'That's Root Fly, that is,' said someone in the shadows. 'Good, good,' said Glod. He was a dwarf. Dwarfs didn't farm. 'We don't like circuses in Scrote,' said another voice. It was a slow, deep voice. 'We're not a circus,' said Glod brightly. 'We're musicians.'
'We don't like musicians in Scrote,' said another voice. There seemed to be more and more figures in the gloom. 'Er . . . what do you like in Scrote?' said Asphalt. 'Well,' said the barman, now a mere outline in the gathering darkness, 'round about this time of year we generally have a barbecue down by the rockery.' Buddy sighed. It was the first time he'd made a sound since they'd arrived in the town. 'I guess we'd better show them what we play,' he said. There was a twang in his voice. It was some time later. Glod looked at the door handle. It was a door handle. You got hold of it with your hand. But what was supposed to happen next? 'Door handle,' he said, in case that would help. 'Y'r sposed do s'ning w'vit,' said Cliff, from somewhere near the floor. Buddy leaned past the dwarf and turned the handle. 'Am'zing,' said Glod, and stumbled forward. He levered himself off the floor and looked around. 'Wh's the?'
'The tavern keeper said we could stay here for free,' said Buddy. 'S'mess,' said Glod. 'Some'ne fetch me a brm and a scr'bing brsh this min't.' Asphalt wobbled in, carrying the luggage and with Cliff's sack of rocks in his teeth. He dropped the lot on the floor. 'Well, that was astonishing, sir,' he said. 'The way you just went into that barn and said, and said . . . what was it you said?'
'Let's do the show right here,' said Buddy, lying down on a straw mattress. 'Amazing! They must have been coming in from miles around!' Buddy stared at the ceiling and played a few chords. 'And that barbecue!' said Asphalt, still radiating enthusiasm. 'The sauce!'
'The be'f!' said Glod. 'The charcoal,' murmured Cliff happily. There was a wide black ring around his mouth.
'And who'davthought,' said Glod, 'that you could brew a beer l'ke that outa cauliflowers?'
'Had a great head on it,' said Cliff. 'I thought we were going to be in a bit of trouble there, before you played,' said Asphalt, shaking the beetles out of another mattress. 'I don't know how you got them dancing like that.'
'Yes,' said Buddy. 'And we din't even get paid,' murmured Glod. He slumped back. Shortly there were snores, given a slightly metallic edge by the reverberation in his helmet. When the others were asleep Buddy put the guitar down on the bed, quietly opened the door and crept downstairs and into the night. It would have been nice if there had been a full moon. Or even a crescent. A full moon would have been better. But there was just a half-moon, which never appears in romantic or occult paintings despite the fact that it is indeed the most magical phase. 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?'