Reaper Man - Terry Pratchett [98]
Azrael’s expression did not change.
THERE IS NO HOPE BUT US. THERE IS NO MERCY BUT US. THERE IS NO JUSTICE. THERE IS JUST US.
The dark, sad face filled the sky.
ALL THINGS THAT ARE, ARE OURS. BUT WE MUST CARE. FOR IF WE DO NOT CARE, WE DO NOT EXIST. IF WE DO NOT EXIST, THEN THERE IS NOTHING BUT BLIND OBLIVION.
AND EVEN OBLIVION MUST END SOME DAY. LORD, WILL YOU GRANT ME JUST A LITTLE TIME? FOR THE PROPER BALANCE OF THINGS. TO RETURN WHAT WAS GIVEN. FOR THE SAKE OF PRISONERS AND THE FLIGHT OF BIRDS.
Death took a step backward.
It was impossible to read expression in Azrael’s features.
Death glanced sideways at the servants.
LORD, WHAT CAN THE HARVEST HOPE FOR, IF NOT FOR THE CARE OF THE REAPER MAN?
He waited.
LORD? said Death.
In the time it took to answer, several galaxies unfolded, whirled around Azrael like paper streamers, impacted, and were gone.
Then Azrael said:
And another finger reached out across the darkness toward the Clock.
There were faint screams of rage from the servants, and then screams of realization, and then three brief, blue flames.
All other clocks, even the handless clock of Death, were reflections of the Clock. Exactly reflections of the Clock; they told the universe what the time was, but the Clock told Time what time is. It was the mainspring from which all time poured.
And the design of the Clock was this: that the biggest hand only went around once.
The second hand whirred along a circular path that even light would take days to travel, forever chased by the minutes, hours, days, months, years, centuries and ages. But the Universe hand went around once.
At least, until someone wound up the clockwork.
And Death returned home with a handful of Time.
A shop bell jangled.
Druto Pole, florist, looked over a spray of floribrunda Mrs. Shover. Someone was standing among the vases of flowers. They looked slightly indistinct; in fact, even afterward, Druto was never sure who had been in his shop and how his words had actually sounded.
He oiled forward, rubbing his hands.
“How may I hel—”
FLOWERS.
Druto hesitated only for a moment.
“And the, er, destination for these—”
A LADY.
“And do you have any pref—”
LILIES.
“Ah? Are you sure that lilies are—?”
I LIKE LILIES.
“Um…it’s just that lilies are a little bit somber—”
I LIKE SOMB—
The figure hesitated.
WHAT DO YOU RECOMMEND?
Druto slipped smoothly into gear. “Roses are always very well received,” he said. “Or orchids. Many gentlemen these days tell me that ladies find a single specimen orchid more acceptable than a bunch of roses—”
GIVE ME LOTS.
“Would that be orchids or roses?”
BOTH.
Druto’s fingers twined sinuously, like eels in grease.
“And I wonder if I could interest you in these marvelous sprays of Nervousa Gloriosa—”
LOTS OF THEM.
“And if Sir’s budget would stretch, may I suggest a single specimen of the extremely rare—”
YES.
“And possibly—”
YES. EVERYTHING. WITH A RIBBON.
When the shop bell had jangled the purchaser out, Druto looked at the coins in his hand. Many of them were corroded, all of them were strange, and one or two were golden.
“Um,” he said. “That will do nicely…”
He became aware of a soft pattering sound.
Around him, all over the shop, petals were falling like rain.
AND THESE?
“That’s our De Luxe assortment,” said the lady in the chocolate shop. It was such a high-class establishment that it sold, not sweets, but confectionery—often in the form of individual gold-wrapped swirly things that made even larger holes in a bank balance than they did in a tooth.
The tall dark customer picked up a box that was about two feet square. On a lid like a satin cushion it had a picture of a couple of hopelessly cross-eyed kittens looking out of a boot.
WHAT FOR IS THIS BOX PADDED? IS IT TO BE SAT ON? CAN IT BE THAT IT IS CAT-FLAVORED? he added, his tone taking on a definite menace, or rather more menace than it had already.
“Um, no. That’s our Supreme Assortment.”
The customer tossed it aside.
NO.
The shopkeeper looked both ways