Reaper Man (Discworld #11)

Reaper Man (Discworld #11) Page 3

The Archchancellor opened a window on to the night.

"Listen," he said.

The wizards listened.

A dog barked. Somewhere a thief whistled, and was from a neighbouring rooftop. In the distance people were having the kind of quarrel that caused inhabitants of the surrounding streets to open their windows and listen in and make notes. But these were by major themes against the continuous hum and buzz of the city. Ankh-Morpork purred through the night, en route for the dawn, like a huge living creature although, of course, this was only a metaphor.

"Well?" said the Senior Wrangler. "I can't hear anything special."

"That's what I mean. Dozens of people die in Ankh-Morpork every day. If they'd all started coming back like poor old Windle, don't you think we'd know about it? The place'd be in uproar. More uproar than usual, I mean."

"There's always a few undead around," said the Dean, doubtfully. "Vampires and zombies and banshees and so on."

"Yes, but they're more naturally undead," said the Archchancellor. "They know how to carry it off. They're born to it."

"You can't be born to be undead," the Senior Wrangler pointed out.

"I mean it's traditional," the Archchancellor snapped. "There were some very respectable vampires where I grew up. They'd been in their family for centuries."

"Yes, but they drink blood," said the Senior Wrangler. "That doesn't sound very respectable to me."

"I read where they don't actually need the actual blood," said the Dean, anxious to assist. "They just need something that's in blood. Hemogoblins, I think it's called."

The other wizards looked at him.

The Dean shrugged. "Search me," he said. "Hemo-goblins. That's what it said. It's all to do with people having iron in their blood."

"I'm damn sure I've got no iron goblins in my blood," said the Senior-Wrangler.

"At least they're better than zombies," said the Dean. "A much better class of people. Vampires don't go shuffling around the whole time."

"People can be turned into zombies, you know," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, in conversational tones. "You don't even need magic. Just the liver of a certain rare fish and the extract of a particular kind of root. One spoonful, and when you wake up, you 're a zombie."

"What type of fish?" said the Senior Wrangler.

"How should I know?"

"How should anyone know, then?" said the Senior Wrangler nastily. "Did someone wake up one morning and say, hey, here's an idea, I'll just turn someone into a zombie, all I'll need is some rare fish liver and a piece of root, it's just a matter of finding the right one? You can see the queue outside the hut, can't you? No. 94, Red Stripefish liver and Maniac root... didn't work. No. 95, Spikefish liver and Dum-dum root... didn't work. No. 96 -"

"What are you talking about?" the Archchancellor demanded.

"I was simply pointing out the intrinsic unlikelihood of -"

"Shut up," said the Archchancellor, matter-of-factly. "Seems to me... seems to me... look, death must be going on, right? Death has to happen. That's what bein' alive is all about. You're alive, and then you're dead. It can't just stop happening."

"But he didn't turn up for Windle, " the Dean pointed out.

"Death goes on all the time, " said Ridcully, ignoring him. "Most of things die all the time. Even vegetables."

"You won't think Death ever came for a potato," said Dean doubtfully.

"Death comes for everything," said the Archchancellor, firmly.

The wizards nodded sagely.

After a while the Senior Wrangler said, "Do you know, I read the other day that every atom in your body is changed every seven years? New ones keep getting attached and old ones keep on dropping off. It goes on all the time. Marvellous, really. "

The Senior Wrangler could do to a conversation that it takes quite thick treacle to do to the pedals of a precision watch.

"Yes? What happens to the old ones?" said Ridcully, interested despite himself.

"Dunno. They just float around in the air, I suppose, until they get attached to someone else."

The Archchancellor looked affronted.

"What, even wizards?"

"Oh, yes. Everyone. It's part of the miracle of existence."

"Is it? Sounds like bad hygiene to me," said the Archchancellor. "I suppose there's no way of stopping ?it?

"I shouldn't think so," said the Senior Wrangler, doubtfully. "I don't think you're supposed to stop miracles of existence. "

"But that means everythin' is made up of everythin' else, " said Ridcully.

"Yes. Isn't it amazing?"

"It's disgusting, is what it is, " said Ridcully, shortly.

"Anyway, the point I'm making... the point I'm making... " He paused, trying to remember. "You can't just abolish death, that's the point. Death can't die. That's like asking a scorpion to sting itself. "

"As a matter of fact," said the Senior Wrangler, always ready with a handy fact. "you can get a scorpion to -"

"Shut up, " said the Archchancellor.

