Slingby was resting on an overturned caisson, looking out over a blasted landscape of mud, corpses and barbed wire. Soon there would be an attack from one line of trenches upon another line of trenches. For now, the artillery was booming away. Some other Reaper was cleaning up after it. He checked his watch and his List.
A shadow formed to his left. It did not threaten, which was not as unusual as it would have been a year or two ago. It was small at first, in the shape of a crow. It expanded into the likeness of a British officer's soldier-servant; a little cleaner, a little better fed than a common soldier.
"Well met, Mister Slingby."
"Do I know you, demon?"
"You do, or once did." The glamour faded, shifted into a familiar face and body.
"Michaelis."
"That contract is ended. I have a new name in the human realm. But as you are not human, call me Malpas."
"Yer current master is a soldier here, then?"
"An officer. Attended the right sort of school, a son of the right sort of family, therefore presumed to have the habit of command from dealing with a house full of servants and a manor with tenants. Automatically registered as an officer upon enlistment."
"Ah, right. Completely useless, likely."
"Perhaps a little better than some of his friends. But he is not for you, Reaper. He has entered into a Contract."
"I will do as I must. You will do as you will. For now, both of us can sit. A wee dram? I carry a flask these days. The good stuff."
"Perhaps a taste." The demon gestured gracefully. A silver salver with two small crystal whiskey glasses appeared in his hand. Slingby poured a dram into each. The demon sniffed the aroma and sipped. "Ah. That is one thing the humans do well."
"So they do, and will do for a while yet. The master of this distillery is too old to go for a soldier. Did your new master ask for glory and victory in war?"
A spark of saturnine amusement passed over the handsome face. "No, no, his desires are mundane. He wished to marry the heiress of a shipping magnate. She is a plain but intelligent woman. She knew he wanted her inheritance rather than herself. I brokered a marriage contract with her father, who wanted a titled grandson. This is a common arrangement these days, between impoverished aristocrats and wealthy commoners. Now my master has his debts erased, a monthly stipend, an expectation of inheritance, and a wife who married against her will."
"And a father-in-law who wants grandkids right away, I suppose?"
"Of course. But here we begin the true amusement of the Contract. Soon after the wedding, he was swept up in the general enthusiasm for a short victorious military career. His foreign assignment ensures there will be no children. As for the father-in-law's ships, most will soon be destroyed by torpedoes and mines. His fleet will rest at the bottom of the sea with his wealth in its sunken holds. My master specified only that his bride be wealthy when she married him, and the sole beneficiary of her father's will. In the meantime, I enjoy keeping him alive in a hell of mud and fleas. The war is flavoring his soul for me. It shall provide me a marvelous banquet with very little labor."
"Hard lines on the wife, though."
"Is it? When he intends to inherit at the first opportunity offered by poison or plot? Once he has caused his wife to inherit from her father, he plans to inherit all from his wife. He then may marry as he pleases. He knows that there will be a shortage of marriageable men after the war. He already dreams of selecting a pretty, wealthy, well-born débutante to bear his heir and a spare. Thus he plans to return his estate to its original—well, glory it has never had, but a comfortable respectability among its peers is possible— and to ensure the succession."
"We humans are all as God made us, and very often worse. Another sip?"
"Thank you. He is better off in the trenches than the gambling dens. At the end of this war, just when things are looking brighter for him, I shall claim my due. She will become a childless widow, mourning deeply and honestly, but not for her husband. Her true love died at Mons.
"The money her father paid her husband will legally become hers by the terms of the marriage contract, safe both from her father and from her husband's grasping, penniless mother and sisters. They despise her as a commoner whose father engages in Trade, you know. They have never let her forget that she is unworthy of their esteem or courtesy. They have made her miserable in her husband's house while her dowry feeds and clothes them.
"As a widow in full possession of her own fortune, she will move away and live independently of them all. I look forward to seeing if she lets her in-laws return to genteel poverty. Unfortunately, she is an honorable person at heart. She will probably make them a small allowance. It amuses me to think she will doubtless thank God for her freedom, when it is I who have done all. I may even offer to help her craft a will endowing some worthy charity. It would be best for her in-laws to understand clearly that she is worth more to them alive than dead. That taste for poison seems to run in the family.
