Title: "Grandfather—Please!"
Spoilers: Just treat it as all, but I don't give away anything major
Rating: PG-13 for a few cusses (but they're humorous) and some tiny sexual subject material
Characters: Gaspode, Quoth, Death, Death of Rats, and Susan
Summary: Death talks Susan into seeing a play putatively starring him; he's not so amused once they arrive at the Ankh-Morpork Opera House. No 'ships, no sex, no Watch, just humor.
*chortle* I'm not sure it's perfectly right to be having so much fun with characters who in no way, repeat, in no way, belong to me. (And I'm making no money—so I combined the disclaimer in with the note with actual meaning!) Characters, places, and Discworld as a whole all belong to Terry Pratchett, whose novels are brilliant works.
Er, Death-as-Shadow-Lover belongs to Mercedes Lackey, or, at any rate, that's where I discovered the concept; 'Shadow' there is an adjective, so Death doesn't love shadows, but is described by 'Shadow.'
Okay—I've attempted the immortal Pratchett's style in this, but it doesn't always come off right. Damn it, why am I so much better at angst than at humor?! It's unfair! But go ahead, read this, laugh, and then you can cozy up with an angstfic of mine.
As always, reviews are appreciated and encouraged (as is constructive criticism), but never forced. I don't do the ten-reviews-and-I'll-add-a-chapter thing, because I don't think it's fair, first of all, and second of all, I don't do add-a-chapter-whenever-I-think-of-one. Everything's planned out, and written, before I post any of a story. The only multichapter fic I currently have is Tamora Pierce, and don't get me started on why that's been a while coming.
So, er, enjoy this probably-not-as-humorous-as-intended humorfic, starring Death, Susan, and the usual cast of animals (i.e. Gaspode, Quoth, and Death of Rats)! Death's POV and Death of Rats' POV are interspersed—Death's with Susan in the Gods, while Death of Rats is backstage with Quoth the raven and Gaspode.
"I . . . am not quite sure I understand," said Death to the woman sitting next to him up in the Gods. She gave him a look designed to imply that she was quite fed up of explaining things to everyone in general and him in particular, but gave in with a sigh.
"See, Grandfather," Susan began, flicking her black hair over her shoulder, "this is a play. You write words, you put in actors, and amusement comes out." She surveyed the scene far below her, and added, "Usually."
Someone in front of them turned around for the fifth time. "Will you shut up?" It was, after all, the Ankh-Morpork Opera House. Of Ankh-Morpork, no less. The theatre might be a fancy setting; the clientele were not, by and large, save for the occasional nobs (who would not, with the possible exception of a certain Nobby, ever be found dead in the Gods). The main reason the common people could only afford seats far from the stage was so they couldn't throw things accurately when they were bored.
"Sorry," answered Death unrepentantly, and then turned to his granddaughter once more, prodding her with an extraordinarily bony index finger. "Why must we be silent?"
"Well," answered Susan after a surreptitious glance at the other patrons, "if we're quiet enough, they're actually saying things down there, and I suppose they want us to listen. That's what we're paying money for."
"We are? And who's talking?"
"Well . . . not us, strictly speaking. And the people down there on the big. . . ." Words failed Susan at that point. "On the large . . . wooden. . . . Well, the part there, under the big chandelier. They're speaking."
Death leaned forward a bit. "The people on it? What?"
It occurred to Susan at that point that, since Death was (a) trying to become more human and (b) immortal, which he would almost certainly define as 'old,' his eyesight might be "failing"—and from the upper stratosphere, the actors were rather difficult to see in any case. She turned to deliver a sharp glare to her somewhat-ancestral figure. "The ones we've been watching. Theoretically. Those people."
"Oh," Death answered, rather quietly for him, and turned back to watching the actors—or, at any rate, watched the actors until Susan joined him in that pursuit. Then Death extricated the Death of Rats from somewhere in his voluminous black robes. "Would you go backstage for me and see what's going on?" Death tried to whisper discreetly, but the resonance of his skull did not bode well for that attempt.
"Squeak," answered Death of Rats rather dubiously, and put down his scythe in Death's palm before jumping from the skeletal hand.
