Soul Music - Terry Pratchett [105]
Couldn’t he?
The figure straightened, but did not turn around.
YES. I COULD HAVE DONE SOMETHING.
“How…how did you know I was here…?”
Death waved a hand irritably.
I REMEMBER YOU. AND NOW UNDERSTAND THIS: YOUR PARENTS KNEW THAT THINGS MUST HAPPEN. EVERYTHING MUST HAPPEN SOMEWHERE. DO YOU NOT THINK I SPOKE TO THEM OF THIS? BUT I CANNOT GIVE LIFE. I CAN ONLY GRANT…EXTENSION. CHANGELESSNESS. ONLY HUMANS CAN GIVE LIFE. AND THEY WANTED TO BE HUMAN, NOT IMMORTAL. IF IT HELPS YOU, THEY DIED INSTANTLY. INSTANTLY.
I’ve got to ask, Susan thought. I’ve got to say it. Or I’m not human.
“I could go back and save them…?” Only the faintest tremor suggested that the statement was a question.
SAVE? FOR WHAT? A LIFE THAT HAS RUN OUT? SOME THINGS END. I KNOW THIS. SOMETIMES I HAVE THOUGHT OTHERWISE. BUT…WITHOUT DUTY, WHAT AM I? THERE HAS TO BE A LAW.
He climbed into the saddle and, still without turning to face her, spurred Binky out and over the gorge.
There was a haystack behind a livery stable in Phedre Road. It bulged for a moment, and there was a muffled swearing.
A fraction of a second later there was a bout of coughing and another, much better, swearword inside a grain silo down near the cattle market.
Very shortly after that some rotten floorboards in an old feed store in Short Street exploded upward, followed by a swearword that bounced off a flour sack.
“Idiot rodent!” bellowed Albert, fingering grain out of his ear.
SQUEAK.
“I should think so! What size do you think I am?”
Albert brushed hay and flour off his coat and walked over to the window.
“Ah,” he said, “let us repair to the Mended Drum, then.”
In Albert’s pocket, sand resumed its interrupted journey from future to past.
Hibiscus Dunelm had decided to close up for an hour. It was a simple process. First he and his staff collected any unbroken mugs and glasses. This didn’t take long. Then there was a desultory search for any weapons with a high resale value, and a quick search of any pockets whose owners were unable to object on account of being drunk, dead, or both. Then the furniture was moved aside and everything else was swept out of the back door and into the broad brown bosom of the river Ankh where it piled up and, by degrees, sank.
Finally, Hibiscus locked and bolted the big front door…
It wouldn’t shut. He looked down. A boot was wedged in it.
“We’re shut,” he said.
“No, you ain’t.”
The door ground back, and Albert was inside.
“Have you seen this person?” he demanded, thrusting a pasteboard oblong in front of Dunelm’s eyes.
This was a gross breach of etiquette. Dunelm wasn’t in the kind of job where you survived if you told people you’d seen people. Dunelm could serve drinks all night without seeing anyone.
“Never seen him before in my life,” he said, automatically, without even looking at the card.
“You’ve got to help me,” said Albert, “otherwise something dreadful will happen.”
“Push off!”
Albert kicked the door shut behind him.
“Just don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said. On his shoulder the Death of Rats sniffed the air suspiciously.
A moment later Hibiscus was having his chin pressed firmly into the boards of one of his tables.
“Now, I know he’d come in here,” said Albert, who wasn’t even breathing heavily, “because everyone does, sooner or later. Have another look.”
“That’s a Caroc card,” said Hibiscus indisctinctly. “That’s Death!”
“That’s right. He’s the one on the white horse. You can’t miss him. Only he wouldn’t look like that in here, I expect.”
“Let me get this straight,” said the landlord, trying desperately to wriggle out of the iron grip. “You want me to tell you if I’ve seen someone who doesn’t look like that?”
“He’d have been odd. Odder than most.” Albert thought for a moment. “And he’d have drunk a lot, if I know him. He always does.”
“This is Ankh-Morpork, you know.”
“Don’t be cheeky, or I’ll get angry.”
“You mean you’re not angry now?”
“I’m just impatient. You can try for angry if you like.”
“There was…someone…week or so ago. Can’t remember exactly what he looked like—”
“Ah. That