Soul Music - Terry Pratchett [97]
“Hey, here’s an idea,” said Crash, gloomily. “We let it choke to death on Scum.”
The raven inspected the hallway clock with the practiced eye of one who knows the value of good props.
It was made of some dark, age-blackened wood. There was a pendulum, which oscillated slowly.
The clock had no hands.
“Impressive,” said the raven. “That scythe blade on the pendulum. Nice touch. Very Gothic. no one could look at that clock and not think—”
SQUEAK!
“All right, all right, I’m coming.” The raven fluttered across to an ornamental doorframe. There was a skull-and-bones motif on it.
“Excellent taste,” he said.
SQUEAK. SQUEAK.
“Well, anyone can do plumbing, I expect,” said the raven. “Interesting fact: did you know the lavatory was actually named after Sir Charles Lavatory? Not many people—”
SQUEAK.
The Death of Rats pushed at the big door leading to the kitchen. It swung open with a creak but, here again, there was something not quite right. A listener had the sense that the creak had been added by someone who, feeling that a door like that with a door surround like that ought to creak, had inserted one.
Albert was washing up at the stone sink and staring at nothing.
“Oh,” he said, turning, “it’s you. What’s this thing?”
“I’m a raven,” said the raven, nervously. “Incidentally, one of the most intelligent birds. Most people would say it’s the mynah bird, but—”
SQUEAK!
The raven ruffled its feathers.
“I’m here as an interpreter,” it said.
“Has he found him?” said Albert.
The Death of Rat squeaked at length.
“Looked everywhere. No sign,” said the raven.
“Then he don’t want to be found,” said Albert. He smeared the grease on a plate with a skull pattern on it. “I don’t like that.”
SQUEAK.
“The rat says that’s not the worst thing,” said the raven. “The rats says you ought to know what the granddaughter has been doing…”
The rat squeaked. The raven talked.
The plate shattered on the sink.
“I knew it!” Albert shouted. “Saving him! She hasn’t got the faintest idea! Right! I’m going to sort this out. The Master thinks he can slope off, eh? Not from old Albert! You two wait here!”
There were already posters up in Pseudopolis. News travels fast, especially when C.M.O.T. Dibbler is paying for the horses…
“Hello, Pseudopolis!”
They had to call out the City Watch. They had to organize a bucket chain from the river. Asphalt had to stand outside Buddy’s dressing room with a club. With a nail in it.
Albert, in front of a scrap of mirror in his bedroom, brushed his hair furiously. It was white. At least, long ago it was white. Now it was the color of a tobacco addict’s index finger.
“It’s my duty, that’s what it is,” he muttered. “Don’t know where he’d be without me. Maybe he does remember the future, but he always gets it wrong! Oh, he can go on worrying about the eternal verities, but who has to sort it out when all’s said and done…Muggins, that’s who.”
He glared at himself in the mirror.
“Right!” he said.
There was a battered shoe box under the bed. Albert pulled it out very, very carefully and took the top off. It was half-full of cotton wool; nestling in the wool, like a rare egg, was a lifetimer.
Engraved on it was the name: Alberto Malich.
The sand inside was frozen, immobile, in midpour. There wasn’t much left in the top bulb.
No time passed, here.
It was part of the Arrangement. He worked for Death, and time didn’t pass, except when he went into the World.
There was a scrap of paper by the glass. The figures “91” had been written at the top, but lower numbers trailed down the page after it. 73…68…37…19.
Nineteen!
He must have been daft. He’d let his life leak away by hours and minutes, and there had been a lot more of them lately. There’d been all that business with the plumber, of course. And shopping. The Master didn’t like to go shopping. It was hard to get served. And Albert had taken a few holidays, because it was nice to see the sun, any sun, and feel wind and rain; the Master did his best, but he could never get them right. And decent vegetables, he couldn