The Memory of Death
Page 9
‘Hello. Hello.’
I bring them together. It shouldn’t work; I’m no longer the Orcus. I hold my breath, and they bind, winding around each other, becoming the scythe Mog. My scythe.
Sharp as death, the destroyer of gods. Perfectly weighted, my fingers closed around the snath as though they were born to it. It feels good.
Guardian, wielder: what’s the difference really?
‘Interesting,’ I say.
‘Interesting,’ Mog says back.
Death Works 5: The Carnival of Death (Preview)
So I’m in my pyjamas, or my PJs as Mum used to call them, and I’m thinking about having another beer. Listening to a band called British India, never heard of them until I’d escaped from Hell – well, sort of escaped. My memory of that flight from the Death of the Water is muddled at best, mostly not there, which is alarming as, according to my mate Charon, a large part of me is fashioned from memory.
The music suits my mood. Good drinking tunes, and I’m maudlin, utterly, utterly maudlin, here in my bit of the Underworld. Which happens to be a series of tastefully wallpapered rooms in one of the side-pockets of Hell, kind of a juncture between the land of the living and that of the dead; easy access to the city of Brisbane and its Underworld twin. Plenty of bottleshops in Brisbane city.
I’m not dead or anything – well, I’ve died a few times – but there’s still blood in these veins, and I’m still kicking. Still capable of being sad, of making plans and realising that plans really aren’t worth a hell of a lot. And there’re two talking blades in a safe near my head that I’m trying hard not to think about. You touch those blades together and you have enough power, they become a scythe called Mog.
When I had been Death, I’d been able to wield that scythe. Now I am something else, and it seems to work too. I’d killed a god with Mog; it’d also been handy to lean on, and, well, holding it gave you a bit of a buzz, to be honest.
Yeah, that’s the complicated sort of life I lead.
There’s a knock at the door. I smile, finish my beer.
It’s nearly as sad when you’re not drinking alone. I had considered summoning my Inkling Wal, but this is better – Wal can be a bit judgey. I gesture at the door, and it opens. A new trick I’ve learnt since I became Master of these rooms bordering the land of the living and the dead.
James, who is sort of my new boss – well, the boss of a little moonlighting, slightly betrayalish work I have going – is standing there. He’s giving me a look that isn’t quite angry, not quite disappointed, but either way it’s not happy. I’m familiar with that sort of expression; I get it a lot.
‘You know it’s only 2 pm.’ James gestures at the bottles stacked up next to me.
‘Of course, I make it a rule not to drink before mid-afternoon.’
‘Sober up,’ James says without blinking. ‘You’re on the clock.’
I put my empty next to the half-dozen others and stand up. A little shaky, but I don’t dislodge the china on the coffee table, or fall flat on my face – good sign.
‘Get dressed,’ he says, and wrinkles his nose, which would be almost childlike if it wasn’t broken. James looks like a prize fighter who didn’t win a lot of prizes; probably broke a lot of hands though. ‘Actually, have a shower first.’
I’m a while in that shower, and a while shaving. By the time I walk back into my parlour, James is looking very agitated. I’m not used to having a boss; I agreed to this job only a week ago.
‘Sorry about the wait,’ I say, trying to sound sincere. ‘But, look at me, it was worth it.’ I slide the last cufflink into my cuff, and slip on my suit.
‘The wallpaper hissed at me,’ James says.
‘It’s not the wallpaper,’ I say. ‘It’s what’s behind the wallpaper.’
James raises an eyebrow.
‘You don’t want to know.’
He steps towards the middle of the room. ‘I’ve got work for you. And could you turn that music off?’
It stops. Bye-bye, British India. Bye-bye, sublime guitar riff.
James blinks. ‘How did you do that?’
‘Magic.’
‘Bluetooth?’
‘What’s the difference?’
I take comfort that I’m far better dressed than him. When I suit up I literally suit up, and it’s always Italian and tailored.
‘Now tell me about this job.’
‘People are disappearing in Logan.’
‘Anything weird about that?’
James scowls. ‘I live in Logan, mate. The place gets a bad rap. You want me to throw you back in the ocean?’
‘You won’t get a bigger fish, believe me.’
‘You certainly drink like a fish.’ James gives a little chuckle at that.
Yeah, I’ve gotta stop with the drinking. I've been here before. How easy was it to slip back into bad habits?
‘Look, something’s been happening in Logan, and it started when the Carnival arrived. The Carnival that isn’t there.’
That’s got my interest a little.
‘You seen this Carnival?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Where is it? Can you picture the place?’
James nods, gestures at the door. ‘We’ve had people watching it. I’m parked out on George Street, we could be there in twenty minutes.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Now follow me.’
I lead him to a door in the room next to my parlour, and I don’t even turn to check on those blades. Not even a little bit.
James shivers. ‘Cold in here.’
‘It is, isn’t it. Now I want you to concentrate on the Carnival, and its location in space. Can you do that?’
James nods. And I feel it. The right door approaching. We walk for about a minute, and then we stop. I put my hand against the wooden door to my right. It shivers.
I reach down and open the door.
One step and we’re standing in the middle of a field, the sun bright above us and me wishing I’d remembered my sunnies. I can hear the sound of the M1 not too far away, and the Gateway Motorway too. The heavy rumble of traffic, there’s a cold wind blowing. Some kind of water bird is mucking through a puddle to the east of us.
There’s no Carnival.
‘This the right place?’
James nods again. ‘It isn’t always here.’
‘Where’s your guy?’
‘Anthony!’ James calls.
And then I see him.
‘He wasn’t dead when you left him, was he?’
‘What?’
‘Hello, Anthony,’ I say. Anthony’s spirit turns towards me, and then it screams.
About Trent Jamieson
SF writer and Silent Motion Picture Actor, Trent Jamieson should be 109 years old, but is only 39 on account of TEMPORAL RADIATION.
He lives in Brisbane with his wife, Diana, where he wrote the Death Works Trilogy published by Orbit Books. The first, Death Most Definite, was released in August 2010. The second, Managing Death, was released in December 2010. The third, The Business of Death, was released in September 2011. They’re about Death – you know, the Grim Reaper – and they’re set in Brisbane.
He has also just finished a Steampunkish secondary world fantasy duology for Angry Robot Books. The books, Roil and Night’s Engines, are both now available. If you like the steam, and the punk, you might like `em.
When not writing, he works at The Avid Reader Bookshop in West End – the best indie bookshop in the world (he’s not biased or anything).
First published by Momentum in 2014
This edition published in 2014 by Momentum
Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
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Copyright © Trent Jamieson 2014
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A CIP record for this book is available at the National Library of Australia
The Memory of Death: Death Works 4
EPUB format: 9781760080785
Mobi format: 9781760080792
Cover design by Matt O'Keefe
Proofread by Rob Crompton
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