Soul Music - Terry Pratchett [36]
The fort was one of the legacies of the dotted line.
Now it was a dark rectangle on the hot silver sands. From it came what could very accurately be called the strains of an accordion, since someone seemed to want to play a tune but kept on running into difficulties after a few bars, and starting again.
Someone knocked on the door.
After a while there was a scraping on the other side and a small hatch opened.
“Yes, offendi?”
IS THIS THE KLATCHIAN FOREIGN LEGION?
The face of the little man on the other side of the door went blank.
“Ah,” he said, “you’ve got me there. Hang on a moment.” The hatch shut. There was a whispered discussion on the other side of the door. The hatch opened.
“Yes, it appears we are the…the…what was that 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