"But we can't have an undead wizard wandering around," said the Dean. "There's no telling what he might take it into his head to do. We've got to... put a stop to him. For his own good."

"That's right," said Ridcully. "For his own good. Shouldn't be too hard. There must be dozens of ways to deal with an undead."

"Garlic," said the Senior Wrangler flatly. "Undead don't like garlic."

"Don't blame them. Can't stand the stuff," said the Dean.

"Undead! Undead!" said the Bursar, pointing an accusing finger. They ignored him.

"Yes, and then there's sacred items," said the Senior Wrangler. "Your basic undead chunkles into dust as soon as look at 'em. And they don't like daylight. And if the worst comes to the worst, you bury them at a crossroads. That's surefire, that is. And you stick a stake in them to make sure they don't get up again."

"With garlic on it," said the Bursar.

"Well, yes. I suppose you could put garlic on it," the Senior Wrangler conceded, reluctantly.

"I don't think you should put garlic on a good steak," said the Dean. 'Just a little oil and seasoning."

"Red pepper is nice," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, happily.

"Shut up," said the Archchancellor.

Plop.

The cupboard door's hinges finally gave way, spilling its contents into the room.

Sergeant Colon of the Ankh-Morpork City Guard was on duty. He was guarding the Brass Bridge, the main link between Ankh and Morpork. From theft.

When came to crime prevention, Sergeant Colon ??? ~fest to think big.??? ras a school of thought that believed the best way to get recognised as a keen guardian of the law in Ankh-Morpork would be to patrol the streets and alleys, bribe informants, follow suspects and so on.

Sergeant Colon played truant from this particular school. Not, he would, hasten to say, because trying to keeping down crime in Ankh-Morpork was like trying to keep down salt in the sea and the only recognition a keen guardian of the law was likely to get was the sort that goes, "Hey, that body in the gutter, isn't that old Sergeant Colon?" but because the modern, go-ahead, intelligent law officer ought to be at least one jump ahead of the contemporary criminal. One day someone was bound to try to steal the Brass Bridge, and then they'd find Sergeant Colon right there waiting for them.

In the meantime, it offered a quiet place out of the wind where he could have a relaxing smoke and probably not see anything that would upset him.

He leaned with his elbows on the parapet, wondering vaguely about Life.

A figure stumbled out of the mist. Sergeant Colon recognised the familiar pointy hat of a wizard.

"Good evening, officer, " its wearer croaked.

"Morning, y'honour."

"Would you be kind enough to help me up on to the parapet, officer?"

Sergeant Colon hesitated. But the chap was a wizard. A man could get into serious trouble not helping wizards.

"Trying out some new magic, y'honour?" he said, brightly, helping the skinny but surprisingly heavy body up on to the crumbling stonework.

"No."

Windle Poons stepped off the bridge. There was a squelch.

Sergeant Colon looked down as the waters of the Ankh closed again, slowly.

Those wizards. Always up to something.

He watched for a while. After several minutes there was a disturbance in the scum and debris near the base of one of the pillars of the bridge, where a flight of greasy stairs led down to the water.

A pointy hat appeared.

Sergeant Colon heard the wizard slowly climb the stairs, swearing under his breath.

Windle Poons reached the top of the bridge again. He was soaked.

"You want to go and get changed," Sergeant Colon volunteered. "You could catch your death, standing around like that."

"Hah!"

"Get your feet in front of a roaring fire, that's what I'd do."

"Hah!"

Sergeant Colon looked at Windle Poons in his own private puddle.

"You been trying some special kind of underwater magic, y'honour?" he ventured.

"Not exactly, officer."

"I've always wondered about what it's like under water," said Sergeant Colon, encouragingly. "The myst'ries of the deep, strange and wonderful creatures... my mum told me a tale once, about this little boy what turned into a mermaid, well, not a mermaid, and he had all these adventures under the s -"

The words drained away under Windle Poons' dreadful stare.

"Evening," said Windle. He turned and started to lurch into the mist. "Very, very boring. Very boring being dead."

Colon was left alone. He lit a fresh cigarette with a trembling hand, and started to walk hurriedly towards the Watch headquarters.

