7.
Mrs Frost had arranged for Agnetha to meet Mr De'ath at a tavern not that far from the Unseen University, and Death had made sure he was in good time for the date. After all, it would hardly to for Death to be late, now would it? The sun was setting, turning the air above the city to liquid gold fire, and the air was warm, and fragrant (though not as fragrant as usual, by Ankh-Morporkian standards). Binky touched down lightly on the cobblestones outside the tavern, trotting to a halt. Carefully Death led him round to a courtyard in the back, handing him over to a blank-faced groom, whose brain had decided to take a quick break and look in on things later, when maybe the seven foot skeleton might have gone away.
SEE THAT HE IS WELL LOOKED AFTER FOR ME. I WILL BE INSIDE – I MAY BE SOME TIME. Death said, grinning at the groom. The man nodded, slack-jawed, and reached out automatically to grasp Binky's reins. Death turned, with the Death of Rats peeking from his pocket, and made his way into the tavern. A few moments later, the groom's eyes cleared, and he found a large white horse staring at him curiously, ears flicking. His eyes moved down to the supple leather reins in his hand. Wildly he glanced round the empty courtyard. His brain had stepped back in after its breather, but had no intention of telling him where the horse had come from. A seven foot skeleton clothed in darkness? Oh, right! See 'em all the time. No way, his brain thought grimly. At last he shrugged, and led Binky into a stable.
Death pushed open the door at the back of the tavern – a handy escape route, in most cases – and walked in, feet clicking on the floor, and sticking in some places. He nodded politely to the patrons as he moved through the throng of people, most of whom nodded back and ten seconds later had no idea at all why they were nodding. He reached the bar.
"Yessir, whatcanIgetyou?" the barman asked, not looking up from his glass polishing. Slowly he became aware that there was an odd silence, roughly human-shaped, in front of him. He looked up and blinked. Orang-utans and vampires he was used to, even the odd zombie (once even a ghoul, but that had been a mistake) but not usually skeletons. Or at least, not this particular one.
WHAT IS THAT? Death enquired, pointing to a bottle on a shelf behind the barman.
"That? It's, um, scumble, sir. But you don't want none of that, not a gen'leman like you."
WHY?
"Er, because, er, you'll be seeing things, sir." Like I am, he thought. I'm talking to a skeleton. Ach. He stifled a giggle. Perhaps I should have some scumble, it might help. Wheeeeeeeeeeee.
REALLY? WHAT IS IT MADE OF?
"Apples," the barman said. "Mostly."
SQUEEAaaaakKKK S QUEEaakkk. Death of Rats chipped in, nose twitching.
AH. Death said. WELL MY – FRIEND WILL HAVE SOME. I WILL HAVE – he swung round and pointed at a blue bottle near the scumble – SOME OF THAT INSTEAD. WHILE I WAIT.
The barman cleared his throat. "Right you are then." He reached under the bar and produced a pair of steel gauntlets, a small metal thimble, a pair of tongs and a pair of goggles. Carefully he pulled on the gauntlets and goggles, and gently positioned the thimble in a handy vice nearby. Then, wielding the tongs, he reached up for the bottle of scumble, holding it firmly by its long slender neck. Death and his passenger watched these preparations with great interest. Slowly the barman tipped the bottle up and carefully, sweating, drop by drop, poured into the thimble. One drop of scumble hit the edge of the metal container and slid down it. Fascinated, Death and Death of Rats watched its progress as it slid down towards the wooden bar, and disappeared into it. A faint wisp of smoke marked its progress. The barman swallowed and finished pouring, placing the bottle back on the shelf carefully and removing his steel protection.
Neither of them noticed the steady flow of other customers heading for the door. No-one wanted to be involved in a scumble-drinking. Oh, no. The tavern emptied faster than the Unseen University dining hall after dinner.
