Thud

Perhaps that poor sod of a dwarf had wandered through here. But he had found a way out. Maybe he knew the way, maybe he had a rope, maybe he was young and limber ... and so he'd got out, dying on his feet, and tucked the treasure out of the way, and then went down the valley, walking through his grave. That's how it could take people. He remembered Mrs Oldsburton, who went mad after her baby died, cleaning everything in the house, every cup, wall, ceiling and spoon, not seeing anybody or hearing anything, just working all day and all night. Something in the head went click and you found something to do, anything, to stop yourself thinking.

Best to stop thinking that the way out the dwarf had found had been the one Vimes had dropped in by, and he had no idea where that was now.

Maybe he could simply jump back in the water, knowing what he was doing this time, and maybe he'd make it all the way down to the river before the turbulent currents battered him to death. Maybe he

Why the hell had he let go of that rope? It had been like that little voice that whispers `Jump' when you're on a cliff edge, or `Touch the fire'. You didn't listen, of course. At least most people didn't, most of the time. Well, a voice had said `Let go, and he had ...

He shuffled on, aching and bleeding, while the dark curled its tail around him.

`He'll be back soon, you know,' said Sybil. `Even if it's at the very last minute.' Out in the hall, a big grandfather clock had just stopped chiming half past five.

`I'm sure he will,' said Bunty. They were bathing Young Sam.

`He's never late,' Sybil went on. `He says if you're late for a good reason you'll be late for a bad one. And it's only half past five, anyway.!

'Plenty of time,' Bunty agreed.

`Fred and Nobby did take the horses up to the valley, didn't they?' said Sybil.

`Yes, Sybil. You watched them go,' said Bunty. She looked over Sybil's head to the gaunt figure of her husband, who was standing in the hall doorway. He shrugged hopelessly.

`Only the other day he was running up the stairs as the clocks were striking six,' said Sybil, calmly soaping Young Sam with a sponge shaped like a teddy bear. `The very last second. You wait and see.'

He wanted to sleep. He'd never felt this tired before. Vimes slumped to his knees, and then fell sideways on to the sand.

When he forced open his eyes he saw pale stars above him, and had once again the sensation that there was someone else present.

He turned his head, wincing at the stab of pain, and saw a small but brightly lit folding chair on the sand. A robed figure was reclining in it, reading a book. A scythe was stuck in the sand beside it.

A white skeletal hand turned a page.

`You'll be Death, then?' said Vimes, after a while.

AH, MISTER VIMES, ASTUTE AS EVER. GOT IT IN ONE, said Death,

shutting the book on his finger to keep the place. `I've seen you before.'

I HAVE WALKED WITH YOU MANY TIMES, MISTER VIMES.

`And this is it, is it?'

HAS IT NEVER STRUCK YOU THAT THE CONCEPT OF A WRITTEN NARRATIVE IS SOMEWHAT STRANGE? said Death.

Vimes could tell when people were trying to avoid something they really didn't want to say, and it was happening here. `Is it?' he insisted. `Is this it? This time I die?'

COULD BE.

`Could be? What sort of answer is that?' said Vimes.

A VERY ACCURATE ONE. YOU SEE, YOU ARE HAVING A NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE, WHICH INESCAPABLY MEANS THAT I MUST UNDERGO A NEAR VIMES EXPERIENCE. DON'T MIND ME. CARRY ON WITH WHATEVER YOU WERE DOING. I HAVE A BOOK.

Vimes rolled over on to his stomach, gritted his teeth and pushed himself on to his hands and knees again. He managed a few yards before slumping back down.

He heard the sound of a chair being moved. `Shouldn't you be somewhere else?' he said.

I AM, said Death, sitting down again.

`But you're here!'

As WELL. Death turned a page and, for a person without breath,

managed a pretty good sigh. IT APPEARS THAT THE BUTLER DID IT.

`Did what?'

IT IS A MADE-UP STORY. VERY STRANGE. ALL ONE NEEDS DO IS TURN TO THE LAST PAGE AND THE ANSWER IS THERE. WHAT, THEREFORE, IS THE POINT OF DELIBERATEDLY NOT KNOWING?

It sounded like gibberish to Vimes, so he ignored it. Some of the aches had gone, although his head still hammered. There was an empty feeling, everywhere. He just wanted to sleep.

`Is that clock right?'

`I'm afraid it is, Sybil.'

`I'll just go outside and wait for him, then. I'll have the book ready,' said Lady Sybil. `He won't let anything stop him, you know.' `I'm sure he won't,' said Bunty.

`Although things can be very treacherous in the lower valley at

this time of-' her husband began, and was fried into silence by his

wife's stare.

It was six minutes to six.

'Ob oggle oog soggle!'

It was a very little, watery sound, and came from somewhere in

Vimes's trousers. After a few moments, enough time to recollect that

he had both hands and trousers, he reached down and with a strug

gle freed the Gooseberry from his pocket. The case was battered

and the imp, when Vimes had got the flap open, was quite pale. 'Ob ogle soggle!'