Reaper Man (26 page)

Windle shook his head sadly. Five exclamation marks, the sure sign of an insane mind.

And then he heard the music.

Lupine sat back on his haunches and howled.

In the cellar under Mrs. Cake’s house, Schleppel the bogeyman paused halfway through his third rat and listened.

Then he finished his meal and reached for his door.

Count Arthur Winkings Notfaroutoe was working on the crypt.

Personally, he could have lived, or re-lived, or unlived, or whatever it was he was supposed to be doing, without a crypt. But you had to have a crypt. Doreen had been very definite about the crypt. It gave the place
ton
, she said. You had to have a crypt
and
a vault, otherwise the rest of vampire society would look down their teeth at you.

They never told you about that sort of thing when you started vampiring. They never told you to build your own crypt out of some cheap two-by-four from Chalky the Troll’s Wholesale Building Supplies. It wasn’t something that happened to most vampires, Arthur reflected. Not your
proper
vampires. Your actual Count Jugular, for example. No, a toff like him’d have someone for it. When the villagers came to burn the place down, you wouldn’t catch the Count his own self whipping down to the gate to drop the drawbridge. Oh, no. He’d just say, “Igor”—as it might be—“Igor, just svort it out, chop chop.”

Huh. Well, they’d had an advert in Mr. Keeble’s job shop for months now. Bed, three meals a day, and hump provided if necessary. Not so much as an enquiry. And People said there was all this unemployment around. It made you livid.

He picked up another piece of wood and measured it, grimacing as he unfolded the ruler.

Arthur’s back ached from digging the moat. And that was another thing your posh vampire didn’t have to worry about. The moat came with the job, style of thing. And it went all the way round, because other vampires didn’t have the street out in front of them and old Mrs. Pivey complaining on one side and a family of trolls Doreen wasn’t speaking to on the other and therefore they didn’t end up with a moat that just went across the back yard. Arthur kept falling in it.

And then there was the biting the necks of young women. Or rather, there wasn’t. Arthur was always prepared to see the other person’s point of view, but he felt certain that young women came into the vampiring somewhere, whatever Doreen said. In diaphanous pegnoyers. Arthur wasn’t quite certain what a diaphanous pegnoyer was, but he’d read about them and he definitely felt that he’d like to see one before he died…or whatever…

And other vampires didn’t suddenly find their wives talking with Vs instead of Ws. The reason being, your natural vampire talked like that anyway.

Arthur sighed.

It was no life, or half-life or after-life or whatever it was, being a lower-middle-class wholesale fruit and vegetable merchant with an upper-class condition.

And then the music filtered in through the hole in the wall that he’d knocked out to put in the barred window.

“Ow,” he said, and clutched at his jaw. “Doreen?”

Reg Shoe thumped his portable podium.

“—and, let me say, we shall not lie back and let the grass grow over our heads,” he bellowed. “So what is your seven-point plan for Equal Opportunities with the living, I hear you cry?”

The wind blew the dried grasses in the cemetery. The only creature apparently paying any attention to Reg was a solitary raven.

Reg Shoe shrugged and lowered his voice. “You might at least make some effort,” he said, to the next world at large. “Here’s me wearing my fingers to the bone”—he flexed his hands to demonstrate—“and do I hear a word of thanks?”

He paused, just in case.

The raven, which was one of the extra large, fat ones that infested the rooftops of the University, put its head on one side and gave Reg Shoe a thoughtful look.

“You know,” said Reg, “sometimes I just feel like giving up—”

The raven cleared its throat.

Reg Shoe spun around.

“You say one word,” he said, “just one bloody
word
…”

And then he heard the music.

Ludmilla risked removing her hands from her ears.

“It’s horrible! What is it, Mr. Poons?”

Windle tried to pull the remains of his hat over his ears.

“Don’t know,” he said. “It
could
be music. If you’d never heard music before.”

There weren’t notes. There were strung-together noises that might have been intended to be notes, put together as one might draw a map of a country that one had never seen.

Hnyip. Ynyip. Hwyomp.

