'Sounds dangerous to me,' said Ridcully briskly. 'Could do someone a serious injury. Now then, you lot, back to the University right now for cold baths all round.'
'Really her-?' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. Somehow, none of them felt able to leave the idea alone. 'Make yourself useful and find the Bursar,' snapped Ridcully. 'And I'd have you lot up in front of the University authorities first thing in the morning, if it wasn't for the fact that you are the University authorities . . .' Foul Ole Ron, professional maniac and one of Ankh-Morpork's most industrious beggars, blinked in the gloom. Lord Vetinari had excellent night vision. And, unfortunately, a well- developed sense of smell. 'And then what happened?' he said, trying to keep his face turned away from the beggar. Because the fact was that although in actual size Foul Ole Ron was a small hunched man in a huge grubby overcoat, in smell he filled the world. In fact Foul Ole Ron was a physical schizophrenic. There was Foul Ole Ron, and there was the smell of Foul Ole Ron, which had obviously developed over the years to such an extent that it had a distinct personality. Anyone could have a smell that lingered long after they'd gone somewhere else, but the smell of Foul Ole Ron could actually arrive somewhere several minutes before he did, in order to spread out and get comfortable before he arrived. It had evolved into something so striking that it was no longer perceived with the nose, which shut down instantly in selfdefence; people could tell that Foul Ole Ron was approaching by the way their ear wax started to melt. 'Buggrit, buggrit, wrong side out, I told'em, buggrem . . .' The Patrician waited. With Foul Ole Ron you had to allow time for his wandering mind to get into the same vicinity as his tongue . '. . . spyin' on me with magic, I told'em, bean soup, see here . . . and then everyone was dancing, you see, and then afterwards there were two of the wizards in the street and one of them was going on about catching the music in a box and Mr Dibbler was interested and then the coffee house exploded and they all went back to the University . . . buggrit, buggrit, buggrem, see if I don't.'
'The coffee house exploded, did it?'
'Frothy coffee all over the place, yerronner . . . bugg-'
'Yes, yes, and so on,' said the Patrician, waving a thin hand. 'And that's all you can tell me?'
'Well . . . bug-' Foul Ole Ron caught the Patrician's eye and got a grip on himself. Even in his own highly individualized sanity he could tell when not to push his threadbare luck. His Smell wandered around the room, reading documents and examining the pictures. 'They say,' he said, 'that he drives all the women mad.' He leaned forward. The Patrician leaned back. 'They say after he moved his hips like that . . . Mrs Whitlow threw her . . . wossnames . . . on to the stage.' The Patrician raised an eyebrow. '“Wossnames”?'
'You know.' Foul Ole Ron moved his hands vaguely in the air. 'A pair of pillow cases? Two sacks of flour? Some very baggy trou- oh. I see. My word. Were there any casualties?'
'Dunno, yerronner. But there's something I do know.'
'Yes?'
'Uh . . . Cumbling Michael says yerronner sometimes pays for information . . . ?'
'Yes, I know. I can't imagine how these rumours get about,' said the Patrician, getting up and opening a window. 'I shall have to have something done about it.' Once again, Foul Ole Ron reminded himself that while he was probably insane he definitely wasn't as mad as all that. 'Only I got this, yerronner,' he said, pulling something out of the horrible recesses of his clothing. 'It says writing on it, yerronner.' It was a poster, in glowing primary colours. It couldn't have been very old, but an hour or two as Foul Ole Ron's chestwarmer had aged it considerably. The Patrician unfolded it with a pair of tweezers. 'Them's the pictures of the music players,' said Foul Ole Ron helpfully, 'and that's writing. And there's more writing there, look. Mr Dibbler had Chalky the troll run 'em off just now, but I nipped in after and threatened to breathe on everyone less'n they gives me one.'
'I'm sure that worked famously,' said the Patrician. He lit a candle and read the poster carefully. In the presence of Foul Ole Ron, all candles burned with a blue edge to the flame. “'Free Festival of Music with Rocks In It”,' he said. 'That's where you don't have to pay to go in,' said Foul Ole Ron helpfully. 'Buggrem, buggrit.' Lord Vetinari read on. 'In Hide Park. Next Wednesday. Well, well. A public open space, of course. I wonder if there'll be many people there?'
'Lots, yerronner. There was hundreds couldn't get into the Cavern.'
'And the band looks like that, do they?' said Lord Vetinari. 'Scowling like that?'
'Sweating, most of the time I saw 'em,' said Foul Ole Ron. “'Bee There Orr Bee A Rectangular Thyng”,' said the Patrician. 'This is some sort of occult code, do you think?'
'Couldn't say, yerronner,' said Foul Ole Ron. 'My brain goes all slow when I'm thirsty.' “'They Are Totallye Unable To Bee Seene! And A Longe Way Oute!”' said Lord Vetinari solemnly. He looked up. 'Oh, I am sorry,' he said. 'I'm sure I can find someone to give you a cool refreshing drink . . .' Foul Ole Ron coughed. It had sounded like a perfectly sincere offer but, somehow, he was suddenly not at all thirsty. 'Don't let me keep you, then. Thank you so very much,' said Lord Vetinari. 'Er ...'
'Yes?'
'Er . . . nothing . . .'
'Very good.' When Ron had buggrit, buggrit, buggrem'd down the stairs, the Patrician tapped his pen thoughtfully on the paper and stared at the wall. The pen kept bouncing on the word Free. Finally he rang a small bell. A young clerk put his head around the door. 'Ah, Drumknott,' said Lord Vetinari, 'just go and tell the head of the Musicians' Guild he wants a word with me, will you?'
'Er . . . Mr Clete is already in the waiting room, your lordship,' said the clerk. 'Does he by any chance have some kind of poster with him?'
'Yes, your lordship.'
'And is he very angry?'
'This is very much the case, your lordship. It's about some festival. He insists you have it stopped.'
'Dear me.'
'And he demands that you see him instantly.'
'Ah. Then leave him for, say, twenty minutes, then show him up.'
'Yes, your lordship. He keeps saying that he wants to know what you are doing about it.'
'Good. Then I can ask him the same question.' The Patrician sat back. Si non confectus, non reficiat. That was the motto of the Vetinaris. Everything worked if you just let it happen. He picked up a stack of sheet-music and began to listen to Salami's Prelude to a Nocturne on a Theme by Bubbla. After a while he looked up. 'Don't hesitate to leave,' he snapped. The Smell slunk away. SQUEAK! 'Don't be stupid! All I did was frighten them off. It's not as though I hurt them. What's the good of having the power if you can't use it?' The Death of Rats put his nose in his paws. It was a lot easier, with rats.[22] C. M. O. T. Dibbler often did without sleep, too. He generally had to meet Chalky at night. Chalky was a large troll but tended to dry up and flake in daylight. Other trolls looked down on him because he came from a sedimentary family and was therefore a very low-class troll indeed. He didn't mind. He was a very amiable character. He did odd jobs for people who needed something unusual in a hurry and without entanglements and who had clinking money. And this job was pretty odd. 'Just boxes?' he said. 'With lids,' said Dibbler. 'Like this one I've made. And a bit of wire stretched inside.' Some people would have said 'Why?' or 'What for?' but Chalky didn't make his money like that. He picked up the box and turned it this way and that. 'How many?' he said. 'Just ten to start with,' said Dibbler. 'But I think there'll be more later. Lots and lots more.'
'How many's ten?' said the troll. Dibbler held up both hands, fingers extended. 'I'll do them for two dollar,' said Chalky. 'You want me to cut my own throat?'
'Two dollar.'