"That face, " he told himself. "And those eyes... just whatsisname... who's that bloody dwarf who runs the delicatessen on Cable Street..."

"Sargeant!"

Colon froze. Then he looked down. A face was starring up at him from ground level. When he'd got a grip on himself, he made out the sharp features of his old friend Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, the Discworld's Ruling talking argument in favour of the theory that mankind had descended from a species of rodent.

C.M.O.T. Dibbler liked to describe himself as a merchant adventurer; everyone else liked to describe him as an itinerant pedlar whose money-making shemes were always let down by some small but vital flaw, such as trying to sell things he didn't own or which didn't work or, sometimes, didn't even exist.

Fairy gold is well known to evaporate by morning, but it was a reinforced concrete slab by comparison to some of Throat's merchandise.

He was standing at the bottom of some steps that led down to one of Ankh-Morpork's countless cellars.

"Hallo, Throat."

"Would you step down here a minute, Fred? I could use a bit of legal aid."

"Got a problem, Throat?"

Dibbler scratched his nose.

"Well, Fred... Is it a crime to be given something? I mean, without you knowing it?"

"Someone been giving you things, Throat?"

Throat nodded. "Dunno. You know I keep merchandise down here?" he said.

"Yeah."

"You see, I just come down to do a bit of stock-taking, and... " He waved a hand helplessly. "Well... take a look..."

He opened the cellar door.

In the darkness something went plop.

Windle Poons lurched aimlessly along a dark alley in the Shades, arms extended in front of him, hands hanging down at the wrists. He didn't know why. It just seemed the right way to go about it.

Jumping off a building? No, that wouldn't work, either. It was hard enough to walk as it was, and two broken legs wouldn't help. Poison? He imagined it would be like having a very bad stomach ache. Noose? Hanging around would probably be more boring than sitting on the bottom of the river.

He reached a noisome courtyard where several alleys met. Rats scampered away from him. A cat screeched and scurried off over the rooftops.

As he stood wondering where he was, why he was, and what ought to happen next, he felt the point of a knife against his backbone.

"OK, grandad," said a voice behind him, "it's your money or your life."

In the darkness Windle Poons' mouth formed a horrible grin.

"I'm not playing about, old man, " said the voice.

"Are you Thieves' Guild?" said Windle, without turning around.

"No, we're... freelances. Come on, let's see the colour of your money."

"Haven't got any," said Windle. He turned around. There were two more muggers behind him.

"Ye gods, look at his eyes," said one of them.

Windle raised his arms above his head.

"Ooooooooh," he moaned.

The muggers backed away. Unfortunately, there was a wall behind them. They flattened themselves against it.

"OoooOOOOoooobuggeroffoooOOOooo, " said Windle, who hadn't realised that the only way of escape lay through him. He rolled his eyes for better effect.

Maddened by terror, the would-be attackers dived under his arms, but not before one of them had sunk his knife up to the hilt in Windle's pigeon chest.

He looked down at it.

"Hey! That was my best robe!" he said. "I wanted to be buried in - will you look at it? You know how difficult it is to darn silk? Come back here this - Look at it, right where it shows -"

He listened. There was no sound but the distant and retreating scurry of footsteps.

Windle Poons removed the knife.

"Could have killed me," he muttered, tossing it away.

In the cellar, Sergeant Colon picked up one of the objects that lay in huge drifts on the floor.

"There must be thousands of 'em," said Throat, behind him. "What I want to know is, who put them there?"

Sergeant Colon turned the object round and round in his hands.

"Never seen one of these before, " he said. He gave a shake. His face lit up. "Pretty, ain't they?"

"The door was locked and everything," said Throat 'And I'm paid up with the Thieves' Guild."

Colon shook the thing again.

" Nice," he said.

"Fred?"

Colon, fascinated, watched the little snowflakes far inside the tiny glass globe. "Hmm?"

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Dunno. I suppose they're yours, Throat. Can imagine why anyone'd want to get rid of 'em, though.

He turned towards the door. Throat stepped into his path.

"Then that'll be twelve pence, " he said smoothly.

"What for?

"For the one you just put in your pocket, Fred."

Colon fished the globe out of his pocket.

"Come on!" he protested. "You just found them, heh. They didn't cost you a penny!"

"Yes, but there's storage... packing... handling . .

"Tuppence, " said Colon desperately.

