“Is there any other gateway around here, Modo?” he said.
“No, Mr. Poons.”
“Well, where shall we have one?”
“Sorry, Mr. Poons?”
There was the sound of tortured masonry, followed by a vaguely Poons-shaped hole in the wall. Windle’s hand reached back in and picked up his hat.
Modo relit his pipe. You see a lot of interesting things in this job, he thought.
In an alley, temporarily out of sight of passers-by, someone called Reg Shoe, who was dead, looked both ways, took a brush and a paint tin out of his pocket, and painted on the wall the words:
DEAD YES! GONE NO!
…and ran away, or at least lurched off at high speed.
The Archchancellor opened a window onto the night.
“Listen,” he said.
The wizards listened.
A dog barked. Somewhere a thief whistled, and was answered from a neighboring rooftop. In the distance a couple were having the kind of quarrel that causes most of the surrounding streets to open their windows and listen in and make notes. But these were only 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 the 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. “Hemogoblins. 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 of 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.
“It goes on all the time,” said Ridcully, ignoring him. “All sorts of things die all the time. Even vegetables.”
“But I don’t think Death ever came for a potato,” said the 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 what 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 crumbles into dust as soon as look at ’em. And they don’t like daylight. And if the worst comes to 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 it came to crime prevention, Sergeant Colon found it safest to think big.
There was a school of thought that believed the best way to get recognized 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 keep d
own crime in Ankh-Morpork was like trying to keep down salt in the sea and the only recognition any 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 always 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 recognized the familiar pointy hat of a wizard.
“Good evening, officer,” its wearer croaked.
“Morning, y’honor.”
“Would you be kind enough to help me up onto 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’honor?” he said, brightly, helping the skinny but surprisingly heavy body up onto 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’honor?” 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—”
His voice drained away under Windle Poons’ dreadful stare.
“It’s boring,” said Windle. He turned and started to lurch away into the mist. “Very, very boring. Very boring indeed.”
Sergeant Colon was left alone. He lit a fresh cigarette with a trembling hand, and started to walk hurriedly toward the Watch headquarters.
“That face,” he told himself. “And those eyes…just like whatsisname…who’s that bloody dwarf who runs the delicatessen on Cable Street…”
“Sergeant!”
Colon froze. Then he looked down. A face was staring 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 walking, talking argument in favor of the theory that mankind had descended from a species of rodent. C.M.O.T. Dibbler liked to describe him as a merchant adventurer; everyone else liked to describe him as an itinerant pedlar whose moneymaking schemes 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 stocktaking, 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.
“Okay, 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 color 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 realized 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 around and around in his hands.
“Never seen one of these before,” he said. He gave it 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 fall inside the tiny glass globe. “Hmm?”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Dunno. I suppose they’re yours, Throat. Can’t imagine why anyone’d want to get rid of ’em, though.”
He turned toward the door. Throat stepped into his path.
“Then that’ll be twelve pence,” he said smoothly.
“What?”
“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 here! 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 cakes,” he said, picking up a handful and shoving them into a 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, colors and shapes, if they have money to spend and a return ticket.
According to the Guild of Merchants’ famous publication, Wellcome to Ankh-Morporke, Citie of One Thousand Surprises, “you the visitor will be assured of a Warm Wellcome in the countles Ins and hostelries of this Ancient Citie, where many specialize in catoring for the taste of guest from distant part. So if you a Manne, Trolle, Dwarfe, Goblin or Gnomm, Annk-Morporke 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 labored footsteps led him deeper into the Shades. Only they weren’t so labored 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-around 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.
Reaper Man Page 4