EXCUSE ME.

"Yes, my son?" His brow wrinkled. "You are male, aren't you?" he added.

YOU TOOK A LOT OF FINDING. BUT I AM GOOD AT IT.

"Yes?"

I AM TOLD YOU KNOW EVERYTHING.

The holy man opened the other eye.

" The secret of existence is to disdain earthly ties, shun the chimera of material worth, and seek one‑ness with the Infinite," he said. "And keep your thieving hands off my begging bowl."

The sight of the supplicant was giving him trouble.

I'VE SEEN THE INFINITE, said the stranger. IT'S NOTHING SPECIAL.

The holy man glanced around.

"Don't be daft; he said. "You can't see the Infinite. ‘Cos it's infinite."

I HAVE.

"All right, what did it look like?"

IT'S BLUE.

The holy man shifted uneasily. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. A quick burst of the Infinite and a meaningful nudge in the direction of the begging bowl was how it was supposed to go.

"'S black," he muttered.

NOT, said the stranger, WHEN SEEN FROM THE OUTSIDE. THE NIGHT SKY IS BLACK. BUT THAT IS JUST SPACE. INFINITY, HOWEVER, IS BLUE.

" And I suppose you know what sound is made by one hand clapping, do you?" said the holy man nastily.

YES. CL. THE OTHER HAND MAKES THE AP.

"Ah‑ha, no, you're wrong there," said the holy man, back on firmer ground. He waved a skinny hand. "No sound, see?"

THAT WASN'T A CLAP. THAT WAS JUST A WAVE.

"It was a clap. I just wasn't using both hands. What kind of blue, anyway?"

YOU JUST WAVED. I DON'T CALL THAT VERY PHILOSOPHICAL. DUCK EGG.

The holy man glanced down the mountain. Several people were approaching. They had flowers in their hair and were carrying what looked very much like a bowl of rice.

OR POSSIBLY EAU‑DE‑NIL.

"Look, my son," the holy man said hurriedly, "what exactly is it you want? I haven't got all day."

YES, YOU HAVE. TAKE IT FROM ME.

"What do you want?"

WHY DO THINGS HAVE TO BE THE WAY THEY ARE?

"Well–"

YOU DON'T KNOW, DO YOU?

"Not exactly. The whole thing is meant to be a mystery, see?"

The stranger stared at the holy man for some time, causing the man to feel that his head had become transparent.

THEN I WILL ASK YOU A SIMPLER QUESTION. HOW DO HUMANS FORGET?

"Forget what?"

FORGET ANYTHING. EVERYTHING.

"It... er... it happens automatically." The prospective acolytes had turned the bend on the mountain path. The holy man hastily picked up his begging bowl.

" Let's say this bowl is your memory," he said, waving it vaguely. "It can only hold so much, see? New things come in, so old things must overflow–"

NO. I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING. DOORKNOBS. THE PLAY OF SUNLIGHT ON HAIR. THE SOUND OF LAUGHTER. FOOTSTEPS. EVERY LITTLE DETAIL. AS IF IT HAPPENED ONLY YESTERDAY. AS IF IT HAPPENED ONLY TOMMOROW. EVERYTHING. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

The holy man scratched his gleaming bald head.

" Traditionally," he said, "the ways of forgetting include joining the Klatchian Foreign Legion, drinking the waters of some magical river, no‑one knows where it is, and imbibing vast amounts of alcohol."

AH, YES.

"But alcohol debilitates the body and is a poison to the soul."

SOUNDS GOOD TO ME.

"Master?"

The holy man looked around irritably. The acolytes had arrived.

" Just a minute, I'm talking to–"

The stranger had gone.

" Oh, master, we have travelled for many miles over–" said the acolyte.

" Shut up a minute, will you?"

The holy man put out his hand, palm turned vertical, and waved it a few times. He muttered under his breath.

The acolytes exchanged glances. They hadn't expected this. Finally, their leader found a drop of courage.

" Master–"

The holy man turned and caught him across the ear. The sound this made was definitely a clap.

" Ah! Got it!" said the holy man. "Now, what can I do for–"

He stopped as his brain caught up with his ears.

" What did he mean, humans?"

Death walked thoughtfully across the hill to the place where a large white horse was placidly watching the view.

He said, GO AWAY.

The horse watched him warily. It was considerably more intelligent than most horses, although this was not a difficult achievement. It seemed aware that things weren't right with its master.

I MAY BE SOME TIME, said Death.

And he set out.

It wasn't raining in Ankh‑Morpork. This had come as a big surprise to Imp.

What had also come as a surprise was how fast money went. So far he'd lost three dollars and twenty-seven pence.

He'd lost it because he'd put it in a bowl in front of him while he played, in the same way that a hunter puts out decoys to get ducks. The next time he'd looked down, it had gone.

People came to Ankh‑Morpork to seek their fortune. Unfortunately, other people sought it too.

And people didn't seem to want bards, even ones who'd won the mistletoe award and centennial harp in the big Eisteddfod in Llamedos.

He'd found a place in one of the main squares, tuned up and played. No‑one had taken any notice, except sometimes to push him out of the way as they hurried past and, apparently, to nick his bowl. Eventually, just when he was beginning to doubt that he'd made the right decision in coming here at all, a couple of watchmen had wandered up.

" That's a harp he's playing, Nobby," said one of them, after watching Imp for a while.

" Lyre."

" No, it's the honest truth, I'm–" The fat guard frowned and looked down.

" You've just been waiting all your life to say that, ain't you, Nobby," he said. " I bet you was born hoping that one day someone'd say "That's a harp" so you could say "lyre", on account of it being a pun or play on words. Well, har har."

Imp stopped playing. It was impossible to continue, in the circumstances.

" It is a harp, actualllly," he said. "I won it in–"

" Ah, you're from Llamedos, right?" said the fat guard. "I can tell by your accent. Very musical people, the Llamedese."

" Sounds like garglin' with gravel to me," said the one identified as Nobby. "You got a licence, mate?"

" Llicence?" said Imp.

" Very hot on licences, the Guild of Musicians," said Nobby. "They catch you playing music without a licence, they take your instrument and they shove–"

" Now, now," said the other watchman. "Don't go scaring the boy."

" Let's just say it's not much fun if you're a piccolo player," said Nobby.

" But surelly music is as free as the air and the sky, see," said Imp.

" Not round here it's not. Just a word to the wise, friend," said Nobby.

" I never ever heard of a Guilld of Musicians," said Imp.

" It's in Tin Lid Alley," said Nobby. "You want to be a musician, you got to join the Guild."

Imp had been brought up to obey the rules. The Llamedese were very law‑abiding.

" I shallll go there directlly," he said.

The guards watched him go.

" He's wearing a nightdress," said Corporal Nobbs.

" Bardic robe, Nobby," said Sergeant Colon. The guards strolled onwards. "Very bardic, the Llamedese."

" How long d'you give him, sarge?"

Colon waved a hand in the flat rocking motion of someone hazarding an informed guess.

" Two, three days," he said.

They rounded the bulk of Unseen University and ambled along The Backs, a dusty little street that saw little traffic or passing trade and was therefore much favoured by the Watch as a place to lurk and have a smoke and explore the realms of the mind.

" You know salmon, sarge," said Nobby.

" It is a fish of which I am aware, yes."

" You know they sell kind of slices of it in tins..."