"I can almost promise you a bonus," whispered Death nonspecifically (because he wasn't quite sure what Death of Rats would consider a bonus—certainly not cheese?) after his colleague. Unfortunately, his head structure did, indeed, leave altogether too much room for resonance, resulting in quite a few theatergoers pivoting in their seats to quiet the speaker fervently.
Susan glared again. "Honestly, Grandfather, would you please be quiet?" Horrified at the Voice she'd used to give the order in, she clutched at her throat. "I'm sorry," she hissed hastily, "I'm used to giving orders—as the governess—"
Death fixed her with a steely blue gaze. "I would invite you to remember that I am not one of your charges." Inwardly, he was just thankful that'd distracted her from Death of Rats' departure.
"I'm aware, Grandfather, and I didn't mean to." That was as close as Susan usually got to an apology; she felt that they were highly unnecessary in life, but recognized the imminent need for a bit of abasement at the moment.
Eventually she followed Death's lead and turned back to watching the stage.
* * *
In a bit, a new character in the play entered. Tall and clad all in white, she had a large black bird on her arm for dramatic effect. Casting the bird in the air to flutter where it would, she took center stage before beginning her line. "I am she to whom no doors are barred, no secrets hid, and I come unto you now. Not to chastise, but to reward for your good deeds with pleasure. . . ."
The Death of Rats, watching backstage from the wings, fell into a fit of coughing and eventually choked, which was a rather difficult feat considering the fact that he hadn't eaten in as long a time as he could remember.
"Squeak?" he asked incredulously, meaning 'That is—?'
A few seconds later, he adopted an even more incredulous tone and repeated the question.
The bird—the raven—circled the stage for a few moments, then swooped out, ostensibly to "seek out other good souls to reward"—according to the lines of the woman in white.
As luck would have it, he exited to the Death of Rats' side.
"Squeak squeak," jeered the Death of Rats before lapsing into sniggers.
"What do you mean, you wondered where I was?" asked Quoth indignantly, fluttering in to perch on an empty props table. "I saw you within the fortnight! And you didn't tell me you were coming here!"
The Death of Rats paused in its sniggering to respond briefly.
"What do you mean, I didn't tell you I would be here? Do you tell me all the jobs you do?"
(Death of Rats quite pointedly failed to remind Quoth that he'd only ever had one job.)
"And," added the raven in an injured tone of self-defense, "what did you mean I'd do a better job as a pincushion? I'll have you know that trained animals are quite in demand! I'm paid royally for this, let me tell you!" It tried to put its beak over its feathery shoulder. "Oh—but perhaps we'd best go somewhere else, I think my agent's coming—quickly, into the storage room! I'm not on for another scene yet."
The two hurried into the storage room, which was quite dark and close until the Death of Rats judiciously lit a candle-end it had produced from somewhere.
A scent made itself known to the pair of animals, followed none too quickly by its apparent owner. Gaspode, original Wonder Dog and presently residing with Foul Ole Ron, had somehow wandered into the backstage storage room of the Opera House. Fortunately for the bipeds, Gaspode's pet (Foul Ole Ron) was nowhere to be seen—nor smelt—both of which lightened the atmosphere tremendously.
Gaspode, to the Death of Rats' amusement, nodded to Quoth the raven—and Quoth returned the nod.
"Squeak?" inquired the Death of Rats politely; he'd found it was best to pretend to noncognizance.
"Don't give me the wossname, 'Squeak,' business," replied Gaspode, making a fair job of imitating the Death of Rats' tone—but then, imitations of speech were his forte. "I know you know I know you know. . . ." He paused and counted, then hastily added, "I know. . . . This is Quoth, we all know you've met before, I'm the poor little wossname, doggy, woof woof, and you, quite visibly, are—" But Gaspode did pause to be filled in by the Death of Rats' "Squeak."
"Right, Death of Rats, pleased to meet you after all I've heard of you," Gaspode hastily filled without too noticeable a break. "So tell me, can I call you 'Of' for short or do you prefer 'Rats'? Or 'Ratty' wouldn't be too bad, if you've a mind to—"
"Squeak." The Death of Rats left no options.
