By Terry Pratchett
This can be a tale approximately intercourse and medication and track With Rocks In.
one out of 3 ain't bad.
Being 16 is often tricky, much more so whilst there's a demise within the kinfolk. in any case, it's not easy to develop up often whilst Grandfather rides a white horse and wields a scythe. particularly if he comes to a decision to take a well-earned second to discover the which means of existence and realize himself within the approach, so you need to take over the kinfolk company, and everybody error you for the enamel Fairy.
And in particular in case you have to stand the hot and addictive track that has entered Discworld. It's lawless. It adjustments humans. It's acquired a beat and you may dance to it.
It's known as song With Rocks In.
And it won't fade away.
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Extra info for Soul Music (Discworld, Book 16) (UK Edition)
It’s immoral. Taking bets on how many deaths there are going to be in my current case? What’s that going to do for my reputation? I curse everyone roundly. So irate am I that I actually march out of the tavern without picking up a beer and I can’t remember the last time I did that. I need to get to the Mermaid to recover the pendant as quickly as possible, so I set off at a brisk pace, promising myself that I’ll have more than a few harsh words for Makri and Gurd when I get back. Youthful dwa dealers hover round the alleyway that leads to the Mermaid.
Nothing happens. No wagons come. As Casax the Brotherhood boss sees his headquarters starting to disappear in flames, he becomes agitated. He screams for his men to bring water from neighbouring houses, waving his fists to encourage them. The way the flames are taking hold, I doubt that this is going to do much good. Normally I’d enjoy seeing the Mermaid burning to the ground. However, it strikes me that it’s hardly helpful to my immediate purposes. I approach Casax. He doesn’t acknowledge me, being too busy trying to save the tavern to pay any attention to an unwelcome Investigator.
The heat mingles with the smell of rancid ale and burning dwa. Thazis smoke drifts over the tables. The wooden beams overhead are blackened with age. The prostitute who patrols the area with red ribbons in her hair strives vainly to interest the largely inebriated clientele. There’s a woman on the floor who looks like she might be dead. I shake my head. This is about as low as life gets. No civilised person would visit this tavern. “Thraxas! ” I come here occasionally. Mainly in the line of business.
Soul Music (Discworld, Book 16) (UK Edition) by Terry Pratchett