Prices (Discworld/PotC)
More reprints from the Heathen Gods Challenge today. Since my tales tend to be short-shorts and not drabbles, I'm going to have to put them in different posts. (Limitations of space and all that.) This one is Discworld/PotC.
PRICES
The streets of Ankh-Morpork have been very muddy lately, for it is the rainy season. She isn't astonished to find something stuck to the sole of one of her boots. She is, however, surprised to find a gold coin with a death's head on it.
As she pries it away from the mud and miscellaneous which has glued it to her boot, her fingers brush its surface. It feels...angry. And hungry. For a moment, she hears far-off voices screaming in fury and in agony.
She knows that she is not dreaming. Like her grandfather, she has a knack for seeing and hearing things that are really there.
She manages to get it off of her boot, washes it off and puts it on her nightstand. Then she lights a tall, thick candle and settles down to wait.
For a long time, there's nothing--only the rustling of rodents near the baseboard and something tapping at the windowpane. The first she ignores. As for the window, she opens it briefly, then refastens it once more.
As the clock strikes one, a skeletal pirate appears in the moonlight near the door. She studies him critically. Frankly, she's seen better skeletons.
"The coin is on the nightstand," she says calmly. "You can have it."
The pirate glances at her with surprise, then strides forward and grabs the coin. Then, slowly, he draws his sword.
"You've been decent, you have," he says quietly. "So I'll make this quick." He steps toward her.
She sighs. She hates having to do this; she's not quite as mortal as most people, and each time she rides Binky, wields her grandfather's weapons, steps outside of normal space-time, or--well, does this--she loses a little bit of her mortality. Of her humanity.
And it gets easier every time.
But there's nothing for it. It's do it, or wind up as Miss Susan shish kebob.
"NO," she says, in words that aren't so much speech as a graven statement about all possible futures in all possible universes. "YOU ARE NOT GOING TO KILL ME."
The pirate stops and stares at her. "Lass...there's got to be blood. For atonement."
She says nothing. But the shadows around her eyes deepen, and lights like blue stars are flickering in the depths of her eyes. Even Albert, her grandfather's manservant who knew her as a child, would be astonished at the family resemblance.
A chittering noise at the pirate's feet interrupts the Klatchian standoff. The pirate looks down, and sees a rodent skeleton dressed in a black robe and carrying a scythe. For a moment, his jaw gawps open in surprise.
The next thing he thinks is, Too many skeletons around here.
He doesn't have time to think anything else, as the Death of Rats scampers up his shinbone, thighbone, hip, forearm, wrist. Gently, the Death of Rats pries open the pirate's skeletal fingers with his teeth.
The pirate drops the coin.
The pirate is just bending down to retrieve it when the Grim Squeaker leaps down from the pirate's hand and drags a mousetrap from the shadows of the room. With a flick of his scythe, he opens the trap, chattering to the once-trapped rats as he does so.
The rats seem to understand what is expected of them; at least, they shuffle over to the cursed coin easily enough. One by one, they stand there as the Death of Rats cuts them slightly...not enough for pain, but enough to provide blood. The crimson drops splash onto the coin as the rats breathe their last.
The Death of Rats gestures toward the blood-stained coin with his scythe.
"But it's got to be the blood of people," protests the pirate weakly.
The Death of Rats chitters at him in outrage. SQUEAK EEK IK SQUEAK!
"The rat says that his people are people," says what looks like a badly stuffed raven perched above the chamber door. "And that you can tell that to your angry gods, too."
The pirate glances at the three of them, shivers and nods. He bends down, picks up the coin and vanishes.
The woman murmurs her thanks to the raven and to the Death of Rats. Privately, she hopes that she won't see them for a while. Not that they aren't nice, but they belong to her grandfather's world. The world where she serves as another avatar of Death.
Please gods, there won't be another incident like this for a long, long time, and she can settle down to normal, boring, mortal life.
For a month, at least.
PRICES
The streets of Ankh-Morpork have been very muddy lately, for it is the rainy season. She isn't astonished to find something stuck to the sole of one of her boots. She is, however, surprised to find a gold coin with a death's head on it.
As she pries it away from the mud and miscellaneous which has glued it to her boot, her fingers brush its surface. It feels...angry. And hungry. For a moment, she hears far-off voices screaming in fury and in agony.
She knows that she is not dreaming. Like her grandfather, she has a knack for seeing and hearing things that are really there.
She manages to get it off of her boot, washes it off and puts it on her nightstand. Then she lights a tall, thick candle and settles down to wait.
For a long time, there's nothing--only the rustling of rodents near the baseboard and something tapping at the windowpane. The first she ignores. As for the window, she opens it briefly, then refastens it once more.
As the clock strikes one, a skeletal pirate appears in the moonlight near the door. She studies him critically. Frankly, she's seen better skeletons.
"The coin is on the nightstand," she says calmly. "You can have it."
The pirate glances at her with surprise, then strides forward and grabs the coin. Then, slowly, he draws his sword.
"You've been decent, you have," he says quietly. "So I'll make this quick." He steps toward her.
She sighs. She hates having to do this; she's not quite as mortal as most people, and each time she rides Binky, wields her grandfather's weapons, steps outside of normal space-time, or--well, does this--she loses a little bit of her mortality. Of her humanity.
And it gets easier every time.
But there's nothing for it. It's do it, or wind up as Miss Susan shish kebob.
"NO," she says, in words that aren't so much speech as a graven statement about all possible futures in all possible universes. "YOU ARE NOT GOING TO KILL ME."
The pirate stops and stares at her. "Lass...there's got to be blood. For atonement."
She says nothing. But the shadows around her eyes deepen, and lights like blue stars are flickering in the depths of her eyes. Even Albert, her grandfather's manservant who knew her as a child, would be astonished at the family resemblance.
A chittering noise at the pirate's feet interrupts the Klatchian standoff. The pirate looks down, and sees a rodent skeleton dressed in a black robe and carrying a scythe. For a moment, his jaw gawps open in surprise.
The next thing he thinks is, Too many skeletons around here.
He doesn't have time to think anything else, as the Death of Rats scampers up his shinbone, thighbone, hip, forearm, wrist. Gently, the Death of Rats pries open the pirate's skeletal fingers with his teeth.
The pirate drops the coin.
The pirate is just bending down to retrieve it when the Grim Squeaker leaps down from the pirate's hand and drags a mousetrap from the shadows of the room. With a flick of his scythe, he opens the trap, chattering to the once-trapped rats as he does so.
The rats seem to understand what is expected of them; at least, they shuffle over to the cursed coin easily enough. One by one, they stand there as the Death of Rats cuts them slightly...not enough for pain, but enough to provide blood. The crimson drops splash onto the coin as the rats breathe their last.
The Death of Rats gestures toward the blood-stained coin with his scythe.
"But it's got to be the blood of people," protests the pirate weakly.
The Death of Rats chitters at him in outrage. SQUEAK EEK IK SQUEAK!
"The rat says that his people are people," says what looks like a badly stuffed raven perched above the chamber door. "And that you can tell that to your angry gods, too."
The pirate glances at the three of them, shivers and nods. He bends down, picks up the coin and vanishes.
The woman murmurs her thanks to the raven and to the Death of Rats. Privately, she hopes that she won't see them for a while. Not that they aren't nice, but they belong to her grandfather's world. The world where she serves as another avatar of Death.
Please gods, there won't be another incident like this for a long, long time, and she can settle down to normal, boring, mortal life.
For a month, at least.