“It’s coming from outside the city,” said Ludmilla. “Where all the people…are…going…They can’t
like
it, can they?”

“I can’t imagine why they should,” said Windle.

“It’s just that…you remember the trouble with the rats last year? That man who said he had a pipe that played music only rats could hear?”

“Yes, but that wasn’t really true, it was all a fraud, it was just the Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents—”

“But supposing it
could
have been true?”

Windle shook his head.

“Music to attract humans? Is that what you’re getting at? But that can’t be true. It’s not attracting
us
. Quite the reverse, I assure you.”

“Yes, but you’re not human…exactly,” said Ludmilla. “And—” She stopped, and went red in the face.

Windle patted her on the shoulder.

“Good point. Good point,” was all he could think of to say.

“You know, don’t you,” she said, without looking up.

“Yes. I don’t think it’s anything to be ashamed of, if that’s any help.”

“Mother said it would be dreadful if anyone ever found out!”

“That probably depends on who it is,” said Windle, glancing at Lupine.

“Why is your dog staring at me like that?” said Ludmilla.

“He’s very intelligent,” said Windle.

Windle felt in his pocket, tipped out a couple of handfuls of soil, and unearthed his diary. Twenty days to next full moon. Still, it’d be something to look forward to.

The metal debris of the heap started to collapse. Trolleys whirred around it, and a large crowd of Ankh-Morpork’s citizens were standing in a big circle, trying to peer inside. The unmusical music filled the air.

“There’s Mr. Dibbler,” said Ludmilla, as they pushed their way through the unresisting people.

“What’s he selling this time?”

“I don’t think he’s trying to sell anything, Mr. Poons.”

“It’s that bad? Then we’re probably in lots of trouble.”

Blue light shone out from one of the holes in the heap. Bits of broken trolley tinkled to the ground like metal leaves.

Windle bent down stiffly and picked up a pointy hat. It was battered and had been run over by a lot of trolleys, but it was still recognizable as something that by rights should be on someone’s head.

“There’s wizards in there,” he said.

Silver light glittered off the metal. It moved like oil. Windle reached out and a fat spark jumped across and grounded itself on his fingers.

“Hmm,” he said. “Lot of potential, too—”

Then he heard the cry of the vampires.

“Coo-ee, Mr. Poons!”

He turned. The Notfaroutoes were bearing down on him.

“We—I mean, Ve vould have been here sooner, only—”

“—I couldn’t find the blasted collar stud,” muttered Arthur, looking hot and flustered. He was wearing a collapsible opera hat, which was fine on the collapsible part but regrettably lacking in hatness, so that Arthur appeared to be looking at the world from under a concertina.

“Oh, hallo,” said Windle. There was something dreadfully fascinating about the Winkings’ dedication to accurate vampirism.

“Unt who iss the yunk laty?” said Doreen, beaming at Ludmilla.

“Pardon?” said Windle.

“Vot?”

“Doreen—I mean, the
Countess
asked who she is,” Arthur supplied, wearily.

“
I
understood what I said,” snapped Doreen, in the more normal tones of one born and brought up in Ankh-Morpork rather than some transylvanian fastness. “Honestly, if I left it to you, we’d have no standards at all—”

“My name’s Ludmilla,” said Ludmilla.

“Charmed,” said the Countess Notfaroutoe graciously, extending a hand that would have been thin and pale if it had not been pink and stubby. “Alvays nice to meet fresh blood. If you ever fancy a dog biscuit when you’re out and about, our door iss alwace open.”

Ludmilla turned to Windle Poons.

“It’s not written on my forehead, is it?” she said.

“These are a special kind of people,” said Windle gently.

“I should think so,” said Ludmilla, levelly. “I hardly know anyone who wears an opera cloak the whole time.”

“You’ve got to have the cloak,” said Count Arthur. “For the wings, you see. Like—”

He spread the cloak dramatically. There was a brief, implosive noise, and a small fat bat hung in the air. It looked down, gave an angry squeak, and nose-dived onto the soil. Doreen picked it up by its feet and dusted it off.

