Soul Music

the yard, and into the garden.
    “Huh,” she said.
    If someone had told Susan that Death had a house, she would have called them mad or, even worse, stupid. But if she’d had to imagine one, she’d have drawn, in sensible black crayon, some towering, battlemented, Gothic mansion. It would loom, and involve other words ending in “oom,” like gloom and doom. There would have been thousands of windows. She’d fill odd corners of the sky with bats. It would be impressive.
    It wouldn’t be a cottage. It wouldn’t have a rather tasteless garden. It wouldn’t have a mat in front of the door with “Welcome” on it.
    Susan had invincible walls of common sense. They were beginning to melt like salt in a wet wind, and that made her angry .
    There was grandfather Lezek, of course, on his little farm so poor that even the sparrows had to kneel down to eat. He’d been a nice old chap, so far as she could recall; a bit sheepish, now she came to think about it, especially when her father was around.
    Her mother had told Susan that her own father had been…
    Now she came to think about that , she wasn’t sure what her mother had told her. Parents were quite clever at not telling people things, even when they used a lot of words. She’d just been left with the impression that he wasn’t around.
    Now it was being suggested that he was renowned for being around all the time.
    It was like having a relative in trade.
    A god, now…a god would be something. Lady Odile Flume, in the fifth form, was always boasting that her great-great-grandmother had once been seduced by the god Blind Io in the form of a vase of daisies, which apparently made her a demi-hemi-semi-goddess. She said her mother found it useful to get a table in restaurants. Saying you were a close relative of Death probably would not have the same effect. You probably wouldn’t even manage a seat near the kitchen.
    If it was all some kind of dream, she didn’t seem at any risk of waking up. Anyway, she didn’t believe in that kind of thing. Dreams weren’t like this.
    A path led from the stable yard past a vegetable garden and, descending slightly, into an orchard of black-leaved trees. Glossy black apples hung from them. Off to one side were some white beehives.
    And she knew she’d seen it all before.
    There was an apple tree that was quite, quite different from the others.
    She stood and stared at it as memory flooded back.
    She remembered being just old enough to see how logically stupid the whole idea was, and he’d been standing there, anxiously waiting to see what she’d do…
    Old certainties drained away, to be replaced by new certainties.
    Now she understood whose granddaughter she was.

    The Mended Drum had traditionally gone in for, well, traditional pub games, such as dominoes, darts, and Stabbing People In The Back and Taking All Their Money. The new owner had decided to go up-market. This was the only available direction.
    There had been The Quizzing Device, a three-ton water-driven monstrosity based on a recently discovered design by Leonard of Quirm. It had been a bad idea. Captain Carrot of the Watch, who had a mind like a needle under his open, smiling face, had surreptitiously substituted a new roll of questions like: Were you nere Vortin’s Diamond Warehourse on the Nite of the 15th? and: Who was the Third Man Who did the Blagging At Bearhugger’s Distillery Larst week? and had arrested three customers before they caught on.
    The owner had promised another machine any day now. The Librarian, one of the tavern’s regulars, had been collecting pennies in readiness.
    There was a small stage at one end of the bar. The owner had tried a lunchtime stripper, but only once. At the sight of a large orang-utan in the front row with a big innocent grin, a big bag of penny pieces, and a big banana the poor girl had fled. Yet another entertainment Guild had blacklisted the Drum.
    The new owner’s name was Hibiscus Dunelm. It wasn’t his fault. He really wanted to make the Drum, he said, a fun place. For two pins he’d have put stripy umbrellas outside.
    He looked down at Glod.
    “Just three of you?” he said.
    “Yes.”
    “When I agreed to five dollars you said you had a big band.”
    “Say hello, Lias.”
    “My word, that is a big band.” Dunelm backed away. “I thought,” he said, “just a few numbers that everyone knows? Just to provide some ambience.”
    “Ambience,” said Imp, looking around the Drum. He was familiar with