"One scumble," he said, using the tongs to lift the thimble and place it on the bar. Death of Rats hopped out of the pocket he was riding in and scrabbled along the bar, sniffing interestedly, nose twitching madly. The barman poured from Death's chosen blue bottle and set the glass down and ignored the bony hand that reached out to pick it up.
WHAT DO I OWE YOU? Death asked.
"Er, nothing. Tell you what, they're on the house, then you don't owe me anything and don't need to come back for, oooh, years, I shouldn't think," the barman said hurriedly. "What are you waiting for?" he asked after a moment, recalling Death's remark about waiting.
AH. The skull leaned in a little closer. I AM MEETING SOMEONE. A YOUNG LADY. I BELIEVE SHE WILL RECOGNISE THE FLOWER IN MY LAPEL. AND I'LL HAVE ANOTHER OF THOSE.
The barman peered closer, squinting, and saw, against the shifting blackness of Death's robe, a black flower. It might have been a carnation. It might not. But you'd probably need to have your nose pressed up against Death's robe to see it in the first place. He picked up the glass, not speculating about where, exactly the contents had gone, and poured another.
"Oh, right! You been to that Mrs Frost, then? She's a funny old sort and no mistake," the barman said, absently picking up and polishing another glass. "Has all sorts for her clients. Vampires, werewolves, you name it. Even wizards! Well, you picked a nice night for it, anyway. Be a lovely full moon, later." He grinned at Death's glass and added, "This Klatchian courage, is it?"
YES. Death confided. MY MANSERVANT RECOMMENDED HER SERVICES. AND ANOTHER, PLEASE, BARKEEP.
The barman poured another drink. "So, what do you do on your, er, time off?" he asked curiously.
I KEEP CHICKENS. AND I HAVE A COW. AND THERE'S BINKY, OF COURSE. Death said. The glass reappeared, once again empty, on the bar. AND ANOTHER! AND YOU HAVE ONE AS WELL.
"Well, thank you," said the barman happily. He poured them both large ones and raised his glass. "Good heal- er."
Death sniggered. AHHAHAHAAHAHAAA. GOOD HEALTH. A GOOD JOKE. I WILL REMEMBER IT.
They were both distracted by a noise as something metal rolled along the bar. Death turned in time to see Death of Rats keel over backwards, legs in the air, giggling hysterically. Go on, imagine it. I dare you. Death put his fourth empty glass on the bar and stared at Death of Rats, frowning as much as he was able.
WHAT – ISH THE MATTER WISH HIM? he said. He appeared to be going cross-eyed, the flaring supernovas drifting oddly.
"Ah, that'll just be the scumble. Don't you worry. He's prob'ly just seein', er," the barman floundered for something that Death of Rats could be seeing, "mountains of cheese or somethin'."
AH. ANOTHER DRINK FOR ME, AND ONE FOR YOU ASH WELL!
Happily the barman poured for them both again. "What time are you meeting her?" he asked as the contents of the glass mysteriously disappeared again.
WHO?
The barman giggled. "Your date. Your young lady," he expanded. He'd long since got over the fact that he was talking to a seven foot skeleton, with another skeleton legs-up on the bar. He felt nice and warm after his second drink.
OH! Death said, peering round. He leant forward on the bar, robes flapping round. SOON? he suggested hazily.
"D'you know what she looks like-," the barman's eyes went round as he saw the door open and a figure moved, slid, undulated inside. He pursed his lips and whistled softly. "He-ello!" he said. Then he saw the red flower against her coat, as she paused just inside and blinked, eyes adjusting to the dimly lit interior of the tavern. "'ere, I think this is it! I think she's here!" he said, nudging Death's shoulder.
HMMMMM? OH. ISH IT THAT TIME ALREADY? He turned from the bar, focusing with difficulty on the curving shape gliding towards him. He saw the shining black hair, glowing green eyes, whiter than white skin. Lips red as rubies were curved in a smile. He wondered for a confused moment if she was a vampire.