“It’s having to sleep with the window open all night that I object to,” she said vaguely. “I wish they’d stop that music! I’m getting a headache.”

There was another
whoomph
. Arthur reappeared upside down and landed on his head.

“It’s the drop, you see,” said Doreen. “It’s like a run-up, sort of thing. If he doesn’t get at least a one-story start he can’t get up a proper airspeed.”

“I can’t get a proper airspeed,” said Arthur, struggling to his feet.

“Excuse me,” said Windle, “The music doesn’t affect you?”

“It puts my teeth on edge is what it does,” said Arthur. “Which is not a good thing for a vampire, I prob’ly don’t have to tell you.”

“Mr. Poons thinks it does something to people,” said Ludmilla.

“Sets everyone’s teeth on edge?” said Arthur.

Windle looked at the crowd. No one was taking any notice of the Fresh Starters.

“They look as though they’re waiting for something,” said Doreen. “Vaiting, I mean.”

“It’s scary,” said Ludmilla.

“Nothing wrong with scary,” said Doreen. “
We’re
scary.”

“Mr. Poons wants to go inside the heap,” said Ludmilla.

“Good idea. Get them to turn that damn music off,” said Arthur.

“But you could get killed!” said Ludmilla.

Windle clapped his hands together, and rubbed them thoughtfully.

“Ah,” he said, “that’s where we’re ahead of the game.”

He walked into the glow.

He’d never seen such bright light. It seemed to emanate from everywhere, hunting down every last shadow and eradicating it ruthlessly. It was much brighter than daylight without being anything like it—there was a blue edge to it that cut vision like a knife.

“You all right, Count?” he said.

“Fine, fine,” said Arthur.

Lupine growled.

Ludmilla pulled at a tangle of metal.

“There’s something under this, you know. It looks like…marble. Orange-colored marble.” She ran her hand over it. “But warm. Marble shouldn’t be warm, should it?”

“It can’t be marble. There can’t be this much marble in the whole world…vorld,” said Doreen. “We tried to get marble for the vault,” she tasted the sound of the word and nodded to herself, “the vault, yes. Those dwarfs should be shot, the prices they charge. It’s a disgrace.”

“I don’t think dwarfs built this,” said Windle. He knelt down awkwardly to examine the floor.

“I shouldn’t think so, the lazy little buggers. They wanted nearly seventy dollars to do our vault. Didn’t they, Arthur?”

“Nearly seventy dollars,” said Arthur.

“I don’t think anyone built it,” said Windle quietly. Cracks. There should be cracks, he thought. Edges and things, where one slab joins another. It shouldn’t be all one piece. And slightly sticky.

“So, Arthur did it himself.”

“I did it myself.”

Ah. Here was an edge. Well, not exactly an edge. The marble became clear, like a window, looking into another brightly lit space. There were things in there, indistinct and melted-looking, but no way in to them.

The chatter of the Winkings flowed over him as he crept forward.

“—more of a vaultette, really. But he got a dungeon in, even if you have to go out into the hall to shut the door properly—”

Gentility meant all sorts of things, Windle thought. To some people it was
not
being a vampire. To others it was a matched set of flying plaster bats on the wall.

He ran his fingers over the clear substance. The world here was all rectangles. There were corners, and the corridor was lined on both sides with the clear panels. And the non-music played all the time.

It
couldn’t
be alive, could it? Life was…more rounded.

“What do you think, Lupine?” he said.

Lupine barked.

“Hmm. Not a lot of help.”

Ludmilla knelt down and put her hand on Windle’s shoulder.

“What did you mean, no one built it?” she said.

Windle scratched his head.

“I’m not sure…but I think maybe it was…secreted.”

“Secreted? From what?
By
what?”

They looked up. A trolley whirred out of the mouth of a side corridor and skidded away down another on the opposite side of the passage.

“Them?”
said Ludmilla.

“I shouldn’t think so. I think they’re more like servants. Like ants. Bees in a hive, maybe.”

“What’s the honey?”

“Not sure. But it’s not ripe yet. I don’t think things are quite finished. No one touch
anything
.”

