Soul Music

out except the last one, which was: 19.
    One of the books was Gardening In Difficult Conditions .
    She went back down to the study. She’d known that there was no one in the house. There was a dead feeling in the air.
    There was the same feeling in the gardens. Death could create most things, except for plumbing. But he couldn’t create life itself. That had to be added, like yeast in bread. Without it, everything was beautifully neat and tidy and boring, boring, boring.
    This is what it must have been like , she thought. And then, one day, he adopted my mother. He was curious .
    She took the path through to the orchard again.
    And when I was born mum and dad were so afraid that I felt at home here they brought me up to be…well…a Susan. What kind of name is that for Death’s granddaughter? A girl like that should have better cheekbones, straight hair, and a name with Vs and Xs in it .
    And there, once again, was the thing he’d made for her. All by himself. Working it all out from first principles…
    A swing. A simple swing.

    It was already burning hot in the desert between Klatch and Hersheba.
    The air shimmied, and then there was a pop. Albert appeared on a sand dune. There was a claybrick fort on the horizon.
    “The Klatchian Foreign Legion,” he muttered, as sand began its inexorable progress into his boots.
    Albert trudged toward it with the Death of Rats sitting on his shoulder.
    He knocked on the door, which had a number of arrows in it. After a while a small hatch slid back.
    “What do you want, offendi?” said a voice from somewhere behind it.
    Albert held up a card.
    “Have you seen someone who didn’t look like this?” he demanded.
    There was silence.
    “Then let’s say: have you seen some mysterious stranger who didn’t talk about his past?” said Albert.
    “This is the Klatchian Foreign Legion, offendi. People don’t talk about their past. They join up to…to…”
    It dawned on Albert as the pause lengthened that it was up to him to get the conversation going again.
    “Forget?”
    “Right. Forget. Yes.”
    “So have you have had any recent recruits who were a little, shall we say, odd?”
    “Might have done,” said the voice slowly. “Can’t remember.”
    The hatchway slammed shut.
    Albert hammered on it again. The hatchway opened.
    “Yes, what is it?”
    “Are you sure you can’t remember?”
    “Remember what?”
    Albert took a deep breath.
    “I demand to see your commanding officer!”
    The hatch shut. The hatch opened.
    “Sorry. It appears that I am my commanding officer. You’re not a D’reg or a Hershebian, are you?”
    “Don’t you know?”
    “I’m…pretty sure I must have done. Once. You know how it is…head like…thing, you know…With holes in…You drain lettuce in it…er…”
    There was the sound of bolts being pulled back, and a wicket door opened in the gateway.
    The possible officer was a sergeant, insofar as Albert was at all familiar with Klatchian ranks. He had the look about him of someone who, among the things he couldn’t remember, would include a good night’s sleep. If he could remember to.
    There were a few other Klatchian soldiers inside the fort, sitting or, just barely, standing. Many were bandaged. And there was a rather greater number of soldiers slumped or lying on the packed sand who’d never need a night’s sleep ever again.
    “What’s been happening here?” said Albert. His tone was so authoritative that the sergeant found himself saluting.
    “We were attacked by D’regs, sir,” he said, swaying slightly. “Hundreds of them! They outnumbered us…er…what’s the number after nine? Got a one in it.”
    “Ten.”
    “Ten to one, sir.”
    “I see you survived, though,” said Albert.
    “Ah,” said the sergeant. “Yes. Er. Yes. That’s where it all gets a bit complicated, in fact. Er. Corporal? That’s you. No, you just next to him. The one with the two stripes?”
    “Me?” said a small fat soldier.
    “Yes. Tell him what happened.”
    “Oh. Right. Er. Well, the bastards had shot us full of arrows, right? An’ it looked like it was all up with us. Then someone suggested sticking bodies up on the battlements with their spears and crossbows and everything so’s the bastards’d think we was still up to strength—”
    “It’s not an original idea, mind you,” said the sergeant. “Been done dozens of times.”
    “Yeah,” said the corporal awkwardly. “That’s what they must’ve thought. And