'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. SQUEAK. '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!' SQUEAK. '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. SQUEAK. 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. SNH, SNH, SNH. 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.' SNH, SNH, SNH. '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?'
'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 Grandad, 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 the 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 on to 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 inter-tribal 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 battleaxes 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 towards 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.'