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“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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