Reaper Man

cc of mouse blood,” said the Senior Wrangler mournfully. “You don’t even need that. You can use two bits of wood and an egg. It has to be a fresh egg, though.”
    “Why?”
    “I suppose the mouse feels happier about it.”
    “No, I mean the egg.”
    “Oh, who knows how an egg feels?”
    “Anyway,” said the Dean, “it’s dangerous. I’ve always felt that he only stays in the octogram for the look of the thing. I hate it when he peers at you and seems to be counting.”
    “Yes,” said the Senior Wrangler. “We don’t need to do that. We get over most things. Dragons, monsters. Rats. Remember the rats last year? Seemed to be everywhere. Lord Vetinari wouldn’t listen to us, oh no. He paid that glib bugger in the red and yellow tights a thousand gold pieces to get rid of ’em.”
    “It worked, though,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
    “Of course it bloody worked,” said the Dean. “It worked in Quirm and Sto Lat as well. He’d have got away with it in Pseudopolis as well if someone hadn’t recognized him. Mr. so-called Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents!”
    “It’s no good trying to change the subject,” said Ridcully. “We’re going to do the Rite of AshKente. Right?”
    “And summon Death,” said the Dean. “Oh, dear.”
    “Nothing wrong with Death,” said Ridcully. “Professional fellow. Job to do. Fair and square. Play a straight bat, no problem. He’ll know what’s happening.”
    “Oh, dear,” said the Dean again.
    They reached the gateway. Mrs. Cake stepped forward, blocking the Archchancellor’s path.
    Ridcully raised his eyebrows.
    The Archchancellor was not the kind of man who takes a special pleasure in being brusque and rude to women. Or, to put it another way, he was brusque and rude to absolutely everyone, regardless of sex, which was equality of a sort. And if the following conversation had not been taking place between someone who listened to what people said several seconds before they said it, and someone who didn’t listen to what people said at all, everything might have been a lot different. Or perhaps it wouldn’t.
    Mrs. Cake led with an answer.
    “I’m not your good woman!” she snapped.
    “And who are you, my good woman?” said the Archchancellor.
    “Well, that’s no way to talk to a respectable person,” said Mrs. Cake.
    “There’s no need to be offended,” said Ridcully.
    “Oh blow, is that what I’m doin’?” said Mrs. Cake.
    “Madam, why are you answering me before I’ve even said something?”
    “What?”
    “What d’you mean?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “What?”
    They stared at one another, fixed in an unbreakable conversational deadlock. Then Mrs. Cake realized.
    “Oi’m prematurely premoniting again,” she said. She stuck a finger in her ear and wiggled it around with a squelching noise. “It’s all orlright now. Now, the reason—”
    But Ridcully had had enough.
    “Bursar,” he said, “give this woman a penny and send her about her business, will you?”
    “What?” said Mrs. Cake, suddenly enraged beyond belief.
    “There’s too much of this sort of thing these days,” said Ridcully to the Dean, as they strolled away.
    “It’s the pressures and stresses of living in a big city,” said the Senior Wrangler. “I read that somewhere. It takes people in a funny way.”
    They stepped through the wicket gate in one of the big doors and the Dean shut it in Mrs. Cake’s face.
    “He might not come,” said the Senior Wrangler, as they crossed the quadrangle. “He didn’t come for poor old Windle’s farewell party.”
    “He’ll come for the Rite,” said Ridcully. “It doesn’t just send him an invitation, it puts a bloody RSVP on it!”
    “Oh, good. I like sherry,” said the Bursar.
    “Shut up, Bursar.”

    There was an alley, somewhere in the Shades, which was the most alley-ridden part of an alley-ridden city.
    Something small and shiny rolled into it, and vanished in the darkness.
    After a while, there were faint metallic noises.

    The atmosphere in the Archchancellor’s study was very cold.
    Eventually the Bursar quavered: “Maybe he’s busy?”
    “Shut up,” said the wizards, in unison.
    Something was happening. The floor inside the chalked magic octogram was going white with frost.
    “It’s never done that before,” said the Senior Wrangler.
    “This is all wrong, you know,” said the Dean. “We should have some candles and some cauldrons and some stuff bubbling in crucibles