"Tenpence."

"Threepence."

"Sevenpence - and that's cutting my own throat, mark you."

"Done," said the sergeant, reluctantly. He gave the globe another shake.

"Nice, ain't they?" he said.

"Worth every penny," said Dibbler. He rubbed his hands together hopefully. "Should sell like hot cake's," he said, picking up a handful and shoving them into box.

He locked the door behind them when they left.

In the darkness something went plop.

Ankh-Morpork has always had a fine tradition of welcoming people of all races, colours and shapes, if they have money to spend and a return ticket.

According to the Guild of Merchants' famous publication, Welkome to Ankh-Morporke, Citie of One Thousand Surprises, `you the visitor will be asurred of a Warm Wellcome in the countless Ins and hostelries of this Ancient Citie, where many specialise in catering for the taste of guest from distant part. So if you a Manne, Trolle, Dwarfe, Goblin or Gnomm, Ankh-Morpork will raise your Glass convivial and say: Cheer! Here looking, you Kid! Up, You Bottom!"

Windle Poons didn't know where undead went for a good time. All he knew, and he knew it for a certainty, was that if they could have a good time anywhere then they could probably have it in Ankh-Morpork.

His laboured footsteps led him deeper into the Shades. Only they weren't so laboured now.

For more than a century Windle Poons had lived inside the walls of Unseen University. In terms of accumulated years, he may have lived a long time. In terms of experience, he was about thirteen.

He was seeing, hearing and smelling things he'd never seen, heard or smelled before.

The Shades was the oldest part of the city. If you could do a sort of relief map of sinfulness, wickedness and all-round immorality, rather like those representations of the gravitational field around a Black Hole, then even in Ankh-Morpork the Shades would be represented by a shaft. In fact the Shades was remarkably like the aforesaid well-known astronomical phenomenon: it had a certain strong attraction, no light escaped from it, and it could indeed become a gateway to another world. The next one.

The Shades was a city within a city.

The streets were thronged. Muffled figures slunk past on errands of their own. Strange music wound up from sunken stairwells. So did sharp and exciting smells.

Poons passed goblin delicatessens and dwarf bars from which came the sounds of singing and fighting which dwarfs traditionally did at the same time. And there were trolls, moving through the crowds like... like big people moving among little people. They weren't shambling, either.

Windle had hitherto seen trolls only in the more select parts of the city, where they moved with exaggerated caution in case they accidentally clubbed someone to death and ate them. In the Shades they strode, unafraid, heads held so high they very nearly rose above their shoulder-blades.

Windle Poons wandered through the crowds like random shot on a pinball table. Here a blast of smoky sound from a bar spun him back into the street, there a discreet doorway promising unusual and forbidden delights attracted him like a magnet. Windle Poons' life hadn't included even very many usual an approved delights. He wasn't even certain what they were. Some sketches outside one pink-lit, inviting doorway left him even more mystified but incredible anxious to learn.

He turned around and around in pleased astonishment.

This place! Only ten minutes walk or fifteen minutes lurch from the University! And he'd never known it was there! All these people! All this noise. All this life!

Several people of various shapes and species jostle him. One or two started to say something, shut their mouths quickly, and hurried off.

They were thinking... his eyes! Like gimlets!

And then a voice from the shadows said: "Hallo, bigboy. You want a nice time?"

"Oh, yes!" said Windle Poons, lost in wonder. "Oh, yes! Yes!"

He turned around.

"Bloody hell!" There was the sound of someone hurrying away down an alley.

Windle's face fell.

Life, obviously, was only for the living. Perhaps this back-to-your-body business had been a mistake after all. He'd been a fool to think otherwise.

He turned and, hardly bothering to keep his own heart beating, went back to the University.

Windle trudged across the quad to the Great Hall.

The Archchancellor would know what to do.

"There he is!"

"It's him!"

"Get him!"

Windle's trained thought ran over a cliff. He looked around at five red, worried, and above all familiar faces.

"Oh, hallo, Dean," he said, unhappily. "And is that the Senior Wrangler? Oh, and the Archchancellor, this is -"

"Grab his arm!"

"Don't look at his eyes!"

"Grab his other arm!"

"This is for your own good, Windle!"

"It's not Windle! It's a creature of the Night!"

"I assure you -"

"Have you got his legs?"