"Hello," she said, approaching. "You must be Mr De'ath. I'm Agnetha Ridcully." She stopped as she got her first good look at Death, then shrugged and carried on. Well, you couldn't expect everything to be perfect, she certainly wasn't, and they might have a nice evening. She reckoned she had about two hours until the moon rose, fat and full above the horizon. "It's, er, nice to meet you." She held out a hand to shake, and after three attempts, Death managed to grab hold of it. Agnetha resisted the urge to wince at the smooth, bony grip.
AND YOU. He grinned. WOULD YOU LIKE A DRINK? THE BLUE ONE ISH PARTICULARLY NISHE. ASHK THE BARMAN. BARMAN, A DRINK FOR ME AND ONE FOR YOU AND ONE FOR THE YOUNG LADY IF YOU PLEASHE.
SHHQEAak. Sssssshhhhhhhqqqqqqeeeaaakkkkk. SHHHQUEEA – HIC.
Agnetha turned in surprise, eyebrows raised. "And this is?" she asked.
Death squinted. DEATH OF RATSH. HE'SH BEEN HAVING SCHUM – SCH – SCHUMBBLUM? SCHUMBLE!
"Ah," Agnetha said wisely. "Well, never mind. Just make sure you've got some ice in the morning for him!" Gratefully she seized the glass the barman had poured for her. "Well, bottoms up and all that!"
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
They'd moved from the bar and sat now at a table, leaving the barman singing and giggling to himself as he sampled the contents of various different bottles. They'd brought the bottle of blue drink with them, and a friend to keep it company. Every now and again, a faint squeaking snore would drift across from Death of Rats.
SHO WHAT'SH A NISHE GIRL LIKE YOU DOING IN ANKH-MOR-HIC? Death asked.
Agnetha frowned. "I came to see my uncle," she said carefully. "For some – help. With a little problem. He's the Archchancellor at the Unseen University."
AH. A WIZSHARD! Death recognised wisely. Grinning, he reached for his glass, picking it up and peering comically through the bottom of it. Agnetha was treated to a magnified version of a supernova, twinkling at her. SHOMEONE DRANK MY DRINK! he exclaimed. He topped up his glass. DID YOUR UNCLE HELP WITH YOUR PROBL-HIC?
"No," she said. "He disappeared into the Uncharted Regions. He's - he might be dead, for all I know." She sniffed.
AH. Death waggled his glass at her. NOT ON MY SHIFT. HAHAHAHA. HAVE'SH ANOSHER DRINK. 'SHVERY NISHE. WHAT'SH THE PROBLEM THEN?
"Er, just a little thing, really. Only happens every now and again," she said uncomfortably. "I really can't stay too long, tonight. I'll have to be gone – er, before the moon rises."
If Death had eyebrows, he would have raised them. As it was, he settled for a grin.
~* ~ * ~ * ~
They were giggling and were making friends with a green bottle when Agnetha felt a strange tug at her nerve-ends, a thin shrilling sensation, her skin suddenly feeling stretched too tightly over her bones.
"Er, er, what time ish it?" she hiccupped urgently, interrupting Death at the crucial point of a story involving witches and kings and ghosts.
TIME FOR ANOSHER DRINK! Death said wittily, sniggering.
Agnetha felt herself twitch. The barman reeled over, staggering with some clean glasses. "What time ish it?" she asked again, feeling her skin grow tighter and tighter. The tavern seemed suddenly stiflingly hot.
The barman weaved over to the door and squinted outside. "It'sh dark," he informed her when he came back, careening off several tables on his journey. "The moon'sh jusht shtarting to rishe."
Agnetha felt the first stirrings of panic. She had to get away! Her skin continued to shrink, and now her bones were aching, particularly round the area of the old bite.
Death squinted at her. ARE YOU ALRIGHT? he asked, watching as she closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. When she opened her eyes again, they were glowing. Literally, deep and feral, shining.
"I'm fine, but I musht go home," she said quickly, starting to rise to her feet. "It'sh, er, late and I musht go. I've had a lovely time," she added, smiling. "Ow!"
