Soul Music (11 page)

‘That's right. And so are you. So I should get started, if I was you. The rat'll help. He mainly does rats, but the principle's the same.'

Susan sat with her mouth open.

‘I'm going outside,' she snapped.

‘I ain't stopping you.'

Susan stormed out through the back door, across the enormous expanses of the outer room, past the grindstone in the yard, and into the garden.

‘Huh,' she said.

If someone had told Susan that Death had a house, she would have called them mad or, even worse, stupid. But if she'd had to imagine one, she'd have drawn, in sensible black crayon, some towering, battlemented, Gothic mansion. It would loom, and involve other words ending in ‘oom', like gloom and doom. There would have been thousands of windows. She'd fill odd corners of the sky with bats. It would be impressive.

It wouldn't be a cottage. It wouldn't have a rather tasteless garden. It wouldn't have a mat in front of the door with ‘Welcome' on it.

Susan had invincible walls of common sense. They were beginning to melt like salt in a wet wind, and that made her
angry
.

There was Grandfather Lezek, of course, on his little farm so poor that even the sparrows had to kneel down to eat. He'd been a nice old chap, so far as she could recall; a bit sheepish, now she came to think about it, especially when her father was around.

Her mother had told Susan that her own father had been . . .

Now she came to think about
that
, she wasn't sure what her mother had told her. Parents were quite clever at not telling people things, even when they used a lot of words. She'd just been left with the impression that he wasn't around.

Now it was being suggested that he was renowned for being around all the time.

It was like having a relative in trade.

A god, now . . . a god would be something. Lady Odile Flume, in the fifth form, was always boasting that her great-great-grandmother had once been seduced by the god Blind Io in the form of a vase of daisies, which apparently made her a demi-hemi-semi-goddess. She said her mother found it useful to get a table in restaurants. Saying you were a close relative of Death probably would not have the same effect. You probably wouldn't even manage a seat near the kitchen.

If it was all some kind of dream, she didn't seem at any risk of waking up. Anyway, she didn't believe that kind of thing. Dreams weren't like this.

A path led from the stable-yard past a vegetable garden and, descending slightly, into an orchard of black-leaved trees. Glossy black apples hung from them. Off to one side were some white beehives.

And she knew she'd seen it all before.

There was an apple tree that was quite, quite different from the others.

She stood and stared at it as memory flooded back.

She remembered being just old enough to see how logically stupid the whole idea was, and he'd been standing there, anxiously waiting to see what she'd do . . .

Old certainties drained away, to be replaced by new certainties.

Now she
understood
whose granddaughter she was.

The Mended Drum had traditionally gone in for, well, traditional pub games, such as dominoes, darts and Stabbing People In The Back And Taking All Their Money. The new owner had decided to go up-market. This was the only available direction.

There had been the Quizzing Device, a three-ton water-driven monstrosity based on a recently discovered design by Leonard of Quirm. It had been a bad idea. Captain Carrot of the Watch, who had a mind like a needle under his open smiling face, had surreptitiously substituted a new roll of questions like:
Were you nere Vortin's Diamond Warehouse on the Nite of the 15th?
and:
Who was the Third Man Who did the Blagging At Bearhugger's Distillery Larst week?
and had arrested three customers before they caught on.

The owner had promised another machine any day now. The Librarian, one of the tavern's regulars, had been collecting pennies in readiness.

There was a small stage at one end of the bar. The owner had tried a lunch-time stripper, but only once. At the sight of a large orang-utan in the front row with a big innocent grin, a big bag of penny pieces and a big banana the poor girl had fled. Yet another entertainment Guild had blacklisted the Drum.

The new owner's name was Hibiscus Dunelm. It wasn't his fault. He really wanted to make the Drum, he said, a fun place. For two pins he'd have put stripy umbrellas outside.

He looked down at Glod.

‘Just three of you?' he said.

‘Yes.'

‘When I agreed to five dollars, you said you had a big band.'

‘Say hello, Lias.'

‘My word, that
is
a big band.' Dunelm backed away. ‘I thought,' he said, ‘just a few numbers that everyone knows? Just to provide some ambience.'

‘Ambience,' said Imp, looking around the Drum. He was familiar with the word. But, in a place like this, it was all lost and alone. There were only three or four customers in at this early hour of the evening. They weren't paying any attention to the stage.

The wall behind the stage had clearly seen action. He stared at it as Lias patiently stacked up his stones.

‘Oh, just a bit of fruit and old eggs,' said Glod. ‘People probably get a bit boisterous. I shouldn't worry about that.'

‘I'm not worried about it,' said Imp.

‘I should think not.'

‘It's the axe marks and arrow holles I'm worried about. Gllod, we haven't even practised! Not properlly!'

‘You can play your guitar, can't you?'

‘Wellll, yes, I suppose . . .'

He'd tried it out. It
was
easy to play. In fact, it was almost impossible to play badly. It didn't seem to matter how he touched the strings – they still rang out the tune he had in mind. It was, in solid form, the kind of instrument you dream about when you first start to play – the one you can play without learning. He remembered when he'd first picked up a harp and struck the strings, confidently expecting the kind of lambent tones the old men coaxed from them. He'd got a discord instead. But this was the instrument he'd dreamed of . . .

‘We'll stick to numbers everyone knows,' said the dwarf. ‘“The Wizard's Staff” and “Gathering Rhubarb”. Stuff like that. People like songs they can snigger along to.'

Imp looked down at the bar. It was filling up a bit now. But his attention was drawn to a large orang-utan, which had pulled up its chair right in front of the stage and was holding a bag of fruit.

‘Gllod, there's an ape watching us.'