"Grab his leg!"

"Grab his other leg!"

"Have you grabbed everything?" roared the Archchancellor.

The wizards nodded.

Mustrum Ridcully reached into the massive recesses of his robe.

"Right, fiend in human shape," he growled, "what d'you think of this, then? Ah-ha!"

Windle squinted at the small object that was thrust triumphantly under his nose.

"Well, er... " he said diffidently, "I'd say... yes... hmm... yes, the smell is very distinctive, isn't it... yes, quite definitely. Allium sativum. The common domestic garlic. Yes?"

The wizards stared at him. They stared at the little white clove. They stared at Windle again.

"I am right, aren't I?" he said, and made an attempt at a smile.

"Er," said the Archchancellor. "Yes. Yes, that's right. " Ridcully cast around for something to add.

"Well done, " he said.

"Thank you for trying," said Windle. "I really appreciate it. " He stepped forward. The wizards might as well have tried to hold back a glacier.

"And now I'm going to have a lie down," he said. " It's been a long day."

He lurched into the building and creaked along the corridors until he reached his room. Someone else seemed to have moved some of their stuff into it, but Windle dealt with that by simply picking it all up in one sweep of his arms and throwing it out into the corridor.

Then he lay down on the bed.

Sleep. Well, he was tired. That was a start. But sleeping meant letting go of control, and he wasn't too certain that all the systems were fully functional yet.

Anyway, when you got right down to it, did he have to sleep at all? After all, he was dead. That was supposed to be just like sleeping, only even more so. They said that dying was just like going to sleep, although of course if you weren't careful bits of you could rot and drop off.

What were you supposed to do when you slept, anyway? Dreaming... wasn't that all to do with sorting out your memories, or something? How did you go about it?

He stared at the ceiling.

"I never thought being dead would be so much trouble, " he said aloud.

After a while a faint but insistent squeaking noise made him turn his head.

Over the fireplace was an ornamental candlestick, fixed to a bracket on the wall. It was such a familiar piece of furniture that Windle hadn't really seen it for fifty years.

It was coming unscrewed. It spun around slowly, squeaking once a turn. After half a dozen turns it fell off and clattered to the floor.

Inexplicable phenomena were not in themselves unusual on the Discworld. It was just that they normally had more point, or at least were a bit more interesting.

Nothing else seemed to be about to move. Windle relaxed, and went back to organising his memories. There was stuff in there he'd completely forgotten about.

There was a brief whispering outside, and then the door burst open -

"Get his legs! Get his legs!"

"Hold his arms!"

Windle tried to sit up. "Oh, hallo, everyone, " he said. 'What's the matter?"

The Archchancellor, standing at the foot of the bed, fumbled in a sack and produced a large, heavy object.

He held it aloft.

"Ah-ha!" he said.

Windle peered at it.

"Yes?" he said, helpfully.

"Ah-ha," said the Archchancellor again, but with slightly less conviction.

"It's a symbolic double-handled axe from the cult of Blind Io," said Windle.

The Archchancellor gave him a blank look.

"Er, yes," he said, "that's right." He threw it over his shoulder, almost removing the Dean's left ear, and fished in the sack again.

"Ah-ha!"

"That's a rather fine example of the Mystic Tooth of Offler the Crocodile God, " said Windle.

"Ah-ha!"

"And that's a... let me see now... yes, that's the matched set of sacred Flying Ducks of Ordpor the Tasteless. I say, eh, this is fun!"

"Ah-ha."

"That's... don't tell me, don't tell me... that's the holy linglon of the notorious Sootee cult, isn't it?"

"Ah-ha?"

"I think that one's the three-headed fish of the Howanda three-headed fish religion," said Windle.

"This is ridiculous," said the Archchancellor, dropping the fish.

The wizards sagged. Religious objects weren't such a surefire undead cure after all.

"I'm really sorry to be such a nuisance, " said Windle.

The Dean suddenly brightened up.

"Daylight!" he said excitedly. "That'll do the trick!"

"Get the curtain!"

"Get the other curtain!"

"One, two, three... now!"

Windle blinked in the invasive sunlight.

The wizards held their breath.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It doesn't seem to work."

They sagged again.

"Don't you feel anything?" said Ridcully.

"No sensation of crumbling into dust and blowing away?" said the Senior Wrangler hopefully.