Soul Music (Discworld 16)

'Young Men's Reformed-Cultists-of-the-Ichor-God-BelShamharoth Association, Ankh- Morpork,' said Albert. 'It's where I stay if I have to go back down for anything. Soap and suchlike.'

'But you're not . . . a young man,' said Susan, unable to prevent herself. 'No-one argues,' he snapped. And Susan thought that was probably true. There was some kind of wiry strength in Albert, as if his whole body was a knuckle. 'He can make just about anything,' she said, half to herself, 'but some things he just doesn't understand, and one of them's plumbing.'

'Right. We had to get a plumber from Ankh-Morpork, hah, he said he might be able to make it a week next Thursday, and you don't say that kind of thing to the Master,' said Albert. 'I've never seen a bugger work so fast. Then the Master just made him forget. He can make everyone forget, except-' Albert stopped, and frowned. 'Seems I've got to put up with it, ' he said. 'Seems you've a right. I expect you're tired. You can stay here. There's plenty of rooms.'

'No, I've got to get back! There'll be terrible trouble if I'm not at school in the morning.'

'There's no Time here except what people brings with 'em. Things just happen one after the other. Binky'll take you right back to the time you left, if you like. But you ought to stop here a while.'

'You said there's a hole and I'm being sucked in. I don't know what that means.'

'You'll feel better after a sleep,' said Albert.

There was no real day or night here. That had given Albert trouble at first. There was just the bright landscape and, above, a black sky with stars. Death had never got the hang of day and night. When the house had human inhabitants it tended to keep a 26-hour day. Humans, left to themselves, adopt a longer diurnal rhythm than the 24-hour day, so they can be reset like a lot of little clocks at sunset. Humans have to put up with Time, but days are a sort of personal option. Albert went to bed whenever he remembered. Now he sat up, with one candle alight, staring into space. 'She remembered about the bathroom,' he muttered. 'And she knows about things she couldn't have seen. She couldn't have been told. She's got his memory. She inherited.' SQUEAK, said the Death of Rats. He tended to sit by the fire at nights. 'Last time he went off, people stopped dyin',' said Albert. 'But they ain't stopped dyin' this time. And the horse went to her. She's fillin' the hole.' Albert glared at the darkness. When he was agitated it showed by a sort of relentless chewing and sucking activity, as if he was trying to extract some forgotten morsel of teatime from the recesses of a tooth. Now he was making a noise like a hairdresser's U-bend. He couldn't remember ever having been young. It must have happened thousands of years ago. He was seventy-nine, but Time in Death's house was a reusable resource. He was vaguely aware that childhood was a tricky business, especially towards the end. There was all the business with pimples and bits of your body having a mind of their own. Running the executive arm of mortality was certainly an extra problem. But the point was, the horrible, inescapable point was, that someone had to do it. For, as has been said before, Death operated in general rather than particular terms, just like a monarchy. If you are a subject in a monarchy, you are ruled by the monarch. All the time. Waking or sleeping. Whatever you - or they - happen to be doing. It's part of the general conditions of the situation. The Queen doesn't actually have to come around to your actual house, hog the chair and the TV remote control, and issue actual commands about how one is parched and would enjoy a cup of tea. It all takes place automatically, like gravity. Except that, unlike gravity, it needs someone at the top. They don't necessarily have to do a great deal. They just have to be there. They just have to be. 'Her?' said Albert. SQUEAK. 'She'll crack soon enough,' said Albert. 'Oh, yes. You can't be an immortal and a mortal at the same time, it'll tear you in half. I almost feels sorry for her.' SQUEAK, agreed the Death of Rats. 'And that ain't the worst bit,' said Albert. 'You wait till her memory really starts working . . . SQUEAK. 'You listen to me,' said Albert. 'You'd better start looking for him right away.' Susan awoke, and had no idea what time it was. There was a clock by the bedside, because Death knew there should be things like bedside clocks. It had skulls and bones and the omega sign on it, and it didn't work. There were no working clocks in the house, except the special one in the hall. Any others got depressed and stopped, or unwound themselves all in one go. Her room looked as though someone had moved out yesterday. There were hairbrushes on the dressing table, and a few odds and ends of make-up. There was even a dressing-gown on the back of the door. It had a rabbit on the pocket. The cosy effect would have been improved if it hadn't been a skeletal one. She had a rummage through the drawers. This must have been her mother's room. There was a lot of pink. Susan had nothing against pink in moderation, but this wasn't it; she put on her

old school dress. The important thing, she decided, was to stay calm. There was always a logical explanation for everything, even if you had to make it up. SQEAUFF. The Death of Rats landed on the dressing table, claws scrabbling for a purchase. He removed the tiny scythe from his jaws. 'I think,' said Susan carefully, 'that I would like to go home now, thank you.' The little rat nodded, and leapt. It landed on the edge of the pink carpet and scurried away across the dark floor beyond. When Susan stepped off the carpet the rat stopped and looked around in approval. Once again, she felt she'd passed some sort of test. She followed it out into the hall and then into the smoky cavern of the kitchen. Albert was bent over the stove. 'Morning,' he said, out of habit rather than any acknowledgement of the time of day. 'You want fried bread with your sausages? There's porridge to follow.' Susan looked at the mess sizzling in the huge fryingpan. It wasn't a sight to be seen on an empty stomach, although it could probably cause one. Albert could make an egg wish it had never been laid. 'Haven't you got any muesli?' she said. 'Is that some kind of sausage?' said Albert suspiciously. 'It's nuts and grains.'

'Any fat in it?'

'I don't think so.'

'How're you supposed to fry it, then?'

'You don't fry it.'

'You call that breakfast?'

'It doesn't have to be fried to be breakfast,' said Susan. 'I mean, you mentioned porridge, and you don't fry porridge-'

'Who says?'

'A boiled egg, then?'

'Hah, boiling's no good, it don't kill off all the germs.'

'BOIL ME AN EGG, ALBERT.' As the echoes bounced across and died away, Susan wondered where the voice had come from. Albert's ladle tinkled on the tiles. 'Please?' said Susan. 'You did the voice,' said Albert. 'Don't bother about the egg,' said Susan. The voice had made her jaw ache. It worried her even more than it worried Albert. After all, it was her mouth. 'I want to go home!'

'You are home,' said Albert. 'This place? This isn't my home!'

'Yeah? What's the inscription on the big clock?' “'Too Late”,' said Susan promptly. 'Where are the beehives?'

'In the orchard.'

'How many plates've we got?'

'Seven-' Susan shut her mouth firmly. 'See? It's home to part of you,' said Albert. 'Look . . . Albert,' said Susan, trying sweet reason in case it worked any better this time round, 'maybe there is . . . someone. . . sort of . . . in charge of things, but I'm really no-one

special . . . I mean . . .'

'Yeah? How come the horse knows you?'

'Yes, but I really am just a normal girl-'

'Normal girls didn't get a My Little Binky set on their third birthday!' snapped Albert. 'Your dad took it away. The Master was very upset about that. He was trying.'

'I mean I'm an ordinary kid!'

'Listen, ordinary kids get a xylophone. They don't just ask their grandad to take his shirt off!'