Soul Music by Terry Pratchett Read Free Book Online Page A

and a clock without hands.

    “D’you think we could have handled that better?”
    SQUEAK? ‘Dah dah dah DAH ’ SQUEAK?
    “How did you expect me to put it? ‘Your grandfather is Death?’ Just like that? Where’s the sense of occasion? Humans like drama.”
    SQUEAK, the Death of Rats pointed out.
    “Rats is different.”
    SQUEAK.
    “I reckon I ought to call it a night,” said the raven. “Ravens are not generally nocturnal, you know.” It scratched at its bill with a foot. “Do you just do rats, or mice and hamsters and weasels and stuff like that as well?”
    SQUEAK.
    “Gerbils? How about gerbils?”
    SQUEAK.
    “Fancy that. I never knew that. Death of Gerbils too? Amazing how you can catch up with them on those treadmills—”
    SQUEAK.
    “Please yourself.”

    There are the people of the day, and the creatures of the night.
    And it’s important to remember that the creatures of the night aren’t simply the people of the day staying up late because they think that makes them cool and interesting. It takes a lot more than heavy mascara and a pale complexion to cross the divide.
    Heredity can help, of course.
    The raven had grown up in the forever-crumbling, ivy-clad Tower of Art, overlooking Unseen University in far Ankh-Morpork. Ravens are naturally intelligent birds and magical leakage, which has a tendency to exaggerate things, had done the rest.
    It didn’t have a name. Animals don’t normally bother with them. The wizard who thought he owned him called him Quoth, but that was only because he didn’t have a sense of humor and, like most people without a sense of humor, prided himself on the sense of humor he hadn’t, in fact, got.
    The raven flew back to the wizard’s house, skimmed in through the open window, and took up his roost on the skull.
    “Poor kid,” he said.
    “That’s destiny for you,” said the skull.
    “I don’t blame her for trying to be normal. Considering.”
    “Yes,” said the skull. “Quit while you’re a head, that’s what I say.”

    The owner of a grain silo in Ankh-Morpork was having a bit of a crackdown. The Death of Rats could hear the distant yapping of the terriers. It was going to be a busy night.
    It would be too hard to describe the Death of Rats’s thought processes, or even be certain that he had any. He had a feeling that he shouldn’t have involved the raven, but humans set a great store by words.
    Rats don’t think very far ahead, except in general terms. In general terms, he was very, very worried. He hadn’t expected education.

    Susan got through the next morning without having to go nonexistent. Geography consisted of the flora of the Sto Plains * , chief exports of the Sto Plains ** , and the fauna of the Sto Plains *** . Once you mastered the common denominator, it was straightforward. The gels had to color in a map. This involved a lot of green. Lunch was Dead Man’s Fingers and Eyeball Pudding, a healthy ballast for the afternoon’s occupation, which was Sport.
    This was the province of Iron Lily, who was rumored to shave and lift weights with her teeth, and whose shouts of encouragement as she thundered up and down the touchline tended toward the nature of “Get some ball, you bunch of soft nellies!”
    Miss Butts and Miss Delcross kept their windows closed on games afternoon. Miss Butts ferociously read logic and Miss Delcross, in her idea of a toga, practiced eurythmics in the gym.
    Susan surprised people by being good at Sport. Some sport, anyway. Hockey, lacrosse, and rounders, certainly. Any game that involved putting a stick of some sort in her hands and asking her to swing it, definitely. The sight of Susan advancing toward goal with a calculating look made any goalie lose all faith in her protective padding and throw herself flat as the ball flashed past at waist height, making a humming noise.
    It was only evidence of the general stupidity of the rest of humanity, Susan considered, that although she was manifestly one of the best