"I suppose 'Squeaky' is quite out of the question," Gaspode asked rhetorically. "Well, 'Squeaky Toy' perhaps? I had one of those once, lived with a wossname, family, for—" He scratched himself meditatively. " 'Bout an hour, I'd say. Anyway, Squeaky Toy—"
"Squeak!" The statement couldn't be misinterpreted.
* * *
Meanwhile, back in the Gods, Death was having still more trouble coping with current events. "What did they say?" he asked Susan for easily the twentieth time.
"She said," Susan hissed back, "that she's you, all right already?"
"What?" Death's voice fell more than usually sharply on the nerves.
"Death! Look, don't take it up with me, all right? You wanted to come. And it's not exactly as though it were a surprise that people like to pretend to be you, okay? Remember you told me about that time with—"
"Oh, Hwel!" finished Death, cringing rather.
Susan was clearly exhausted. "So just listen, would you, and then you wouldn't need me to repeat it!"
"Fine," responded Death, folding his arms across his chest. He waited a few moments, then leaned over. "Susan?"
". . . Yes?"
"While we were talking there . . . I think I missed rather a bit. I don't suppose you caught any of it. . . ?"
* * *
There was suddenly a bit of a clatter from the props closet, one that involved things, such as boards, chairs, crowns, sawhorses, and marbles, falling and crashing and, oh yes, bouncing all over the two square feet of floor. The one current inhabitant lucky enough to have wings quickly took flight, muttering something unintelligible.
The Death of Rats was not amused. Even levitating the scant half-centimetre necessary was a waste of power, as far as he was concerned, not to mention the fact that he hated flying unassisted. Or assisted, for that matter.
"Damn it, I knew he'd been quiet for too long!" yelped Gaspode angrily, tripping over some of the small rolling things. "What are—?"
"Squeak," responded the Death of Rats.
"What?" Gaspode barked. "You didn't, Quoth; you've been so good—"
Quoth muttered quietly for a bit.
"What do you mean, you can't speak properly?" queried Gaspode, upset.
The Death of Rats looked up a bit more, lighting reflective substances with a dim blue glow from his eyesockets. "Squeak!"
"What do you mean, a wossname?!" Gaspode exclaimed, then paused. "Quoth! Your beak is stuck in a marble?"
* * *
Death was currently turning a shade of pink, made more impressive by the fact that it was the bone turning pink, rather than remaining its usual, well, bone-white. "In case you were wondering, Susan—"
"I wasn't, and I don't want to know, so—"
Death cleared his throat forcibly. "I don't care what it says about me, I am not—"
"Did I ask, Grandfather? Did I want to know? No! So—"
"—and have never been, no matter what that woman pretending to be me says, the—"
"Thank you, Grandfather, I know, that's fine—"
"—the shadow-lover!"
Since they'd been trying consistently to top each other, Death's last statement had come out as more of a shout than he'd intended. However, the others in their vicinity didn't try to quiet either one; the drama developing in the Gods was rapidly proving to be more interesting than that on the stage.
"Grandfather. . . ?" Susan's voice trailed off.
"Yes?" Death sounded none too pleased to be holding this conversation; he'd never had the birds-and-the-bees talk with Susan, although she was far past being old enough no matter how it was judged, and he was not looking forward to the inevitable puns on 'bone.' He'd tried the talk with Ysabel, oh, yes, and not only had he got the puns, but look where that had ended!
"How . . . exactly . . . do you think they came up with that?" It wasn't much of a question; Susan knew that, but at least it was an attempt to change the topic slightly.
"They didn't want to be unhappy when others died?" hazarded Death after a pause just a moment too long. "They prefer to think of each other as going into a lover's arms rather than into a shroud in the ground?" He considered a moment. "Or into a burning boat, or a funeral pyre, or a mausoleum, or—"
"Grandfather?"
" . . . Yes. . . ?"
"Could we watch the play, perhaps, rather than discussing burial methods?"
* * *
"Uhn, thoo, fwee," chanted Gaspode rhythmically around Quoth's tailfeathers. The Death of Rats was grimly clinging with all four paws onto the marble that Quoth's beak had somehow embedded itself in.
