Wyrd Sisters

Up from out of the depths of their blank minds new words rushed, words red with blood and revenge, words that had echoed among the castle’s stones, words stored in silicon, words that would have themselves heard, words that gripped their mouths so tightly that an attempt not to say them would result in a broken jaw.

‘Do you fear him now?’ said Gumridge. ‘And he so mazed with drink? Take his dagger, husband—you are a blade’s width from the kingdom.’

‘I dare not,’ Wimsloe said, trying to look in astonishment at his own lips.

‘Who will know?’ Gumridge waved a hand towards the audience. He’d never act so well again. ‘See, there is only eyeless night. Take the dagger now, take the kingdom tomorrow. Have a stab at it, man.’

Wimsloe’s hand shook.

‘I have it, wife,’ he said. ‘Is this a dagger I see before me?’

‘Of course it’s a bloody dagger. Come on, do it now. The weak deserve no mercy. We’ll say he fell down the stairs.’

‘But people will suspect!’

‘Are there no dungeons? Are there no pilliwinks? Possession is nine parts of the law, husband, when what you possess is a knife.’

Wimsloe drew his arm back.

‘I cannot! He has been kindness itself to me!’

‘And you can be Death itself to him …’

***

Dafe could hear the voices a long way off. He adjusted his mask, checked the deathliness of his appearance in the mirror, and peered at the script in the empty backstage gloom.

‘Cower Now, Brief Mortals,’ he said. ‘I Am Death, ‘Gainst Who— ‘Gainst Who—’

WHOM.

‘Oh, thanks,’ said the boy distractedly. ‘’Gainst Whom No Lock May Hold—’

WILL HOLD.

‘Will Hold Nor Fasten’d Portal Bar, Here To—to—to—’

HERE TO TAKE MY TALLY ON THIS NIGHT OF KINGS.

Dafe sagged.

‘You’re so much better at it,’ he moaned. ‘You’ve got the right voice and you can remember the words.’ He turned around. ‘It’s only three lines and Hwel will … have … my … guts … for.’

He froze. His eyes widened and became two saucers of fear as Death snapped his fingers in front of the boy’s rigid face.

FORGET, he commanded, and turned and stalked silently towards the wings.

His eyeless skull took in the line of costumes, the waxy debris of the make-up table. His empty nostrils snuffed up the mixed smells of mothballs, grease and sweat.

There was something here, he thought, that nearly belonged to the gods. Humans had built a world inside the world, which reflected it in pretty much the same way as a drop of water reflects the landscape. And yet … and yet …

Inside this little world they had taken pains to put all the things you might think they would want to escape from—hatred, fear, tyranny, and so forth. Death was intrigued. They thought they wanted to be taken out of themselves, and every art humans dreamt up took them further in. He was fascinated.

He was here for a very particular and precise purpose. There was a soul to be claimed. There was no time for inconsequentialities. But what was time, after all?

His feet did an involuntary little clicking dance across the stones. Alone, in the grey shadows, Death tapdanced.

— THE NEXT NIGHT IN YOUR DRESSING ROOM THEY HANG A STAR—^{74}

He pulled himself together, adjusted his scythe, and waited silently for his cue.

He’d never missed one yet.

He was going to get out there and slay them.

——

‘And you can be Death itself to him. Now!’

Death entered, his feet clicking across the stage.

COWER NOW, BRIEF MORTALS, he said, FOR I AM DEATH, ‘GAINST WHOM NO … NO … ‘GAINST WHOM …

He hesitated. He hesitated, for the very first time in the eternity of his existence.

For although the Death of the Discworld was used to dealing with people by the million, at the same time every death was intimate and personal.

Death was seldom seen except by those of an occult persuasion and his clients themselves. The reason that no-one else saw him was that the human brain is clever enough to edit sights too horrible for it to cope with, but the problem here was that several hundred people were in fact expecting to see Death at this point, and were therefore seeing him.

Death turned slowly and stared back at hundreds of watching eyes.

Even in the grip of the truth Tomjon recognized a fellow actor in distress, and fought for mastery of his lips.

‘“… lock will hold … ”’ he whispered, through teeth fixed in a grimace.

Death gave him a manic grin of stagefright.

WHAT? he whispered, in a voice like an anvil being hit with a small lead hammer.

‘“… lock will hold, nor fasten’d portal …”,’ said Tomjon encouragingly.

… LOCK WILL HOLD NOR FASTEN’D PORTAL … UH … repeated Death desperately, watching his lips.

‘“… bar!…”’

BAR.

‘No, I cannot do it!’ said Wimsloe. ‘I will be seen! Down there in the hall, someone watches!’

‘There is no-one!’

‘I feel the stare!’

‘Dithering idiot! Must I put it in for you? See, his foot is upon the top stair!’

Wimsloe’s face contorted with fear and uncertainty. He drew back his hand.

‘No!’

The scream came from the audience. The duke was half-risen from his seat, his tortured knuckles at his mouth. As they watched he lurched forward between the shocked people.