"For them and for her father, I have no responsibility. I have done nothing to any of these people save to give them what they wanted. What they did with that opportunity was entirely their own choice.
"Her father may be the next candidate for my services, as he was willing to sell his daughter for a title. He will be wanting to recoup his wartime losses. She may become an even greater heiress. It amuses me that she may marry a man of her own choosing, and that her new husband would enjoy the fortune so desired by my current master. Although I think she has acquired a strong distaste for matrimony."
Eric capped his flask. "Do you know the Undertaker? He'd love this story, if ever you need something from him. Your man, now, he wanted a life of plenty. Is this battlefield not a breach of your Contract?"
"Of course not. Is he not provided for? The Army feeds him, clothes him, and pays him. Badly, but adequately, and better than his troops. He has more money than he can spend, if only because there is little here to buy. He did not ask for safety, as the war had not begun. He had a rather romanticized notion of being entitled to a desk in a ministerial office rather than a trench in a battlefield. No, I have provided all that he requested."
"Aye, so you did. Drunk, was he?"
"Not at all. He entered this Contract fully alert and aware. He is too unintelligent and lazy to think long and hard about anything. Also he assumed that he could cheat on our agreement. You know the type."
"Indeed. His own worst enemy."
"You do not object to my dealings? But then you have Reaped hundreds of souls like his and sent them on to Hell."
"True, Malpas. How could I object? I have a Contract of my own, willingly entered by both parties, which makes both our lives bearable. I will honor it to my last day and beyond. Are we so different, then, you and I, damned souls alike?"
"Ah. I remember. You are sworn to that fierce little fellow you murdered. I know there was Celestial interference there. Most unfair! How is it that you are not both in Hell?"
"I believe our punishment was deemed incomplete. Also, London had a desperate staffing shortage. You know how the Management gets when they've announced deadlines and quotas which their underlings can't meet."
Malpas laughed. Fire flickered about his head. "Indeed I do. I must look in on your partner. You killed him, and he forgave you. He is an interesting man and a respected enemy of our Realm."
"Leave him be, demon. Even if I cannot best you, he and I have many friends who would swarm you if you threatened him. One is Grell Sutcliff. Remember Grell? She certainly remembers you. Two more are angels of the Forces Militant. Another is an entity of a higher rank. Blessed if I know what rank that is, but he gives orders, and the Garrisons say 'Yes Sir, How High Sir, And In Which Lake Sir,' which is an absolute hoot to watch if ye've been tolerating their arrogance for a century or so."
Malpas covered his mouth with a hand that shook slightly.
"And then there is Madame Administrator, fiercer than all the rest. Will ye fight us all for one damaged soul, and a he a servant of the Archangel Michael? Not much of a bargain, is it? You will find far better hunting in the human realm.
"Try your master's sisters, Malpas. They might enter into a contract for a wealthy husband. Or the mother; she will be eager to marry the oldest off to any man willing to endow her with a comfortable old age. She'll settle for a warm room, good food, a small circle of friends, her younger daughter as an unpaid companion, and a couple of fawning servants. Surely you could provide a suitor willing to wed a sour spinster to acquire her brother's estate. Who knows? If they share the same attitudes and prejudices, they might tolerate each other very well. In a few years, the younger sister will promise ye anything to escape her servitude. Ye could cultivate the family tree for generations, breeding for the less attractive traits, snipping off a soul here and a soul there as needed."
Malpas dropped his hand and laughed openly.
There was a sudden quiet as the artillery barrage ceased. Slingby checked his watch. "Well, at least they've learned not to shell the positions their own troops are attacking. Will ye excuse me? Duty calls."
With a snap of the demon's fingers, the tray and glasses vanished. His glamor shifted from the butler to the soldier. "I also have a duty. Do give my regards to your partner. He may be regrettably moral, but I do not question his courage and loyalty. Go, Reaper, and thank you for your whiskey and your company."