"Heef!" Gaspode at last gasped, and both gave a final yank as Quoth emitted a startled squawk.
"You've made me miss my cue!" was the first thing he wailed.
"Forget your cue; you've fallen off the wossname, bandwagon!" Gaspode began to bitch. "You've hardly speared an what's-it-called, eyeball, in the past fortnight, and—"
"Squeak?" asked Death of Rats, pretending to be curious, in the manner of one who knows beyond all doubt that he should not bring the topic up—
"What do you mean, 'last night'?" Quoth's eyes widened. "I swear to you by my skull, Gaspode—"
"Squeak," the Death of Rats hastily interspersed.
"Yes, I know he doesn't mean his skull, but his wossname, perch," Gaspode assured the Death of Rats before sitting down (on a marble, as it turned out; he had to rearrange himself rather violently) to listen to the rest of Quoth's story.
"—I have not . . . been. . . ."
"Squeak," the Death of Rats fit in unnecessarily; facing down Gaspode's unwavering stare, Quoth couldn't quite manage to lie straight into his face.
"But you're late," answered Gaspode, shaking his head sorrowfully. "Sure, your private life, you can't help but hit the wossname, marbles, pickled olives, eyeballs, every day, eventually you're going to lose your marbles, and where do you think I'm going, huh? Your own wossname, agent—you know, if you don't keep behaving well onstage at least, we'll both be out of jobs before you can say 'wossname'—"
* * *
"Good bird, where have you been?" asked the white-clad stage-Death desperately. "Have you any news for me? And Blind Io, where have you been?"
A stagehand was on the verge of passing out the traditional backstage good-luck garish pink rubber parrot when Quoth finally swooped in, looking as innocent as possible with a crumpled beak that had, not thirty seconds ago, been embedded in glass.
"Good bit, no?" asked Death of Susan. "You don't often see animals in a production."
"You don't often see productions, period," Susan corrected her grandfather, "and the reason why is rapidly becoming obvious."
Death, if he'd had eyes, eyelids, eyelashes, or any of the other necessary equipment, would've blinked a few times. As it was, the dim glow of his eyesockets flickered. "I say, that's rather harsh," he settled for observing. "I'm quite enjoying myself now I've got the hang of this thing. I was onstage before with Vitoller's men, but now I have to be quiet, so I can hear. There's a difference, you know."
"Actually, what you're doing," corrected Susan again, "is making as much noise as you wish, and then asking me what they're doing and saying, so you can hear and understand. There is a difference."
Death was quite feeling the loss of his eyes and eyelids—although, since Death of Rats had taken to hanging about with Quoth, he generally felt it was for the best. "Well," he began to prevaricate, when he was interrupted by a hot jaw clamped around his lower right shinbone.
* * *
"Sorry," Gaspode whined sheepishly, once outside in the street, "sometimes it's just wossname, instinct, you know? See the wossname, hump her, that sort of thing. See the male dog, fight him. And," he concluded sweepingly, "see the bone, bite it. That was a damn fine bone," he added more softly.
"But the fact remains," Death said sternly, "that that was my damn fine bone. And no matter how it rates in your estimation, it is not for mastication."
"Chewing," Susan hastily explained; being the governess for a seven- and a nine-year-old, one had to be up on these things.
Gaspode pretended to hang his head a bit. Quoth flew overhead; they'd decided to accept the play as a total loss—Quoth included—and vacate the area as soon as possible. Susan's and Death's seatmates had decided that the personal drama was no longer quite as interesting, and had turned rather violent. Either Susan or Death could've quashed the rebellion alone, but they'd decided it simply wasn't worth it.
Quoth and Gaspode had subsequently decided to give up on the theatre business altogether. "Did better selling The Times with Foul Ole Ron," Gaspode complained under his breath. "Plus less chance of your client reneging on the deal."
The woman playing the Shadow-Lover had been somewhat less than thrilled with Quoth's late entrance; since she was the prima donna, she'd had the authority to call the director and have him contract for another ("better-behaved," she'd snapped scornfully) bird.
