Discworld 16 - Soul Music

by Terry Pratchett

  “One hundred and seven years, eh?” he cackled. “I expect I had you worried for a while there. Where are you?”

  “Er, HERE,” said Susan.

  “Female, eh?” said the old man. “Well, well, well.”

  He slid off the bed, spectral nightshirt flapping, and was suddenly pulled up short as though he’d reached the end of a chain. This was more or less the case; a thin line of blue light still tethered him to his late habitation.

  The Death of Rats jumped up and down on the pillow, making urgent slashing movements with its scythe.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Susan, and sliced. The blue line snapped with a high-pitched, crystalline twang.

  Around them, sometimes walking through them, were the mourners. Mourning seemed to have stopped now the old man had died. The pinch-faced man was feeling under the mattress.

  “Look at ’em,” said the old man nastily, “Poor ole granddad, sob sob, sorely missed, we won’t see his like again, where did the ole bugger leave his will? That’s my youngest son, that is. Well, if you can call a card every Hogswatchnight a son. See his wife? Got a smile like a wave on a slop bucket. And she ain’t the worst of ’em. Relatives? You can keep ’em. I only stayed alive out of mischief.”

  A couple of people were exploring under the bed. There was a humorous porcelain clang. The old man capered behind them, making gestures.

  “Not a chance!” he chortled. “Heh heh! It’s in the cat basket! I left all me money to the cat!”

  Susan looked around. The cat was watching them anxiously from behind the washstand.

  Susan felt some response was called for.

  “That was very…kind of you…” she said.

  “Hah! Mangy thing! Thirteen years of sleepin’ and crappin’ and waiting for the next meal to turn up? Never took half an hour’s exercise in his big fat life. Up until they find the will, anyway. Then he’s going to be the richest, fastest cat in the world—”

  The voice faded. So did its owner.

  “What a dreadful old man,” said Susan.

  She looked down at the Death of Rats, who was trying to make faces at the cat.

  “What’ll happen to him?”

  SQUEAK.

  “Oh.” Behind them, a former mourner tipped a drawer out onto the floor. The cat was beginning to tremble.

  Susan stepped out through the wall.

  Clouds curled behind Binky like a wake.

  “Well, that wasn’t too bad. I mean, no blood or anything. And he was very old and not very nice.”

  “That’s all right, then, is it?”

  The raven landed on her shoulder.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “Rat Death here said I could have a lift. I’ve got an appointment.”

  SQUEAK.

  The Death of Rats poked its nose out of the saddlebag.

  “Are we a cab service?” said Susan coldly.

  The rat shrugged and pushed a lifetimer into her hand.

  Susan read the name etched on the glass.

  “Volf Volfssonssonssonsson? Sounds a bit Hublandish to me.”

  SQUEAK.

  The Death of Rats clambered up Binky’s mane and took up station between the horse’s ears, tiny robe flapping in the wind.

  Binky cantered low over a battlefield. It wasn’t a major war, just an intertribal scuffle. Nor were there any obvious armies—the fighters seemed to be two groups of individuals, some on horseback, who happened coincidentally to be on the same side. Everyone was dressed in the same sort of furs and exciting leatherwear, and Susan was at a loss to know how they told friend from foe. People just seemed to shout a lot and swing huge swords and battle axes at random. On the other hand, anyone you managed to hit instantly became your foe, so it probably all came out right in the long run. The point was that people were dying and acts of incredibly stupid heroism were being performed.

  SQUEAK.

  The Death of Rats pointed urgently downward.

  “Gee…down.”

  Binky settled on a small hillock.

  “Er…right,” said Susan. She pulled the scythe out of its holster. The blade sprang into life.

  It wasn’t hard to spot the souls of the dead. They were coming off the battlefield arm in arm, friend and hitherto foe alike, laughing and stumbling, straight toward her.

  Susan dismounted. And concentrated.

  “ER,” she said, “ANYONE HERE BEEN KILLED AND CALLED VOLF?”

  Behind her, the Death of Rats put its head in its paws.

  “ER. HELLO?”

  No one took any notice. The warriors trooped past. They were forming a line on the edge of the battlefield, and appeared to be waiting for something.

