocks In shirts...

Dibbler’s face, very slowly, rearranged itself into a grin.

“A free festival,” he said. “Right! It’s our public duty. Music should be free. And sausages in a bun should be a dollar each, mustard extra. Maybe a dollar-fifty. And that’s cutting my own throat.”

In the wings, the noise of the audience was a solid wall of sound.

“There’s lots of them,” said Glod. “I never played for that many in my entire life!”

Asphalt was arranging Cliff’s rocks on the stage and getting massive applause and catcalls.

Glod glanced up at Buddy. He hadn’t let go of the guitar all this time. Dwarfs weren’t given to deep introspection, but Glod was suddenly aware of a desire to be a long way from here, in a cave somewhere.

“Best of luck, you guys,” said a flat little voice behind them.

Jimbo was bandaging Crash’s arm.

“Er, thanks,” said Cliff. “What happened to you?”

“They threw something at us,” said Crash.

“What?”

“Noddy, I think.”

What could be seen of Crash’s face broke into a huge and terrible smile.

“We done it, though!” he said. “We done music with rocks in all right! That bit where Jimbo smashed his guitar, they loved that bit!”

“Smashed his guitar?”

“Yeah,” said Jimbo, with the pride of the artist. “On Scum.”

Buddy had his eyes closed. Cliff thought he could see a very, very faint glow surrounding him, like a thin mist. There were tiny points of light in it.

Sometimes, Buddy looked very elvish.

Asphalt scurried off the stage.

“OK, all done,” he said.

The others looked at Buddy.

He was still standing with his eyes shut, as if he was asleep on his feet.

“We’ll... get on out there, then?” said Glod.

“Yes,” said Cliff, “we’ll get on out there, will we? Er. Buddy?”

Buddy’s eyes snapped open suddenly.

“Let’s rock,” he whispered.

Cliff had thought that the sound was loud before, but it hit him like a club as they trooped out of the wings.

Glod picked up his horn. Cliff sat down and found his hammers.

Buddy walked to the centre of the stage and, to Cliff’s amazement, just stood there looking down at his feet.

The cheering began to subside.

And then died away altogether. The huge hall was filled with the hush of hundreds of people holding their breath.

Buddy’s fingers moved.

He picked out three simple little chords.

And then he looked up.

“Hello, Ankh-Morpork!”

Cliff felt the music rise up behind him and rush him forward into a tunnel of fire and sparks and excitement. He brought his hammers down. And it was Music With Rocks In.

C. M. O. T. Dibbler stood out in the street so that he didn’t have to hear the music. He was smoking a cigar and doing calculations on the back of an overdue bill for stale buns.

Lessee... OK, have it outside somewhere, so there’s no rent... maybe ten thousand people, one sausageinna-bun each at a dollar-fifty, no, say a dollar-seventy-five, mustard tenpence extra—ten thousand Band With Rocks In shirts at five dollars each, make that ten dollars... add stall rental for other traders, because people who like Music With Rocks In could probably be persuaded to buy anything...

He was aware of a horse coming along the street. He paid it no attention until a female voice said: “How do I get in here?”

“No chance. Tickets all sold out,” said Dibbler, without turning his head. Even Band With Rocks In posters, people had been offering three dollars just for posters, and Chalky the troll could knock out a hundred a-

He looked up. The horse, a magnificent white one, watched him incuriously.

Dibbler looked around. “Where’d she go?”

There were a couple of trolls lounging just inside the entrance. Susan ignored them. They ignored her.

In the audience, Ponder Stibbons looked both ways and cautiously opened a wooden box.

The stretched string inside began to vibrate.

“This is all wrong!” he shouted in Ridcully’s ear. “This is not according to the laws of sound!”

“Maybe they’re not laws!” screamed Ridcully. People a foot away couldn’t hear him. “Maybe they’re just guidelines!”

“No! There have to be laws!”

Ridcully saw the Dean try to climb on the stage in the excitement. Asphalt’s huge troll feet landed heavily on his fingers.

“Oh, I say, good shot,” said the Archchancellor.

A prickling sensation on the back of his neck made him look around.

Although the Cavern was crowded, a space seemed to have formed in the floor. People were pressed together but, somehow, this circle was as inviolate as a wall.

In the middle of it was the girl he’d seen in the Drum. She was walking across the floor, holding her dress daintily.

Ridcully’s eyes watered.

He stepped forward, concentrating. You could do almost anything if you concentrated. Anyone could have stepped into the circle if their senses had been prepared to let them know it was there. Inside the circle the sound was slightly muted.

He tapped her on the shoulder. She spun around, startled.

“Good evening,” said Ridcully. He looked her up and down, and then said, “I’m Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of Unseen University. I can’t help wondering who you are.”

“Er...” The girl looked panicky for a moment. “Well, technically... I suppose I’m Death.”

“Technically?”

“Yes. But not on duty at the moment.”

“Very glad to hear that.”

There was a shriek from the stage as Asphalt threw the Lecturer in Recent Runes into the audience, which applauded.

“Can’t say I’ve seen that much of Death,” said Ridcully. “But in so far as I have, he’s tended to be... well, he, to start with. And a good deal thinner...?”

“He’s my grandfather.”

“Ah. Ah. Really? I didn’t even know he was—”Ridcully stopped. “Well, well, well, fancy that. Your grandfather? And you’re in the family firm?”