She yelped as the urge thrilled along her nerves again, a rising howl in her body. Give in, it urged. Let the change happen. Be free! Give in! Change! Change! CHANGE!
"Oh my Gods, it's too late! It's coming! The change is coming!"
YOU'RE NOT A WEREWOLF , ARE YOU? Death asked, suspiciously.
"No! It's worse! I'm an opera singer! A were-singer!" she suddenly shouted. "Bitten by a mad opera singer on the night of the full moon, I carry her curse! I must sing when the moon is full! And tonight – is the night when…..it's coming, I can feel it!"
She shrieked suddenly. Death squinted even more and the barman fell over a chair and lay on the floor. "It's going to happen! ARRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!" She let out an unearthly howl and arched back, hands clawing at her throat. "Noooooooooooo!" Her body contorted, swelling and changing, becoming. Becoming something – else.
Death blinked away the fog in front of his eyes, watching as the shape in front of him changed, altered. Black hair became blond plaits, bound up in a helmet with two large horns rearing up from it. Her bosom swelled and her clothes changed to a warrior princess outfit, steel-chested, leather skirted. Hips swelled, arms lost their slenderness and became meaty. Slowly she lowered her head and stared at him, legs apart, hands on hips.
Death stared.
"AHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!" she laughed, tossing her head, voice also different. Booming from that larger chest, echoing in the tavern. And she launched into song, yodelling a well known Morkporkian aria, screeching to invisible music, striding round the bar. "AAANNNNDDDDD SOOOOOOO THHHHHEEEEEEE FFFFAIIIIIIRRRRR MMAAIDDDDENNNNNNN LOOOSTTTTTT HERRRRRRRR LOOOOOVVVVVVVEEEEEEE, AALLA LA LA LA LAAAAAAAAA, AND DROWN'D THE WOORRLLLLLLDDDDD INN HHEEEERRRRRR TEEAAARRRRRS………."
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Death stared morosely into the cup of tea that Albert had poured for him. Death of Rats sat in his third bucket of ice, a pillow on his head, and steam was starting to slip up again.
WE WERE GETTING ON SO WELL. he said. AND THEN – THE CURSE. THE SONG. GODS, THE NOISE. He shuddered. I HOPE SOMEONE OUT THERE CAN HELP HER. NO ONE SHOULD HAVE TO LISTEN TO THAT. EVER. IT'S ENOUGH TO MAKE YOU WISH YOU WERE DEAD. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA.
"Ah, well, Master," said Albert companionably, in his usual space at the cooker. "Perhaps we should give up for a bit, eh? Have a rest before we start again."
AND THE HAIR. AND THE HELMET! I SHALL HAVE NIGHTMARES.
"Don't you think about it, Master. You just drink your tea, and keep an eye on Death of Rats. He'll need more ice, soon, shouldn't wonder." He added, "Maybe – it's meant. Fate, and all that Gods business. Prawns, and suchlike. Playing with Men's Destinies. Only you're not Men, though, are you? You're Death. Maybe you – well, you know."
Death sighed. I SUPPOSE YOU ARE RIGHT. AND THERE IS ALWAYS THE DUTY. PERHAPS I COULD – TALK MORE BEFORE I COLLECT THE SOULS. He brightened. OR I COULD GET A PET?
He heaved himself out of his chair and picked up the bucket with Death of Rats
in it. WOULD YOU LIKE A PET? LET'S GO TO THE STUDY AND LOOK AT THE
BOOKS. PERHAPS WE CAN GET SOME IDEAS…….
MAYBE A CAT?
The kitchen door was already swinging shut behind him as he left, but the faint sound of an outraged (and extremely hung-over) squeak drifted back to Albert as Death of Rats gave his opinion on the cat option.
Well, here we go again! Albert thought. He grinned, and began to whistle as he lifted a perfectly browned sausage onto a spatula.