  She didn’t have to…do…all of them. Albert had tried to explain, but a memory had unfolded anyway. She just had to do some, determined by timing or historical importance, and that meant all the others happened; all she had to do was keep the momentum going.

  “You got to be more assertive,” said the raven, who had alighted on a rock. “That’s the trouble with women in the professions. Not assertive enough.”

  “Why’d you want to come here?” she said.

  “This is a battlefield, isn’t it,” said the raven patiently. “You’ve got to have ravens afterward.” Its freewheeling eyes swiveled in its head. “Carrion regardless, as you might say.”

  “You mean everyone gets eaten?”

  “Part of the miracle of nature,” said the raven.

  “That’s horrible,” said Susan. Black birds were already circling in the sky.

  “Not really,” said the raven. “Horses for courses, you might say.”

  One side, if that’s what you could call it, was fleeing the field of battle with the others in pursuit.

  The birds started to settle on what was, Susan realized with horror, an early breakfast. Soft bits, sunny-side up.

  “You’d better go and look for your lad,” said the raven. “Otherwise he’ll miss his ride.”

  “What ride?”

  The eyes orbited again.

  “You ever learn mythology?” it said.

  “No. Miss Butts says it’s just made-up stories with little literary content.”

  “Ah. Deary me. Can’t have that, can we. Oh, well. You’ll soon see. Must rush.” The raven leapt into the air. “I generally try to get a seat near the head.”

  “What will I—?”

  And then someone started to sing. The voice swooped out of the sky like a sudden wind. It was a rather good mezzo-soprano—

  “Hohotojo! Hotojoho!”

  And after it, mounted on a horse almost as fine as Binky, was a woman. Very definitely. A lot of woman. She was as much woman as you could get in one place without getting two women. She was dressed in chain mail, a shiny 46 D-cup breastplate, and a helmet with horns on it.

  The assembled dead cheered as the horse cantered in for a landing. There were six other singing horsewomen plunging out of the sky behind it.

  “Isn’t it always the same,” said the raven, flapping away. “You can wait hours without seeing one and then you get seven all at once.”

  Susan watched in astonishment as each rider picked up a dead warrior and galloped up into the sky again. They disappeared abruptly a few hundred meters up and reappeared again almost instantly for a fresh passenger. Soon there was a busy shuttle service operating.

  After a minute or two one of the women trotted her horse over to Susan, and pulled a scroll of parchment out of her breastplate.

  “What ho! Says here Volf,” she said, in the brisk voice used by people on horseback when addressing mere pedestrians. “Volf the Lucky…?”

  “Er. I don’t know—I MEAN, I DON’T KNOW WHICH ONE HE IS,” said Susan helplessly.

  The helmeted woman leaned forward. There was something rather familiar about her.

  “Are you new?”

  “Yes. I mean, YES.”

  “Well, don’t stand there like a big girl’s blouse. Jolly well go and fetch him, t
here’s a good sport.”

  Susan looked around wildly, and saw him at last. He wasn’t very far away. A youngish man, outlined in flickering pale blue, was visible among the fallen.

  Susan hurried over, scythe at the ready. There was a blue line connecting the warrior to his former body.

  SQUEAK! shouted the Death of Rats, jumping up and down and making suggestive motions.

  “Left hand thumb up, right hand bent at the wrist, give it some wellie!” shouted the horned woman.

  Susan swung the scythe. The line snapped.

  “What happened?” said Volf. He looked down. “That’s me down there, isn’t it?” he said. He turned slowly. “And down there. And over there. And…”

  He looked at the horned female warrior and brightened up.

  “By Io!” he said. “It’s true? Valkyries will carry me off to the hall of Blind Io where there is perpetual feasting and drinking?”

  “Don’t, I mean DON’T ASK ME,” said Susan.

  The Valkyrie reached down and hauled the warrior across her saddle.

  “Just keep quiet, there’s a good chap,” she said. She stared thoughtfully at Susan.

  “Are you a soprano?” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Can you sing at all, gel? Only we could do with another soprano. Far too many mezzo-sopranos around these days.”

  “I’m not very musical, I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, well. Just a thought. Must be going.” She threw back her head. The mighty breastplate heaved. “Hohotojo!”

