Soul Music

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‑coloured–"

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 again.

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, curly­headed 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 him... before...

No‑one actually tried to kill musicians in the Drum. Axes were thrown and crossbows fired in a good­humoured, easy‑going way. No‑one really aimed, even if they were capable of doing so. It was more fun watching people dodge.

A big, red‑bearded man grinned at Lias, and selected a small throwing axe from his bandolier. It was OK to throw axes at trolls. They tended to bounce off.

Susan could see it all. It'd bounce off, and hit Imp. No‑one's fault, really. Worse things happened at sea. Worse things happened in Ankh‑Morpork all the time, often continuously.

The man doesn't even mean to kill him. It's so sloppy. That's not how things should go. Someone ought to do something about it.

She reached over to grab the axe handle.

SQUEAK!

" Shut up!"

Whaaauum.

Imp stood like a discus thrower as the chord filled across the noisy room.

It rang like an iron bar dropped on a library floor at midnight.

Echoes bounced back from the corners of the room. Each one bore its own load of harmonics.

It was an explosion of sound in the same way that a Hogswatchnight rocket explodes, each falling spark exploding again...

Imp's fingers caressed the strings, picking out three more chords. The axe‑thrower lowered his axe.