‘Well?' said Glod, unfolding a string bag.

‘It's an
ape
.'

‘This is Ankh-Morpork. That's how things are here.' Glod removed his helmet and unfolded something from inside.

‘Why've you got a string bag?' said Imp.

‘Fruit's fruit. Waste not, want not. If they throw eggs, try to catch them.'

Imp slung the guitar's strap over his shoulder. He'd tried to tell the dwarf, but what could he say: this is too easy to play?

He hoped there was a god of musicians.

And there is. There are many, one for almost every type of music.
Almost
every type. But the only one due to watch over Imp that night was Reg, god of club musicians, who couldn't pay much attention because he'd also got three other gigs to do.

‘We ready?' said Lias, picking his hammers.

The others nodded.

‘Let's give 'em “The Wizard's Staff”, then,' said Glod. ‘That always breaks the ice.'

‘OK,' said the troll. He counted on his fingers. ‘One, two . . . one, two, many,
lots
.'

The first apple was thrown seven seconds later. It was caught by Glod, who didn't miss a note. But the first banana curved viciously and grounded in his ear.

‘Keep playing!' he hissed.

Imp obeyed, ducking a fusillade of oranges.

In the front row, the ape opened his bag and produced a very large melon.

‘Can you see any pears?' said Glod, taking a breath. ‘I like pears.'

‘I can see a man with a throwing axe!'

‘Does it look valuable?'

An arrow vibrated in the wall by Lias's head.

It was three in the morning. Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs were reaching the conclusion that anyone who intended to invade Ankh-Morpork probably wasn't going to do so now. And there was a good fire back in the watch house.

‘We could leave a note,' said Nobby, blowing on his fingers. ‘You know? Come back tomorrow, sort of thing?'

He looked up. A solitary horse was walking under the gate arch. A white horse, with a sombre, black-clad rider.

There was no question of ‘Halt, who goes there?' The night watch walked the streets at strange hours and had become accustomed to seeing things not generally seen by mortal men.

Sergeant Colon touched his helmet respectfully.

‘'Evenin', your lordship,' he said.

‘
ER . . . GOOD EVENING.
'

The guards watched the horse walk out of sight.

‘Some poor bugger's in for it, then,' said Sergeant Colon.

‘He's dedicated, you got to admit it,' said Nobby. ‘Out at all hours. Always got time for people.'

‘Yeah.'

The guards stared into the velvety dark. Something not quite right, thought Sergeant Colon.

‘What's his first name?' said Nobby.

They stared some more. Then Sergeant Colon, who still hadn't quite been able to put his finger on it, said: ‘What do you mean, what's his first name?'

‘What's his first name?'

‘He's Death,' said the sergeant. ‘
Death
. That's his whole name. I mean . . . what do you mean? . . . You mean like . . .
Keith
Death?'

‘Well, why not?'

‘He's just Death, isn't he?'

‘No, that's just his
job
. What do his friends call him?'

‘What do you mean,
friends
?'

‘All right. Please yourself.'

‘Let's go and get a hot rum.'

‘I think he looks like a Leonard.'

Sergeant Colon remembered the voice. That was it. Just for a moment there . . .

‘I must be getting old,' he said. ‘For a moment there I thought he sounded like a Susan.'

‘I think they saw me,' whispered Susan, as the horse rounded a corner.

The Death of Rats poked its head out of her pocket.

‘I think we're going to need that raven,' said Susan. ‘I mean, I . . . think I understand you, I just don't know what you're saying . . .'

Binky stopped outside a large house, set back a little from the road. It was a slightly pretentious residence with more gables and mullions than it should rightly have, and this was a clue to its origins: it was the kind of house built for himself by a rich merchant when he goes respectable and needs to do something with the loot.

‘I'm not happy about this,' said Susan. ‘It can't possibly
work
. I'm human. I have to go to the toilet and things like that. I can't just walk into people's houses and kill them!'

‘All right, not kill. But it's not good manners, however you look at it.'

A sign on the door said: Tradesmen to rear entrance.

‘Do I count as—'

SQUEAK
!

Susan normally would never have dreamed of asking. She'd always seen herself as a person who went through the front doors of life.

The Death of Rats scuttled up the path and
through
the door.

‘Hang on!
I
can't—'

Susan looked at the wood. She
could
. Of course she could. More memories crystallized in front of her eyes. After all, it was only wood. It'd rot in a few hundred years. By the measure of infinity, it hardly existed at all. On average, considered over the lifetime of the multiverse, most things didn't.

She stepped forward. The heavy oak door offered as much resistance as a shadow.

Grieving relatives were clustered around the bed where, almost lost in the pillows, was a wrinkled old man. At the foot of the bed, paying no attention whatsoever to the keening around it, was a large, very fat, ginger cat.

Susan looked at the hourglass. The last few grains tumbled through the pinch.

The Death of Rats, with exaggerated caution, sneaked up behind the sleeping cat and kicked it hard. The animal awoke, turned, flattened its ears in terror, and leapt off the quilt.

The Death of Rats sniggered.

One of the mourners, a pinch-faced man, looked up. He peered at the sleeper.

‘That's it,' he said. ‘He's gone.'

‘I thought we were going to be here all day,' said the woman next to him, standing up. ‘Did you see that wretched old cat move? Animals can tell, you know. They've got this sixth sense.'

‘Well, come on there, I know you're here somewhere,' said the corpse. It sat up.

Susan was familiar with the idea of ghosts. But she hadn't expected it to be like this. She hadn't expected the ghosts to be the living, but they were merely pale sketches in the air compared to the old man sitting up in bed. He looked solid enough, but a blue glow outlined him.

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