Soul Music: A Novel of Discworld

Soul Music: A Novel of Discworld

Terry Pratchett

Language: English

Pages: 432

ISBN: 0062237411

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


When her dear old Granddad— the Grim Reaper himself—goes missing, Susan takes over the family business. The progeny of Death's adopted daughter and his apprentice, she shows real talent for the trade. That is, until a little string in her heart goes "twang."

With a head full of dreams and a pocketful of lint, Imp the Bard lands in Ankh-Morpork, yearning to become a rock star. Determined to devote his life to music, the unlucky fellow soon finds that all his dreams are coming true. Well almost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anyway, he was dead now. Wasn’t he? No one took any notice of the other things. Stuff tended to congregate in the dry riverbed. There was a horse’s skull, and some feathers and beads. And a few pieces of guitar, smashed open like an eggshell. Although it would be hard to say what had flown. Susan opened her eyes. She felt wind on her face. There were arms on either side of her. They were supporting her while, at the same time, grasping the reins of a white horse. She leaned forward. Clouds

“Oh. Er. Grandfather? YES? “Er … the swing …” said Susan. “The one down in the orchard. I mean … it was pretty good. A good swing.” REALLY? “I was just too young to appreciate it.” YOU REALLY LIKED IT? “It had … style. I shouldn’t think anyone else ever had one like it.” THANK YOU. “But … all this doesn’t alter anything, you know. The world is still full of stupid people. They don’t use their brains. They don’t seem to want to think straight.” UNLIKE YOU? “At least I make an effort. For

Io be there. His research was causing extreme constipation and a queue outside the door every morning. **The ones with cartoons about cows and dogs. And captions like: “As soon as he saw the duck. Elmer knew it was going to be a bad day.” * And didn’t appear to do anything to the enemy at all. ** He was a wizard. Tricks shots for a wizard aren’t the old three-times-round-the-table jobs. His best one was once off the cushion, once off a sea gull, once off the back of the head of the Bursar,

floral clock in Quirm. It’s quite a tourist attraction. It turns out to be not what they expect. Unimaginative municipal authorities throughout the multiverse had made floral clocks, which turn out to be a large clock mechanism buried in a civic flower bed with the face and numbers picked out in bedding plants.* But the Quirm clock is simply a round flower bed, filled with twenty-four different types of flower, carefully chosen for the regularity of the opening and closing of their petals …

thing?” “I’m a raven,” said the raven, nervously. “Incidentally, one of the most intelligent birds. Most people would say it’s the mynah bird, but—” SQUEAK! The raven ruffled its feathers. “I’m here as an interpreter,” it said. “Has he found him?” said Albert. The Death of Rat squeaked at length. “Looked everywhere. No sign,” said the raven. “Then he don’t want to be found,” said Albert. He smeared the grease on a plate with a skull pattern on it. “I don’t like that.” SQUEAK. “The rat

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