Reaper Man

ES .
    “And possibly—”
    Y ES . E VERYTHING . W ITH A RIBBON .
    When the shop bell had jangled the purchaser out, Druto looked at the coins in his hand. Many of them were corroded, all of them were strange, and one or two were golden.
    “Um,” he said. “That will do nicely…”
    He became aware of a soft pattering sound.
    Around him, all over the shop, petals were falling like rain.

    A ND THESE ?
    “That’s our De Luxe assortment,” said the lady in the chocolate shop. It was such a high-class establishment that it sold, not sweets, but confectionery—often in the form of individual gold-wrapped swirly things that made even larger holes in a bank balance than they did in a tooth.
    The tall dark customer picked up a box that was about two feet square. On a lid like a satin cushion it had a picture of a couple of hopelessly cross-eyed kittens looking out of a boot.
    W HAT FOR IS THIS BOX PADDED ? I S IT TO BE SAT ON ? C AN IT BE THAT IT IS CAT-FLAVORED ? he added, his tone taking on a definite menace, or rather more menace than it had already.
    “Um, no. That’s our Supreme Assortment.”
    The customer tossed it aside.
    N O .
    The shopkeeper looked both ways and then pulled open a drawer under the counter, at the same time lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Of course,” she said, “for that very special occasion…”
    It was quite a small box. It was also entirely black, except for the name of the contents in small white letters; cats, even in pink ribbons, wouldn’t be allowed within a mile of a box like this. To deliver a box of chocolates like this, dark strangers drop from chairlifts and abseil down buildings.
    The dark stranger peered at the lettering.
    “D ARK E NCHANTMENTS ,” he said. I LIKE IT .
    “For those intimate moments,” said the lady.
    The customer appeared to consider the relevance of this.
    Y ES . T HAT SEEMS APPROPRIATE .
    The shopkeeper beamed.
    “Shall I wrap them up, then?”
    Y ES . W ITH A RIBBON .
    “And will there be anything else, sir?”
    The customer seemed to panic.
    E LSE ? S HOULD THERE BE ANYTHING ELSE ? I S THERE SOMETHING ELSE ? W HAT IS IT THAT SHOULD BE DONE ? “I’m sorry, sir?”
    A PRESENT FOR A LADY .
    The shopkeeper was left a little adrift by this sudden turning of the tide of conversation. She swam toward a reliable cliché.
    “Well, they do say, don’t they, that diamonds are a girl’s best friend?” she said brightly.
    D IAMONDS ? O H . D IAMONDS . I S THAT SO ?

    They glittered like bits of starlight on a black velvet sky.
    “This one,” said the merchant, “is a particularly excellent stone, don’t you think? Note the fire, the exceptional—”
    H OW FRIENDLY IS IT ?
    The merchant hesitated. He knew about carats, about adamantine luster, about “water” and “make” and “fire,” but he’d never before been called upon to judge gems in terms of general affability.
    “Quite well-disposed?” he hazarded.
    N O .
    The merchant’s fingers seized on another splinter of frozen light.
    “Now this ,” he said, confidence flowing back into his voice, “is from the famous Shortshanks mine. May I draw your attention to the exquisite—”
    He felt the penetrating stare drill through the back of his head.
    “But not, I must admit, noted for its friendliness,” he said lamely.
    The dark customer looked disapprovingly around the shop. In the gloom, behind troll-proof bars, gems glowed like the eyes of dragons in the back of a cave.
    A RE ANY OF THESE FRIENDLY ? he said.
    “Sir, I think I can say, without fear of contradiction, that we have never based our purchasing policy on the amiability of the stones in question,” said the merchant. He was uncomfortably aware that things were wrong, and that somewhere in the back of his mind he knew what was wrong with them, and that somehow his mind was not letting him make that final link. And it was getting on his nerves.
    W HERE IS THE BIGGEST DIAMOND IN THE WORLD ?
    “The biggest? That’s easy. It’s the Tear of Offler, it’s in the innermost sanctuary of the Lost Jewelled Temple of Doom of Offler the Crocodile God in darkest Howandaland, and it weighs eight hundred and fifty carats. And, sir, to forestall your next question, I personally would go to bed with it.”

    One of the nice things about being a priest in the Lost Jewelled Temple of Doom of Offler the Crocodile God was that you got to go home early most afternoons. This was because it was lost. Most worshippers