behind them, making gestures.
“Not a chance!” he chortled. “Heh heh! It’s in the cat basket! I left all me money to the cat!”
Susan looked around. The cat was watching them anxiously from behind the washstand.
Susan felt some response was called for.
“That was very…kind of you…” she said.
“Hah! Mangy thing! Thirteen years of sleepin’ and crappin’ and waiting for the next meal to turn up? Never took half an hour’s exercise in his big fat life. Up until they find the will, anyway. Then he’s going to be the richest, fastest cat in the world—”
The voice faded. So did its owner.
“What a dreadful old man,” said Susan.
She looked down at the Death of Rats, who was trying to make faces at the cat.
“What’ll happen to him?”
SQUEAK.
“Oh.” Behind them, a former mourner tipped a drawer out onto the floor. The cat was beginning to tremble.
Susan stepped out through the wall.
Clouds curled behind Binky like a wake.
“Well, that wasn’t too bad. I mean, no blood or anything. And he was very old and not very nice.”
“That’s all right, then, is it?”
The raven landed on her shoulder.
“What’re you doing here?”
“Rat Death here said I could have a lift. I’ve got an appointment.”
SQUEAK.
The Death of Rats poked its nose out of the saddlebag.
“Are we a cab service?” said Susan coldly.
The rat shrugged and pushed a lifetimer into her hand.
Susan read the name etched on the glass.
“Volf Volfssonssonssonsson? Sounds a bit Hublandish to me.”
SQUEAK.
The Death of Rats clambered up Binky’s mane and took up station between the horse’s ears, tiny robe flapping in the wind.
Binky cantered low over a battlefield. It wasn’t a major war, just an intertribal scuffle. Nor were there any obvious armies—the fighters seemed to be two groups of individuals, some on horseback, who happened coincidentally to be on the same side. Everyone was dressed in the same sort of furs and exciting leatherwear, and Susan was at a loss to know how they told friend from foe. People just seemed to shout a lot and swing huge swords and battle axes at random. On the other hand, anyone you managed to hit instantly became your foe, so it probably all came out right in the long run. The point was that people were dying and acts of incredibly stupid heroism were being performed.
SQUEAK.
The Death of Rats pointed urgently downward.
“Gee…down.”
Binky settled on a small hillock.
“Er…right,” said Susan. She pulled the scythe out of its holster. The blade sprang into life.
It wasn’t hard to spot the souls of the dead. They were coming off the battlefield arm in arm, friend and hitherto foe alike, laughing and stumbling, straight toward her.
Susan dismounted. And concentrated.
“ER,” she said, “ANYONE HERE BEEN KILLED AND CALLED VOLF?”
Behind her, the Death of Rats put its head in its paws.
“ER. HELLO?”
No one took any notice. The warriors trooped past. They were forming a line on the edge of the battlefield, and appeared to be waiting for something.
She didn’t have to…do…all of them. Albert had tried to explain, but a memory had unfolded anyway. She just had to do some , determined by timing or historical importance, and that meant all the others happened; all she had to do was keep the momentum going.
“You got to be more assertive,” said the raven, who had alighted on a rock. “That’s the trouble with women in the professions. Not assertive enough.”
“Why’d you want to come here?” she said.
“This is a battlefield, isn’t it,” said the raven patiently. “You’ve got to have ravens afterward.” Its freewheeling eyes swiveled in its head. “Carrion regardless, as you might say.”
“You mean everyone gets eaten?”
“Part of the miracle of nature,” said the raven.
“That’s horrible,” said Susan. Black birds were already circling in the sky.
“Not really,” said the raven. “Horses for courses, you
“Not a chance!” he chortled. “Heh heh! It’s in the cat basket! I left all me money to the cat!”
Susan looked around. The cat was watching them anxiously from behind the washstand.
Susan felt some response was called for.
“That was very…kind of you…” she said.
“Hah! Mangy thing! Thirteen years of sleepin’ and crappin’ and waiting for the next meal to turn up? Never took half an hour’s exercise in his big fat life. Up until they find the will, anyway. Then he’s going to be the richest, fastest cat in the world—”
The voice faded. So did its owner.
“What a dreadful old man,” said Susan.
She looked down at the Death of Rats, who was trying to make faces at the cat.
“What’ll happen to him?”
SQUEAK.
“Oh.” Behind them, a former mourner tipped a drawer out onto the floor. The cat was beginning to tremble.
Susan stepped out through the wall.
Clouds curled behind Binky like a wake.
“Well, that wasn’t too bad. I mean, no blood or anything. And he was very old and not very nice.”
“That’s all right, then, is it?”
The raven landed on her shoulder.
“What’re you doing here?”
“Rat Death here said I could have a lift. I’ve got an appointment.”
SQUEAK.
The Death of Rats poked its nose out of the saddlebag.
“Are we a cab service?” said Susan coldly.
The rat shrugged and pushed a lifetimer into her hand.
Susan read the name etched on the glass.
“Volf Volfssonssonssonsson? Sounds a bit Hublandish to me.”
SQUEAK.
The Death of Rats clambered up Binky’s mane and took up station between the horse’s ears, tiny robe flapping in the wind.
Binky cantered low over a battlefield. It wasn’t a major war, just an intertribal scuffle. Nor were there any obvious armies—the fighters seemed to be two groups of individuals, some on horseback, who happened coincidentally to be on the same side. Everyone was dressed in the same sort of furs and exciting leatherwear, and Susan was at a loss to know how they told friend from foe. People just seemed to shout a lot and swing huge swords and battle axes at random. On the other hand, anyone you managed to hit instantly became your foe, so it probably all came out right in the long run. The point was that people were dying and acts of incredibly stupid heroism were being performed.
SQUEAK.
The Death of Rats pointed urgently downward.
“Gee…down.”
Binky settled on a small hillock.
“Er…right,” said Susan. She pulled the scythe out of its holster. The blade sprang into life.
It wasn’t hard to spot the souls of the dead. They were coming off the battlefield arm in arm, friend and hitherto foe alike, laughing and stumbling, straight toward her.
Susan dismounted. And concentrated.
“ER,” she said, “ANYONE HERE BEEN KILLED AND CALLED VOLF?”
Behind her, the Death of Rats put its head in its paws.
“ER. HELLO?”
No one took any notice. The warriors trooped past. They were forming a line on the edge of the battlefield, and appeared to be waiting for something.
She didn’t have to…do…all of them. Albert had tried to explain, but a memory had unfolded anyway. She just had to do some , determined by timing or historical importance, and that meant all the others happened; all she had to do was keep the momentum going.
“You got to be more assertive,” said the raven, who had alighted on a rock. “That’s the trouble with women in the professions. Not assertive enough.”
“Why’d you want to come here?” she said.
“This is a battlefield, isn’t it,” said the raven patiently. “You’ve got to have ravens afterward.” Its freewheeling eyes swiveled in its head. “Carrion regardless, as you might say.”
“You mean everyone gets eaten?”
“Part of the miracle of nature,” said the raven.
“That’s horrible,” said Susan. Black birds were already circling in the sky.
“Not really,” said the raven. “Horses for courses, you
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