DON'T LET IT UPSET YOU.
Verence watched his own stiff corpse being carried reverentially from the hall.
'I'll try,' he said.
GOOD MAN.
'I don't think I will be up to all that business with the white sheets and the chains, though,' he said. 'Do I have to walk around moaning and screaming?'
Death shrugged. DO YOU WANT TO? he said.
'No.'
THEN I SHOULDN'T BOTHER, IF I WERE YOU. Death pulled an hour-glass from the recesses of his dark robe and inspected it closely.
AND NOW I REALLY MUST BE GOING, he said. He turned on his heel, put his scythe over his shoulder and started to walk out of the hall through the wall.
'I say? Just hold on there!' shouted Verence, running after him.
Death didn't look back. Verence followed him through the wall; it was like walking through fog.
'Is that all?' he demanded. 'I mean, how long will I be a ghost? Why am I a ghost? You can't just leave me like this.' He halted and raised an imperious, slightly transparent finger. 'Stop! I command you!'
Death shook his head gloomily, and stepped through the next wall. The king hurried after him with as much dignity as he could still muster, and found Death fiddling with the girths of a large white horse standing on the battlements. It was wearing a nosebag.
'You can't leave me like this!' he repeated, in the face of the evidence.
Death turned to him.
I CAN, he said. YOU'RE UNDEAD, YOU SEE. GHOSTS INHABIT A WORLD BETWEEN THE LIVING AND THE DEAD. IT'S NOT MY RESPONSIBILITY. He patted the king on the shoulder. DON'T WORRY, he said, IT WON'T BE FOREVER.
'Good.'
IT MAY SEEM LIKE FOREVER.
'How long will it really be?'
UNTIL YOU HAVE FULFILLED YOUR DESTINY, I ASSUME.
'And how will I know what my destiny is?' said the king, desperately.
CAN'T HELP THERE. I'M SORRY.
'Well, how can I find out?'
THESE THINGS GENERALLY BECOME APPARENT, I UNDERSTAND, said Death, and swung himself into the saddle.
'And until then I have to haunt this place.' King Verence stared around at the draughty battlements. 'All alone, I suppose. Won't anyone be able to see me?'
OH, THE PSYCHICALLY INCLINED. CLOSE RELATIVES. AND CATS, OF COURSE.
'I hate cats.'
Death's face became a little stiffer, if that were possible. The blue glow in his eye sockets flickered red for an instant.
I SEE, he said. The tone suggested that death was too good for cat-haters. YOU LIKE GREAT BIG DOGS, I IMAGINE.
'As a matter of fact, I do.' The king stared gloomily at the dawn. His dogs. He'd really miss his dogs. And it looked like such a good hunting day.