They walked onward. The passage opened up into a wide, bright, domed area. Stairways led up and down to different floors, and there was a fountain and a grove of potted plants that looked too healthy to be real.

“Isn’t it nice?” said Doreen.

“You keep thinking there should be people,” said Ludmilla. “Lots of people.”

“There should at least be wizards,” muttered Windle Poons. “Half a dozen wizards don’t just disappear.”

The five of them moved closer. Passages the size of the one they’d just walked down could have accommodated a couple of elephants walking abreast.

“Do you think it might be a good idea to go back outside?” said Doreen.

“What good would that do?” said Windle.

“Well, it’d get us out of here.”

Windle turned, counting. Five of the passages radiated equidistantly out of the domed area.

“And presumably it’s the same above and below,” he said aloud.

“It’s very clean here,” Doreen said nervously. “Isn’t it clean, Arthur?”

“It’s very clean.”

“What’s that noise?” said Ludmilla.

“What noise?”

“That noise. Like something sucking something.”

Arthur looked around with a certain amount of interest.

“It’s not me.”

“It’s the stairs,” said Windle.

“Don’t be silly, Mr. Poons. Stairs don’t suck.”

Windle looked down.

“These do.”

They were black, like a sloping river. As the dark substance flowed out from under the floor it humped itself into something resembling steps, which traveled up the slope until they disappeared under the floor again, somewhere above. When the steps emerged they made a slow, rhythmic shlupshlup noise, like someone investigating a particularly annoying dental cavity.

“Do you know,” said Ludmilla, “that’s quite possibly the most unpleasant thing I’ve ever seen?”

“I’ve seen worse,” said Windle. “But it’s pretty bad. Shall we go up or down?”

“You want to
stand
on them?”

“No. But the wizards aren’t on this floor and it’s that or slide down the handrail. Have you looked closely at the handrail?”

They looked at the handrail.

“I think,” said Doreen nervously, “that
down
is more us.”

They went down in silence. Arthur fell over at the point where the traveling stairs were sucked into the floor again.

“I had this horrible feeling it was going to drag me under,” he said apologetically, and then looked around him.

“It’s big,” he concluded. “Roomy. I could do wonders down here with some stone-effect wallpaper.”

Ludmilla wandered over to the nearest wall.

“You know,” she said, “there’s more glass than I’ve seen before, but these clear bits look like shops. Does that make sense? A great big shop full of shops?”

“And not ripe yet,” said Windle.

“Sorry?”

“Just thinking aloud. Can you see what the merchandise is?”

Ludmilla shaded her eyes.

“It just looks like a lot of color and glitter.”

“Let me know if you see a wizard.”

Someone screamed.

“Or hear one, for example,” Windle added.

Lupine bounded off down a passageway. Windle lurched swiftly after him.

Someone was on their back, trying desperately to fight off a couple of the trolleys. They were bigger than the ones Windle had seen before, with a golden sheen to them.

“Hey!” he yelled.

They stopped trying to gore the prone figure and three-point-turned toward him.

“Oh,” he said, as they got up speed.

The first one dodged Lupine’s jaws and butted Windle full in the knees, knocking him over. As the second passed over him he reached up wildly, grabbed randomly at the metal, and pulled hard. A wheel spun off and the trolley cartwheeled into the wall.

He scrambled up in time to see Arthur hanging grimly onto the handle of the other trolley as the two of them whirred around in a mad centrifugal waltz.

“Let go! Let go!” Doreen screamed.

“I can’t! I can’t!”

“Well, do
something
!”

There was a pop of inrushing air. The trolley was suddenly not straining against the weight of a middle-aged wholesale fruit and vegetable entrepreneur but only against a small terrified bat. It rocketed into a marble pillar, bounced off, hit a wall and landed on its back, wheels spinning.

“The wheels!” shouted Ludmilla. “Pull the wheels off!”

“I’ll do that,” said Windle. “You help Reg.”

“Is that
Reg
down there?” said Doreen.

Windle jerked his thumb toward the distant wall. The words “Better late than nev” ended in a desperate streak of paint.