Thief of Time - Terry Pratchett [117]
“Not at all?”
I’M SORRY.
“I’ve been thrown out? Just like the damn rabbits and the big syrupy things?”
YES.
“Even the bit where I blow the trumpet?”
OH, YES.
“You’re sure?”
ALWAYS.
“But you are Death and this is the Apocalypse, right?” said the angel, looking wretched. “So therefore—”
UNFORTUNATELY, HOWEVER, YOU ARE NO LONGER A FORMAL PART OF THE PROCEEDINGS.
Out of the corner of his mind, Death was observing the Auditor. Auditors always listened when people spoke. The more people spoke, the closer to consensus every decision came, and the less responsibility anyone had. But the Auditor was showing signs of impatience and annoyance…
Emotions. And emotions made you alive. Death knew how to deal with the living.
The angel looked around at the universe.
“Then what am I supposed to do?” he wailed. “This is what I’ve been waiting for! For thousands of years!” He stared at the iron book. “Thousands of dull, boring, wasted years…” he mumbled.
Have you quite finished? said the Auditor.
“One big scene. That’s all I had. That was my purpose. You wait, you practice—and then you’re just edited out because brimstone is no longer a fashionable color?” Anger was infusing the bitterness in the angel’s voice. “No one told me, of course…”
He glared at the rusted pages.
“It ought to be Pestilence next,” he muttered.
“Am I late, then?” said a voice in the night.
A horse walked forward. It gleamed unhealthily, like a gangrenous wound just before the barber-surgeon would be called in with his hacksaw for a quick trim.
I THOUGHT YOU WEREN’T COMING, said Death.
“I didn’t want to,” Pestilence oozed, “but humans do get such interesting diseases. I’d rather like to see how weasles turn out, too.” One crusted eye winked at Death.
“You mean measles?” said the angel.
“Weasles, I’m afraid,” said Pestilence. “People are getting really careless with this bioartificing. We’re talking boils that really bite.”
Two of you will not suffice! snarled the Auditor in their heads.
A horse walked out of the darkness. Some toast racks had more flesh.
“I’ve been thinking,” said a voice. “Maybe there are things worth putting up a fight for.”
“And they are—?” said Pestilence, looking around.
“Salad-cream sandwiches. You just can’t beat them. That tang of permitted emulsifiers? Marvelous.”
“Hah! You’re Famine, then?” said the Angel of the Iron Book. It fumbled with the heavy pages again.
What, what, what is this nonsense of “salad cream”?* shouted the Auditor.
ANGER, thought Death. A POWERFUL EMOTION.
“Do I like salad cream?” said a voice in the dark. A second, female voice replied:
“No, dear, it gives you hives.”
The horse of War was huge and red and the heads of dead warriors hung from the saddle horn. And Mrs. War was hanging on to War, grimly.
“All four. Bingo!” said the Angel of the Book. “So much for the Convocation of Ee!”
War had a woolly scarf around his neck. He looked sheepishly at the other horsemen.
“He’s not to strain himself,” said Mrs. War sharply. “And you’re not to let him do anything dangerous. He’s not as strong as he thinks. And he gets confused.”
So, the gang is all here, said the Auditor.
SMUGNESS, Death noticed. AND SELF-SATISFACTION.
There was a clanging, as of metal pages. The Angel of the Iron Book was looking puzzled.
“Actually, I don’t think that’s entirely correct,” it said.
No one paid it any attention.
Off you go on your little pantomime, said the Auditor.
AND NOW IRONY AND SARCASM, thought Death. THEY MUST BE PICKING IT UP FROM THE ONES DOWN IN THE WORLD. ALL THE LITTLE THINGS THAT GO TO MAKE UP A…PERSONALITY.
He looked along the row of horsemen. They caught his eye, and there were some almost imperceptible nods from Famine and Pestilence.
War turned in the saddle and spoke to his wife.
“Right now, dear, I’m not confused at all. Could you get down, please?”
“Remember what happened when—” Mrs. War began.
“Right now, please, my dear,” said War, and this time his voice, which was still calm and polite, had echoes of steel and bronze.
“Er…oh.”