Reaper Man

Smoke curled formlessly between the robe and a golden crown.

Bill Door raised himself on his elbows.

A CROWN? His voice shook with rage. I NEVER WORE A CROWN!

You never wanted to rule.

The Death swung the scythe back.

And then it dawned on the old Death and the new Death that the hissing of passing time had not, in fact, stopped.

The new Death hesitated, and took out the golden glass.

It shook it.

Bill Door looked into the empty face under the crown. There was an expression of puzzlement there, even with no features actually to wear it; the expression hung in the air all by itself.

He saw the crown turn.

Miss Flitworth stood with her hands held a foot apart and her eyes closed. Between her hands, in the air in front of her hovered the faint outline of a lifetimer, its sand pouring away in a torrent.

The Deaths could just make out, on the glass the spidery name: Renata Flitworth.

The new Death's featureless expression became one of terminal puzzlement. It turned to Bill Door.

For YOU?

But Bill Door was already rising and unfolding like the wrath of kings. He reached behind him, growling, living on loaned time, and his hands closed around the harvest scythe.

The crowned Death saw it coming and raised its own weapon but there was very possibly nothing in the world that would stop the worn blade as it snarled through the air, rage arid vengeance giving it an edge beyond any definition of sharpness. It passed through the metal without slowing.

NO CROWN, said Bill Door, looking directly into the smoke. NO CROWN. ONLY THE HARVEST.

The robe folded up around his blade. There was a thin wail, rising beyond the peak of hearing. A black column, like the negative of lightning, flashed up from the ground and disappeared into the clouds.

Death waited for a moment, and then gingerly gave the robe a prod with his foot. The crown, bent slightly out of shape, rolled out of it a little way before evaporating.

OH, he said, dismissively. DRAMA. He walked over to Miss Flitworth and gently pressed her hands together. The image of the lifetimer disappeared.

The blue-and-violet fog on the edge of sight faded as solid reality flowed back.

Down in the town, the clock finished striking midnight.

The old woman was shivering. Death snapped his fingers in front of her eyes.

MISS FLITWORTH? RENATA?

"I - I didn't know what to do and you said it wasn't difficult and -"

Death walked into the barn. When he came out, he was wearing his black robe.

She was still standing there.

"I didn't know what to do," she repeated, possibly not to him. "What happened? Is it all over?"

Death looked around. The grey shapes were pouring into the yard. POSSIBLY NOT, he said.

More trolleys appeared behind the row of soldiers. They looked like the small silvery workers with the occasional pale golden gleam of a warrior.

"We should retreat back to the stairs," said Doreen.

"I think that's where they want us to go," said Windle.

"Then that's fine by me. Anyway, I vouldn't think those wheels could manage steps, could they?"

"And you can't exactly fight to the death," said Ludmilla. Lupine was keeping close to her, yellow eyes fixed on the slowly advancing wheels.

"Chance would be a fine thing," said Windle. They reached the moving stairs. He looked up. Trolleys clustered around the top of the upward stair, but the way to the floor below looked clear.

"Perhaps we could find another way up?" said Ludmilla hopefully.

They shuffled on to the moving stair. Behind them, the trolleys moved in to block their return.

The wizards were on the floor below. They werestanding so still among the potted plants and fountains that Windle passed them at first, assuming that they were some sort of statue or piece of esoteric furniture.

The Archchancellor had a false red nose and was holding some balloons. Beside him, the Bursar was juggling coloured balls, but like a machine, his eyes staring blankly at nothing.

The Senior Wrangler was standing a little way off, wearing a pair of sandwich boards. The writing on them hadn't fully ripened yet, but Windle would have bet his afterlife that it would eventually say something like SALE!!!!

The other wizards were clustered together like dolls whose clockwork hadn't been wound up. Each one had a large oblong badge on his robe. The familiar organic-looking writing was growing into a word that looked like:

I K Y

although why it was doing so was a complete mystery. The wizards certainly didn't look very secure.

Windle snapped his fingers in front of the Dean's pale eyes. There was no response.

"He's not dead," said Reg.

"Just resting," said Windle. "Switched off."

Reg gave the Dean a push. The wizard tottered forward, and then staggered to a precarious, swaying halt.

"Well, we'll never get them out," said Arthur. "Not like that. Can't you wake them up?"

"Light a feather under their nose," Doreen volunteered.