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.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘He’s gone.’
‘I thought we were going to be here all day,’ said the woman next to him, standing up. ‘Did you see that wretched old cat move? Animals can tell, you know. They’ve got this sixth sense.’
SNH, SNH, SNH.
‘Well, come on there, I know you’re here somewhere,’ said the corpse. It sat up.
Susan was familiar with the idea of ghosts. But she hadn’t expected it to be like this. She hadn’t expected the ghosts to be the living, but they were merely pale sketches in the air compared to the old man sitting up in bed. He looked solid enough, but a blue glow outlined him.
‘One hundred and seven years, eh?’ he cackled. ‘I expect I had you worried for a while there. Where are you?’
‘Er, HERE,’ said Susan.
‘Female, eh?’ said the old man. ‘Well, well, well.’
He slid off the bed, spectral nightshirt flapping, and was suddenly pulled up short as though he’d reached the end of a chain. This was more or less the case; a thin line of blue light still tethered him to his late habitation.
The Death of Rats jumped up and down on the pillow, making urgent slashing movements with its scythe.
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Susan, and sliced. The blue line snapped with a high-pitched, crystalline twang.
Around them, sometimes walking through them, were the mourners. Mourning seemed to have stopped, now the old man had died. The pinch-faced man was feeling under the mattress.
‘Look at ’em,’ said the old man nastily. ‘Poor ole Grandad, sob, sob, sorely missed, we won’t see his like again, where did the ole bugger leave his will? That’s my youngest son, that is. Well, if you can call a card every Hogswatchnight a son. See his wife? Got a smile like a wave on a slop bucket. And she ain’t the worst of ’em. Relatives? You can keep ’em. I only stayed alive out of mischief.’
A couple of people were exploring under the bed. There was a humorous porcelain clang. The old man capered behind them, making gestures.
‘Not a chance!’ he chortled. ‘Heh heh! It’s in the cat basket! I left all the 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 on to 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 inter-tribal 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 battleaxes 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 towards 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 afterwards.’ Its freewheeling eyes swivelled 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 might say.’
One side, if that’s what you could call it, was fleeing the field of battle with the others in pursuit.
The birds started to settle on what was, Susan realized with horror, an early breakfast. Soft bits, sunny side up.
‘You’d better go and look for your lad,’ said the raven. ‘Otherwise he’ll miss his ride.’
‘What ride?’
The eyes orbited again.
‘You ever learn mythology?’ it said.
‘No. Miss Butts says it’s just made-up stories with little literary content.’
‘Ah. Deary me. Can’t have that, can we? Oh, well. You’ll soon see. Must rush.’ The raven leapt into the air. ‘I generally try to get a seat near the head.’
‘What will I-‘
And then someone started to sing. The voice swooped out of the sky like a sudden wind. It was a rather good mezzo-soprano
‘Hi-jo-to! Ho! Hi-jo-to! Ho!’
And after it, mounted on a horse almost as fine as Binky, was a woman. Very definitely. A lot of woman. She was as much woman as you could get in one place without getting two women. She was dressed in chain mail, a shiny 46-D-cup breastplate, and a helmet with horns on it.
The assembled dead cheered as the horse cantered in for a landing. There were six other singing horsewomen plunging out of the sky behind it.
‘Isn’t it always the same?’ said the raven, flapping away. ‘You can wait hours without seeing one and then you get seven all at once.’
Susan watched in astonishment as each rider picked up a dead warrior and galloped up into the sky again. They disappeared abruptly a few hundred yards up and reappeared again almost instantly for a fresh passenger. Soon there was a busy shuttle service operating.
After a minute or two one of the women trotted
her horse over to Susan and pulled a scroll of parchment out of her breastplate.
‘What ho! Says here Volf,’ she said, in the brisk voice used by people on horseback when addressing mere pedestrians. ‘Volf the Lucky . . . ?’