"Traditionalism," the director had shrugged, "was all that kept me to the raven. . . . Maybe a snowy owl would be better to go with the white costume?" he'd asked hopefully.
Meanwhile, Hwel, the playwright, had just shaken his head sadly. "But I liked the raven. It gave me good ideas. . . . Like . . . what if some animal could speak, and it was always—I mean always—hungry, and it would do anything for this one type of food, but it was really hard to get some? It would have to keep pestering everyone for it. . . ," he'd pondered. " 'The Miniature Boutique'—no, 'The Small Boutique'—of . . . 'of Terrors'! That's it!"
Happy with his new idea, and already worrying about songs, he'd headed off, no longer paying attention to the prima donna other than to wonder precisely how loudly she would be able to shriek in the play when the animal reached for her. (And, of course, thanking his lucky stars for Walter Plinge. Somehow the only sort of idea that managed to miss hitting Hwel were the kind that involved music. Good music, at any rate.)
* * *
The motley crew of five finally reached the Mended Drum—Susan hadn't minded forsaking her usual place for a bit of what Death termed, in a Twoflower-like twist of phrase, 'the genuine Ankh-Morpork flair.' Although he'd entered frequently for nightly fights, he'd always been far too busy—as well as on the job—while there. With as many as ten people to harvest per fight there, he couldn't exactly spare the time for a nice leisurely look-around with a drink.
Still, it wasn't easy sneaking in a large black bird with an eyeball fetish, a mangy, and incidentally speaking, dog who was currently feuding with every other dog in the city, a skeletal rodent, a seven-foot-tall, equally-skeletal biped who refused to remove his cloak; plus Susan, who, in the Mended Drum, was abnormal enough to cause several raised eyebrows by herself (and only two per person, unlike Biers' clientele).
They managed, however, and by the time Quoth had had around two jars of green olives, he and Gaspode were earnestly discussing their deal—the other way round.
" 'S perfect," Gaspode belched. "Who'd 'spect a dog t' talk, eh? But a wossname, wossname, bird—'s only natch'ral. Parrots. And that. Wossnames. Mynahs. Budgies," he added darkly.
Quoth had hiccupped and agreed. "'ll get y' jobs talkin'. But they'll think 's me—ventr—ventrilla—ventrilukwys—talkin' like you. There."
Death drummed his fingers (well, finger bones) rhythmically on the table and stared into his mug, which was empty again. "Susan?"
"Yes?" she answered warily, trying to keep watch over her shoulder for anyone coming up and challenging their group. Despite her—and her grandfather's—profession, she wasn't in the mood to exercise some of the privileges entailed. Not after the Shadow-Lover stuff she'd heard earlier in the day. I don't think I'll ever be comfortable in his job again. . . . Shadow-Lover, by all on Disk. . . . She wished earnestly for the cleansing touch of mental mouthwash.
"Do you think you could possibly bring us to your usual tavern? What's the name—Beverly's, Byerley's?"
"Squeak," agreed the Death of Rats vehemently. And hiccupped, rather spoiling the effect.
At last, a slow smile tugged at the corners of Susan's face. "Biers." She added silently to herself, It is going to be a long night—but at least I'll have some stories for Violet next time.
Who made it to the 2002 Discworld convention? I couldn't, but I am going to the 2004 WorldCon in Boston (since Terry's the guest of honor there, too). So, when at the WorldCon, if you spot a teen dressed as a Fleet officer (Elizabeth Moon's universe) filking Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera (long story) around Filthy Pierre's (longer story) piano (longer story still), it will be me! And it will be fun! And you should join me, if you know Andrew Lloyd Webber (which you should; that's what Masquerade was based on)! And . . . yeah, it's way too late at night to get myself this hyper. ;)
Ah well, hope you enjoyed the story. Also, come to conventions; that's an order. Where else can you pick up ten-cent Heinleins from people who actually know their worth? Or pick up three-dollar genuine silver filigree Celtic rings suitable for giving to your betrothed? Or pick up handmade swords and cloaks guaranteed to fool the Authenticity Nazis? Or pick up fellow Pratchett fans?
. . . I don't think I can top that. *trails off, remembering quietly*