“Shut up, you stupid man,” said Susan. “Don’t you dare patronize me. You see him?” She pointed to the stage, where Buddy was in mid-riff. “He’s going to die soon because... because of silliness. And if you can’t do anything about it, go away!”

Ridcully glanced at the stage. When he looked back, Susan had vanished. He made a mighty effort and thought he caught a glimpse of her a little way off, but she knew he was looking for her and he had no chance of finding her now.

Asphalt got back into the dressing room first. There is something very sad about an empty dressing room. It’s like a discarded pair of underpants, which it resembles in a number of respects. It’s seen a lot of activity. It may even have witnessed excitement and a whole gamut of human passions. And now there’s nothing much left but a faint smell.

The little troll dumped the bag of rocks on the floor and bit the top off a couple of beer bottles.

Cliff entered. He got halfway across the floor and then fell over, hitting the boards with every part of his body at once. Glod stepped over him and flopped on to a barrel.

He looked at the beer bottles. He took off his helmet. He poured the beer into the helmet. Then he let his head flop forward.

Buddy entered and sat down in the corner, leaning against the wall.

And Dibbler followed. “Well, what can I say? What can I say?” he said.

“Don’t ask us,” said Cliff from his prone position. “How should we know?”

“That was magnificent,” said Dibbler. “What’s up with the dwarf? Is he drowning?”

Glod reached out an arm, without looking, smashed the top off another bottle of beer and poured it over his head.

“Mr Dibbler?” said Cliff.

“Yes?”

“I think we want to talk. Just us, like. The band. If you don’t mind.”

Dibbler looked from one to the other. Buddy was staring at the wall. Glod was making bubbling noises. Cliff was still on the floor.

“OK,” he said, and then added brightly, “Buddy? The free performance... great idea. I’ll start organizing it right away and you can do it just as soon as you get back from your tour. Right. Well, I’ll just—”

He turned to leave and walked into Cliff’s arm, which was suddenly blocking the doorway.

“Tour? What tour?”

Dibbler backed off a little. “Oh, a few places. Quirm, Pseudopolis, Sto Lat “He looked around at them. “Didn’t you want that?”

“We’ll talk about dat later,” said Cliff.

He pushed Dibbler out of the door and slammed it shut.

Beer dripped off Glod’s beard.

“Tour? Three more nights of this? ”

“What’s the problem?” said Asphalt. “It was great! Everyone was cheering. You did two hours! I had to keep kickin' “em off the stage! I never felt so—”

He stopped.

“That’s it, really,” said Cliff. “The fing is, I go on dat stage, I sits down not knowing even what we’re goin' to do, next minute Buddy plays something on his... on that thing, next I’m goin' bam-Bam-chcha-chcha-BAM-bam. I don’t know what I’m playing. It just comes in my head and down my arms.”

“Yes,” said Glod. “Me, too. Seems to me I’m getting stuff out of that horn I never put in there.”

“And it ain’t like proper playing,” said Cliff. “That’s what I’m saying. It’s more like being played.”

“You’ve been in show business a long time, right?” said Glod to Asphalt.

“Yep. Been there, done it. Seem “em all.”

“You ever seen an audience like that?”

“I’ve seen “em throw flowers and cheer at the Opera House—”

“Ha! Just flowers? Some woman threw her... clothing at the stage!”

“Dat’s right! Landed on my head!”

“And when Miss VaVa Voom did the Feather Dance down at the Skunk Club in Brewer Street, the whole audience rushed the stage when she was down to the last feather—”

“That was like this, was it?”

“No,” the troll admitted. “I got to say it, I ain’t never seen an audience so... hungry. Not even for Miss VaVa Voom, and they were pretty damn peckish then, I can tell you. Of course, no-one threw underwear on to the stage. She used to throw it off the stage.”

“Dere’s something else,” said Cliff. “Dere’s four people in this room and only three of “em’s talking.”

Buddy looked up.

“The music’s important,” he mumbled.

“It ain’t music,” said Glod. “Music don’t do this to people. It don’t make them feel like they’ve been put through a wringer. I was sweating so much I’m going to have to change my vest any day now.” He rubbed his nose. “Also, I looked at that audience, and I thought: they paid money to get in here. I bet it came to more than ten dollars.”

Asphalt held up a slip of paper.

“Found this ticket on the floor,” he said.

Glod read it.

“A dollar-fifty?” he said. “Six hundred people at a dollarfifty each? That... that’s four hundred dollars!”

“Nine hundred,” said Buddy, in the same flat tone, “but the money isn’t important.”

“The money’s not important? You keep on saying that! What kind of musician are you?”

There was still a muted roar from outside.

“You want to go back to playing for half a dozen people in some cellar somewhere after this?” said Buddy. “Who’s the most famous horn player there ever was, Glod?”

“Brother Charnel,” said the dwarf promptly. “Everyone knows that. He stole the altar gold from the Temple of Offler and had it made into a horn and played magical music until the gods caught up with him and pulled his”

“Right,” said Buddy, “but if you went out there now and asked who the most famous horn player is, would they remember some felonious monk or would they shout for Glod Glodsson?”

“They’d—”

Glod hesitated.

“Right,” said Buddy. “Think about that. A musician has to be heard. You can’t stop now. We can’t stop now.”

Glod waved a finger at the guitar.

“It’s that thing,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I can handle it!”

“Yes, but where’s it going to end?”

“It’s not how you finish that matters,” said Buddy. “It’s how you get there.”

“That sounds elvish to me—”