  The horse reared, and galloped into the sky. Before it reached the clouds it shrank to a gleaming pinpoint, which winked.

  “What,” said Susan, “was all that about?”

  There was a flurry of wings. The raven alighted on the head of the recently departed Volf.

  “Well, these guys believe that if you die in battle, some big fat singing horned women carry you off to a sort of giant feast hall where you gobble yourself silly for the rest of eternity,” said the raven. It belched genteeley. “Damn stupid idea, really.”

  “But it just happened!”

  “Still a daft idea.” The raven looked around at the stricken battlefield, empty now except for the fallen and the flocks of his fellow ravens. “What a waste,” he added. “I mean, just look at it all. Such a terrible waste.”

  “Yes!”

  “I mean, I’m near bursting and there’s hundreds of ’em untouched. I think I’ll see if I can have a doggie bag.”

  “They’re dead bodies!”

  “Right!”

  “What are you eating?”

  “It’s all right,” said the raven, backing away. “There’s enough for everyone.”

  “That’s disgusting!”

  “I didn’t kill ’em,” it said.

  Susan gave up.

  “She looked a lot like Iron Lily,” she said, as they walked back to the patient horse. “Our gym mistress. Sounded like her, too.” She imagined the warbling Valkyries pounding across the sky. Get some warrior, you bunch of fainting blossoms…

  “Convergent evolution,” said the raven. “Often happens. I read once where apparently the common octopus has an eye almost exactly the same as the human eyeb—caw!”

  “You were going to say something like: except for the taste, weren’t you,” said Susan.

  “Negger grossed by bind,” said the raven indistinctly.

  “Sure?”

  “Leg go ogg by beak glease?”

  Susan released her grip.

  “This is dreadful,” she said. “This is what he used to do? There’s no element of choice?”

  SQUEAK.

  “But what if they don’t deserve to die?”

  SQUEAK.

  The Death of Rats contrived to indicate, quite effectively, that in that case they could apply to the universe and point out that they didn’t deserve to die. In which case it was up to the universe to say, oh, didn’t you? oh, well, that’s all right then, you can go on living. It was a remarkably succinct gesture.

  “So…my grandfather was Death, and he just let nature take its course? When he could have done some good? That’s stupid.”

  The Death of Rats shook its skull.

  “I mean, was Volf on the right side?” said Susan.

  “Hard to say,” said the raven. “He was a Vasung. The other side were Bergunds. Apparently it all started with a Bergund carrying off a Vasung woman a few hundred years ago. Or it may have been the other way round. Well, the other side invaded their village. There was a bit of a massacre. And then the other ones went to the other village and there was another massacre. After that, you might say, there was some residual bad feeling.”

  “Very well, then,” said Susan. “Who’s next?”

  SQUEAK.

  The Death of Rats landed on the saddle. It leaned down and, with some effort, hauled another hourglass out of the pack. Susan read the label.

  It said: Imp y Celyn.

  Susan had a sensation of falling backward.

  “I know this name,” she said.

  SQUEAK.

  “I…remember it from somewhere,” said Susan. “It’s important. He’s…important…”

  The moon hung over the desert of Klatch like a huge ball of rock.

  It wasn’t much of a desert to be graced by so impressive a moon.

  It was just part of the belt of deserts, growing progressively hotter and dryer, that surrounded the Great Nef and the Dehydrated Ocean. And no one would have thought much about it if people very like Mr. Clete of the Musicians’ Guild hadn’t come along and made maps and put across this part of the desert an innocent little dotted line that marked a border between Klatch and Hersheba.

  Up until that time the D’regs, a collection of cheerfully warlike nomadic tribes, had roamed the desert quite freely. Now there was a line, they were sometimes Klatchian D’regs and sometimes Hershebian D’regs, with all the rights due to citizens of both states, particularly the right to pay just as much tax as could be squeezed out of them and be drafted in to fight wars against people they’d never heard of. So as a result of the dotted line Klatch was now incipiently at war with Hersheba and the D’regs, Hersheba was at war with the D’regs and Klatch, and the D’regs were at war with everyone, including one another, and having considerable fun because the D’reg word for “stranger” was the same as for “target.”

  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.