Soul Music by Terry Pratchett Page B

respectfully.
    â€˜â€™Evenin’, your lordship,’ he said.
    â€˜ ER . . . GOOD EVENING. ’
    The guards watched the horse walk out of sight.
    â€˜Some poor bugger’s in for it, then,’ said Sergeant Colon.
    â€˜He’s dedicated, you got to admit it,’ said Nobby. ‘Out at all hours. Always got time for people.’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    The guards stared into the velvety dark. Something not quite right, thought Sergeant Colon.
    â€˜What’s his first name?’ said Nobby.
    They stared some more. Then Sergeant Colon, who still hadn’t quite been able to put his finger on it, said: ‘What do you mean, what’s his first name?’
    â€˜What’s his first name?’
    â€˜He’s Death,’ said the sergeant. ‘ Death . That’s his whole name. I mean . . . what do you mean? . . . You mean like . . . Keith Death?’
    â€˜Well, why not?’
    â€˜He’s just Death, isn’t he?’
    â€˜No, that’s just his job . What do his friends call him?’
    â€˜What do you mean, friends ?’
    â€˜All right. Please yourself.’
    â€˜Let’s go and get a hot rum.’
    â€˜I think he looks like a Leonard.’
    Sergeant Colon remembered the voice. That was it. Just for a moment there . . .
    â€˜I must be getting old,’ he said. ‘For a moment there I thought he sounded like a Susan.’
    â€˜I think they saw me,’ whispered Susan, as the horse rounded a corner.
    The Death of Rats poked its head out of her pocket.
    SQUEAK.
    â€˜I think we’re going to need that raven,’ said Susan. ‘I mean, I . . . think I understand you, I just don’t know what you’re saying . . .’
    Binky stopped outside a large house, set back a little from the road. It was a slightly pretentious residence with more gables and mullions than it should rightly have, and this was a clue to its origins: it was the kind of house built for himself by a rich merchant when he goes respectable and needs to do something with the loot.
    â€˜I’m not happy about this,’ said Susan. ‘It can’t possibly work . I’m human. I have to go to the toilet and things like that. I can’t just walk into people’s houses and kill them!’
    SQUEAK.
    â€˜All right, not kill. But it’s not good manners, however you look at it.’
    A sign on the door said: Tradesmen to rear entrance.
    â€˜Do I count as—’
    SQUEAK !
    Susan normally would never have dreamed of asking. She’d always seen herself as a person who went through the front doors of life.
    The Death of Rats scuttled up the path and through the door.
    â€˜Hang on! I can’t—’
    Susan looked at the wood. She could . Of course she could. More memories crystallized in front of her eyes. After all, it was only wood. It’d rot in a few hundred years. By the measure of infinity, it hardly existed at all. On average, considered over the lifetime of the multiverse, most things didn’t.
    She stepped forward. The heavy oak door offered as much resistance as a shadow.
    Grieving relatives were clustered around the bed where, almost lost in the pillows, was a wrinkled old man. At the foot of the bed, paying no attention whatsoever to the keening around it, was a large, very fat, ginger cat.
    SQUEAK.
    Susan looked at the hourglass. The last few grains tumbled through the pinch.
    The Death of Rats, with exaggerated caution, sneaked up behind the sleeping cat and kicked it hard. The animal awoke, turned, flattened its ears in terror, and leapt off the quilt.
    The Death of Rats sniggered.
    SNH, SNH, SNH.
    One of the mourners, a pinch-faced man, looked up. He peered at the sleeper.
    â€˜That’s it,’ he said. ‘He’s gone.’
    â€˜I thought we were going to be here all day,’ said the woman next to him, standing up. ‘Did you see