Soul Music

again? Right, got it…the Klatchian Foreign Legion. Yes. What was it you were wanting?”
    I WISH TO JOIN.
    “Join? Join what?”
    THE KLATCHIAN FOREIGN LEGION.
    “Where’s that?”
    There was some more whispering.
    “Oh. Right. Sorry. Yes. That’s us.”
    The doors swung open. The visitor strode in. A legionary with corporal’s stripes on his arm walked up to him.
    “You’ll have to report to…” his eyes glazed a little, “…you know…big man, three stripes…on the tip of my tongue a moment ago…”
    SERGEANT?
    “Right,” said the corporal, with relief. “What’s your name, soldier?”
    ER…
    “You don’t have to say, actually. That’s what the…the…”
    KLATCHIAN FOREIGN LEGION?
    “…what it’s all about. People join to…to…with your mind, you know, when you can’t…things that happened…”
    FORGET?
    “Right. I’m…” The man’s face went blank. “Wait a minute, would you?”
    He looked down at his sleeve. “Corporal…” he said. He hesitated, looking worried. Then an idea struck him and he pulled at the collar of his vest and twisted his neck until he could squint, with considerable difficulty, at the label thus revealed.
    “Corporal…Medium? Does that sound right?”
    I DON’T THINK SO.
    “Corporal…Hand Wash Only?”
    PROBABLY NOT.
    “Corporal…Cotton?”
    IT’S A POSSIBILITY.
    “Right. Well, welcome to the…er…
    KLATCHIAN FOREIGN LEGION…
    “Right. The pay is three dollars a week and all the sand you can eat. I hope you like sand.”
    I SEE YOU CAN REMEMBER ABOUT SAND.
    “Believe me, you won’t ever forget sand,” said the corporal bitterly.
    I NEVER DO.
    “What did you say your name was?”
    The stranger remained silent.
    “Not that it matters,” said Corporal Cotton. “In the…”
    KLATCHIAN FOREIGN LEGION?
    “…right…we give you a new name. You start out afresh.”
    He beckoned to another man.
    “Legionary…?”
    “Legionary…er…ugh…er…Size 15, sir.”
    “Right. Take this…man away and get him a…” he snapped his fingers irritably, “…you know…thing…clothes, everyone wears them…sand-colored—”
    UNIFORM?
    The corporal blinked. For some inexplicable reason the word “bone” kept elbowing its way into the melting, flowing mess that was his consciousness.
    “Right,” he said. “Er. It’s a twenty-year tour, Legionary. I hope you’re man enough for it.”
    I LIKE IT ALREADY, said Death.

    “I suppose it’s legal for me to go in licensed premises?” said Susan, as Ankh-Morpork appeared on the horizon.
    SQUEAK.
    The city slid under them again. Where there were wider streets and squares she could make out individual figures. Huh , she thought… if only they knew I was up here! And, despite everything, she couldn’t help feeling superior. All the people down there had to think about were, well, ground-level things. Mundane things. It was like looking down at ants.
    She’d always known she was different. Much more aware of the world, when it was obvious that most people went through it with their eyes shut and their brains set to “simmer.” It was comforting in a way to know that she was different. The feeling wrapped around her like an overcoat.
    Binky landed on a greasy jetty. On one side the river sucked at the wooden pilings.
    Susan slid off the horse, unshipped the scythe, and stepped inside the Mended Drum.
    There was a riot going on. The patrons of the Drum tended to be democratic in their approach to aggressiveness. They liked to see that everyone got some. So, although it was the consensus of the audience that the trio were lousy musicians, and, therefore, a suitable target, various fights had broken out because people had been hit by badly aimed missiles, or hadn’t had a fight all day, or were just trying to reach the door.
    Susan had no difficulty in spotting Imp y Celyn. He was at the front of the stage, his face a mask of terror. Behind him was a troll, with a dwarf trying to hide behind it.
    She glanced at the hourglass. Just a few more seconds…
    He was really rather attractive, in a dark, curly-headed sort of way. He looked a little elvish.
    And familiar .
    She’d felt sorry for Volf, but at least he was on a battlefield. Imp was on a stage. You didn’t expect to die on stage.
    I’m standing here with a scythe and an hourglass waiting for someone to die. He’s not much older than me and I’m not supposed to do anything about it. That’s silly. And I’m sure I’ve seen