Reaper Man

When he turned the blade, it made a noise like whommmm. The fires of the forge were barely alive now, but the blade glowed with razor light.

"Sharpened on silk," said Miss Flitworth. ‘Who'd believe it?"

AND STILL BLUNT.

Bill Door looked around the dark forge, and then darted into a corner.

"What have you found?"

COBWEB.

There was a long thin whine, like the torturing of ants.

"Any good?"

STILL TOO BLUNT.

She watched Bill Door stride out of the forge, and scuttled after him. He went and stood in the middle of the yard, holding the scythe blade edge-on to the faint, dawn breeze.

It hummed.

"How sharp can a blade get, for goodness' sake?"

IT CAN GET SHARPER THAN THIS.

Down in his henhouse, Cyril the cockerel awoke and stared blearily at the treacherous letters chalked on the board. He took a deep breath.

"Floo-acockle-dod!"

Bill Door glanced at the rimward horizon and then, speculatively, at the little hill behind the house.

He jerked forward, legs clicking over the ground.

The new daylight sloshed on to the world. Discworld light is old, slow and heavy; it roared across the landscape like a cavalry charge. The occasional valley slowed it for a moment and here and there, a mountain range banked it up until it poured over the top and down the far slope.

It moved across a sea, surged up the beach and accelerated over the plains, driven by the lash of the sun.

On the fabled hidden continent of Xxxx, somewhere near the rim, there is a lost colony of wizards who wear corks around their pointy hats and live on nothing but prawns. There, the light is still wild and fresh as it rolls in from space, and the surf on the boiling interface between night and day.

If one of them had been carried thousands of miles inland on the dawn, he might have seen, as the light thundered over the high plains, a stick figure toiling up a low hill in the path of the morning.

It reached the top a moment before the light arrived, took a breath, and then spun around in a crouch, grinning.

It held a long blade upright between extended arms.

Light struck... split... slid...

Not that the wizard would have paid much attention, because he'd be too busy worrying about the five-thousand-mile walk back home.

Miss Flitworth panted up as the new day streamed past.

Bill Door was absolutely still, only the blade moving between his fingers as he angled it against the light. Finally he seemed satisfied.

He turned around and swished it experimentally through the air.

Miss Flitworth stuck her hands on her hips. "Oh, come on," she said, "No-one can sharpen a blade on daylight! How can you sharpen something..."

She paused.

He waved the blade again.

"Good grief."

Down in the yard. Cyril stretched his bald neck for another 90. Bill Door grinned, and swung the blade towards the sound.

"Su-doodle-riod!"

Then he lowered the blade.

THAT'S SHARP.

His grin faded, or at least faded as much as it was able to.

Miss Flitworth turned, following the line of his gaze until it intersected a haze over the cornfields.

It looked like a pale grey robe, empty but still somehow maintaining the shape of its wearer, as if a garment on a washing line was catching the breeze.

It wavered for a moment, and then vanished.

"I saw it," said Miss Flitworth.

THAT WASN'T IT. THAT WAS THEM.

"Them who?"

THEY'RE LIKE - Bill Door waved a hand vaguely - SERVANTS. WATCHERS. AUDITORS. INSPECTORS.

Miss Flitworth's eyes narrowed.

"Inspectors? You mean like the Revenoo?" she said.

I SUPPOSE SO-

Miss Flitworth's face lit up.

"Why didn't you say?"

I'M SORRY?

"My father always made me promise never to help the Revenoo. Even just thinking about the Revenoo, he said, made him want to go and have a lie down. He said that there was death and taxes, and taxes was worse, because at least death didn't happen to you every year. We had to go out of the room when he really got started about the Revenoo. Nasty creatures. Always poking around asking what you've got hidden under the woodpile and behind the secret panels in the cellar and other stuff which is no concern whatsoever of anyone."

She sniffed.

Bill Door was impressed. Miss Flitworth could actually give the word "revenue", which had two vowels and one diphthong, all the peremptoriness of the word "scum".

"You should have said that they were after you right from the start. " said Miss Flitworth. "The Revenoo aren't popular in these parts, you know. In my father's day, any Revenooer came around here prying around by himself, we used to tie weights to their feet and heave ‘em into the pond."

BUT THE POND IS ONLY A FEW INCHES DEEP, MISS FLITWORTH.

"Yeah, but it was fun watching ‘em find out. You should have said. Everyone thought you were to do with taxes."

NO. NOT TAXES.

"Well, well. I didn't know there was a Revenoo Up There, too."

YES. IN A WAY.

She sidled closer.

"When will he come?"

TONIGHT. I CANNOT BE EXACT. TWO PEOPLE ARE LIVING ON THE SAME TIMER. IT MAKES THINGS UNCERTAIN.

"I didn't know people could give people some of their life."

IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME.

"Are you're sure about tonight?"

YES.