Soul Music

"Actually, it didn't feel magical," said the Dean. He sighed. He was seventy‑two. It had made him feel that he was seventeen again. He couldn't remember having been seventeen; it was something that must have happened to him while he was busy. But it made him feel like he imagined it felt like when you were seventeen, which was like having a permanent red‑hot vest on under your skin.

He wanted to hear it again.

"I think they're going to have it again tonight," he ventured. "We could, er, go along and listen. In order to learn more about it, in case it's a threat to society," he added virtuously.

"That's right, Dean," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. "It's our civic duty. We're the city's first line of supernatural defence. Supposing ghastly creatures started coming out of the air?"

"What about it?" said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.

"Well, we'd be there."

"Yes? That's good, is it?"

Ridcully glared at his wizards. Two of them were surreptitiously tapping their feet. And several of them appeared to be twitching, very gently. The Bursar twitched gently all the time, of course, but that was only his way.

Like canaries, he thought. Or lightning conductors.

"All right," he said reluctantly. "We'll go. But we won't draw attention to ourselves."

"Certainly, Archchancellor."

"And everyone's to buy their own drink."

"Oh."

Corporal (possibly) Cotton saluted in front of the fort's sergeant, who was trying to shave.

"It's the new recruit, sir," he said. " He won't obey orders."

The sergeant nodded, and then looked blankly at something in his own hand.

"Razor, sir," said the corporal helpfully. "He just keeps on saying things like IT'S NOT HAPPENING YET." 'Have you tried burying him up to the neck in the sand? That usually works."

"It's a bit… um… thing… nasty to people… had it a moment ago…" The corporal snapped his fingers. "Thing. Cruel. That's it. We don't give people… the Pit… these days."

"This is the…" the sergeant glanced at the palm of his left hand, where there were several lines of writing, "the Foreign Legion."

"Yessir. All right, sir. He's weird. He just sits there all the time. We call him Beau Nidle, sir."

The sergeant peered bemusedly at the mirror.

"It's your face, sir," said the corporal.

Susan stared at herself critically.

Susan… it wasn't a good name, was it? It wasn't a truly bad name, it wasn't like poor Iodine in the fourth form, or Nigella, a name which means 'oops, we wanted a boy'. But it was dull. Susan. Sue. Good old Sue. It was a name that made sandwiches, kept its head in difficult circumstances and could reliably look after other people's children.

It was a name used by no queens or goddesses anywhere.

And you couldn't do much even with the spelling. You could turn it into Suzi, and it sounded as though you danced on tables for a living. You could put in a Z and a couple of Ns and an E, but it still looked like a name with extensions built on. It was as bad as Sara, a name that cried out for a prosthetic H.

Well, at least she could do something about the way she looked.

It was the robe. It might be traditional but… she wasn't. The alternative was her school uniform or one of her mother's pink creations. The baggy dress of the Quirm College for Young Ladies was a proud one and, in the mind of Miss Butts at least, proof against all the temptations of the flesh… but it lacked a certain panache as costume for the Ultimate Reality. And pink was not even to be thought of.

For the first time in the history of the universe, a Death wondered about what to wear.

"Hold on," she said, to her reflection. "Here… I can create things, can't I?"

She held out her hand and thought: cup. A cup appeared. It had a skull‑and‑bones pattern around the rim.

"Ah," said Susan. "I suppose a pattern of roses is out of the question? Probably not right for the ambience, I expect."

She put the cup on the dressing table and tapped it. It went plink in a solid sort of way.

"Well, then," she said, "I don't want something soppy and posey. No silly black lace or anything worn by idiots who write poetry in their rooms and dress like vampires and are vegetarians really."

The images of clothes floated across her reflection. It was clear that black was the only option, but she settled on something practical and without frills. She put her head on one side critically.

"Well, maybe a bit of lace," she said. "And perhaps a bit more… bodice."

She nodded at her reflection in the mirror. Certainly it was a dress that no Susan would ever wear, although she suspected that there was a basic Susanness about her which would permeate it after a while.

"It's a good job you're here," she said, "or I'd go totally mad. Haha."

Then she went to see her grandf… Death.

There was one place he had to be.

Glod wandered quietly into the University Library. Dwarfs respected learning, provided they didn't have to experience it.

He tugged at the robe of a passing young wizard.