Garth Nix - Sir Thursday

“I’ll be back,” Arthur said fiercely. “As myself, not as a Denizen. If I have to find Part Four of the Will myself and get the Fourth Key from Sir Thursday, I’ll do it. And I expect everyone here to help Leaf however they can, particularly if… when… she gets back with the pocket.”

“Ah, Lord Arthur,” Dr Scamandros said nervously, with a sideways glance at Dame Primus. “ Expect is such a… shall we say… inexact word—”

“Here is the recruiting officer!” interrupted Dame Primus. “Welcome to Monday’s Dayroom, Lieutenant.”

The officer in question stood at attention just inside the door and snapped a salute. To Arthur he looked like someone out of a history book. He wore a scarlet tunic with white lapels and white facings laden with many gold buttons. His legs were covered by black trousers with a broad gold stripe down each leg, his feet by black boots with spurs and he was made at least a foot taller by a towering black fur hat with blue and white plumes. He also had a hand-sized crescent of bronze hanging around his neck, which was engraved with curlicues and numbers.

He looked round the room and saw Dame Primus, clearly the tallest and most important Denizen in the room.

“I do beg your pardon, ma’am,” said the Lieutenant. “Crosshaw is my name, recruiting officer. I have a draft requisition for one Arthur Penhaligon, only I think there must be a mistake, as it gives this Arthur a precedence within the House of… well… six. I thought perhaps there might be a large number of zeros missing… Perhaps if there is someone among Mister Monday’s staff called Arthur Penhaligon, I might test the draft document?”

“There is no mistake,” said Dame Primus. She indicated Arthur with a lofty wave of her hand. “The person in question is Lord Arthur Penhaligon, Master of the Lower House, Lord of the Far Reaches, Duke of the Border Sea, sixth in precedence within the House. I am Dame Primus, Parts One, Two and Three of the Will of the Architect.”

Crosshaw gulped loudly, opened his mouth, shut it again, then looked at the papers in his hand. He seemed to find strength there, for he looked straight at Arthur and marched over, coming to a heel-stamping stop right in front of him.

“I do beg your, pardon, ah… Lord Arthur. Having been at a remote outpost in the Great Maze up until yesterday when I assumed my new duties, I did not know that there had been changes, um, among the Trustees. The thing is… I don’t quite know how to put it… As far as I know, if your name’s on the draft form then you’ve been drafted. I have to give it to you.”

The lieutenant held out a large square of parchment, which had a lot of small type with Arthur’s name written clearly in a space in the middle.

“What happens if I don’t take it?” Arthur asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” said Crosshaw. “If you do take it, I escort you via elevator to the Great Maze, to the Recruit Camp. If you don’t take it, I think the powers within the draft form take you to the Recruit Camp anyway, by more… unpleasant means.”

“If I might glance at the document?” asked Dr Scamandros, who had moved to stand at Arthur’s shoulder. He set his crystal-lensed glasses on his forehead, not on his eyes, and peered at the document. “Ah, yes, here we are. Most interesting. If you do not go willingly, Arthur, then you will be transformed into a shape, generally a small package of brown paper tied up with string, able to pass through the House’s postal system… which given the problems still current in the Lower House would not be an… ah… efficient means of travel.”

“OK, I’ll take it,” said Arthur. He reached out and took the paper then cried out in horror as it wrapped itself around his hand and started to shrug itself up his arm like a horrid slug consuming his flesh – though it didn’t hurt.

“Don’t be alarmed!” cried Crosshaw. “It’s just turning into a recruit uniform!”

Arthur looked away and tried to relax. The paper continued to move over him, rustling and billowing. When he looked down, his clothes had been transformed into a simple blue tunic with black buttons, blue breeches and short black boots. A white canvas belt with a brass buckle carried a white ammunition pouch and an empty bayonet loop (known as a frog) on his hip.

But the draft notice wasn’t entirely finished. Arthur flinched as he felt it come out from under his tunic and swarm up the back of his neck. It climbed on to his head and transformed itself into a blue pillbox hat, with a tight and uncomfortable chin strap that buckled on under Arthur’s lip instead of under his chin.

“Very good, recruit,” said Crosshaw. He was no longer nervous, and Arthur felt immediately smaller and more insignificant. “Follow me.”

The lieutenant saluted Dame Primus then spun on his heel and took a step towards the door.

“Hang on!” said Suzy. “I’m coming too!”

Crosshaw turned in surprise. “I beg your pardon!”

“I’m volunteering,” said Suzy. “I want to go along with Arthur.”

“We don’t take volunteers,” said Crosshaw. “Never know who we might get.”

“But I think I might have served before – I’m probably in some kind of Reserve.”

“We’re not calling up reservists either,” Crosshaw sniffed. “Particularly Piper’s children who’ve had everything they ever knew washed out from between their ears.”

“I’ve got a piece of paper somewhere,” said Suzy as she rummaged through her pockets.

“I can’t help you, miss,” Crosshaw dismissed her with finality. “Come along, Recruit Penhaligon. Hold yourself a bit straighter. What’s that on your leg?”

“Crab-armour,” said Arthur. Unlike the rest of his clothes, the crab-armour had remained, his new blue breeches forming under it. “For a broken leg.”

“As prescribed by me,” said Dr Scamandros. “Dr Scamandros, at your service. Major Scamandros, Army Sorcerer, retired. I did my draft service about three thousand years ago, before going on to advanced study in the Upper House.”

“Very good, sir,” said Crosshaw with another snappy salute. “If it’s a prescribed medical necessity, it can remain.”

“Lord Arthur is a mortal,” added Scamandros. He got out a small notepad and hastily scrawled something on it with a peacock-feather quill that dripped silver ink. “He needs the crab-armour and the ring on his finger for medical reasons. He should be given special consideration.”

Crosshaw took the proffered note, folded it and tucked it under his cuff.

“I’m still coming along,” said Suzy.

“No room for you in our elevator,” snapped Crosshaw. “I suppose there’s nothing to stop you petitioning Sir Thursday to re-enlist, if you actually are a reservist. Not something I’d do. But there’s nothing to stop you. Come along, Recruit Penhaligon. By the left, quick march!”

Crosshaw led off with his left foot, boot-heels crashing on the marble floor as he marched towards the door. Arthur followed, doing his best to imitate the lieutenant’s marching style and keep in step.

He felt suddenly incredibly alone, abandoned by everyone and extremely uncertain about what the future held.

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