A few moments later, he turned it back into a ship so that Tippett and Singespitter could get out.
Singespitter baaed pitifully, and Daggar made a last-minute decision to take the sheep with him. He picked up his treasure sack, the ghost-ship (changed back into a silver thingummy again) and the sheep. Then he walked dolefully off into the morning.
Tippett the jester sat cross-legged in the sand, finishing off his ballad with a few calligraphed swirls. He waggled the inky parchment around until it dried properly, and considered his next major life-decision.
Daggar’s bootprints marched off in the opposite direction to those belonging to Aragon. Tippett considered very seriously which of them would make a better main character for his next ballad before, and then he too trotted away from the beach.
And that was that. More or less.
Sparrow moved lithely from room to room, scattering the thunderdust lightly across the floor. The stuff was safe enough, as long as it was kept dry and away from flame. Hopefully the Brewers would follow the trail here, and conclude she had been killed.
She tied a length of waxy string to the statue of the Turnip Goddess, which she had liberally sprinkled with the last of her thunderdust. She would be able to light the fuse from a great distance, and be on her way with no one the wiser.
It was a good plan. It probably would have worked, had she not forgotten about the Sacred Flame in the vestibule.
Daggar had never felt so despondent in his life. Much as he had fought against having to face untold dangers every day of the week (except Saturday, which was for housekeeping and shopping), piracy had given his life direction. A horribly inevitable direction, but direction nonetheless.
What he needed was a good old fashioned swindle to cheer himself up. Something magnificent and bold and just a bit cheeky. Something he could boast about to his grandchildren.
Grandchildren. That was a thought. He was going to have to get around to that someday too. The last serious relationship he’d contemplated was with a woman who regularly threatened to rip bits out of him and eat them slowly—she had eventually dumped him for her husband, who was over two feet taller than Daggar and had talons instead of hands.
Daggar shuddered. On the whole, Grand Larceny was safer than romance any day of the week. Right. Concentrate on the scam at hand.
Further inland, towards the mountains, he could see a cute little stone temple nestled within a grove of spindly trees. Everyone knew that priests were evil and corrupt and not averse to making a quick buck. Daggar strolled towards the little temple, whistling to himself and beginning to put the swindle together in his mind. Ah, yes. This was how it should be.
By the time Daggar neared the temple, he was puffing noisily and in desperate need of a cool drink and a sit down. He had forgotten how insidious these warm spring mornings could be; pleasantly cool one minute and sweatingly hot the next. Also, Singespitter was no lightweight. Daggar dropped the sheep to graze while he caught his breath and tried to figure out which deity this place of worship belonged to. Details like that were the key to a successful swindle.
Three minutes later, the temple exploded. Noisily.
4: Black goes with Everything
Death was a strange sensation. The living were still around, but they seemed insignificant. Kassa tried to keep track of their conversation, but the voices faded away before she could hear them properly. Their bodies seemed insubstantial, colourless. Before long, she could only see them as pastel shadows. She was alone.
Except for the imp. Somehow, whenever she had pictured death, Kassa hadn’t expected imps. Oh, everyone knew that there was no actual God of the Underworld and the whole death business had to be organised by someone, but she certainly hadn’t subscribed to the imp theory. Still, there it was. Undeniably a three-foot imp in a little black suit with a bow tie and a dead flower in its buttonhole.
“So that’s it,” Kassa said aloud. “That’s all I get.”
“That’s what my chit says,” said the imp of darkness, waggling a clipboard at her.
“I expected more time.” Time, yes. But time to do what? She couldn’t quite remember why it had seemed so important. A strange fuzz clouded her mind, preventing any kind of rational thought.
“That’s life,” said the imp with a certain degree of sympathy. “And death, o’ course. Still, you got to laugh.” To prove it, he giggled.
Kassa frowned as he led her towards a tunnel of the dark and winding variety. “Are there many imps in the Underworld?”
“Thousands!”
“Oh, that will be fun.”
She forced herself to take one last look at the pale shadows of the living. “What about them?” The clouds in her brain were twisting her thoughts into insubstantial puffs of smoke, steering them in one direction only—towards the dark tunnel.
“Not your problem anymore,” said the imp. “They’ll be along sooner or later. Time just whizzes by down here. You play Ping Pong at all?”
“I don’t think so,” said Kassa Daggersharp, allowing herself to be led.
“You’ll learn. Oh, and you can pick up a brochure at the front desk. Explains everything. Meaning of death, that sort of thing.”
“Right,” said Kassa with little interest.
“There isn’t any, o’ course.”
Kassa narrowed her eyes. “Isn’t any what?”
“Meaning of death. Don’t think of it as the Afterlife. Think of it as a holiday camp for the terminally depressed.” The imp giggled frantically.
Kassa wondered if it was possible to go quietly mad after death. “Do all the imps have your sense of humour?”
“Most of ’em. Chin up, my lady.” The imp grinned suddenly, showing her the full measure of its three rows of sharp little white teeth. “Could be worse, you know.”
They stepped into the tunnel, and a breeze of the mortal variety swirled around them, sweeping a substantial dose of tiny golden spores into the Realm of the Dead.
“This is the Underworld?” said Kassa incredulously, looking around her new quarters. The chamber was luscious, dripping with silk and flowers. A glistening hot spring bubbled up through the middle of the floor, and the bed… the bed was a dreamy concoction of puffed-white pillows and sugar-spun lace. Rose petals were scattered everywhere in various arcane patterns, and their intoxicating scent filled the room.
“Like it or lump it,” said the imp. “Everyone gets the same.”
Kassa weakly slapped a plump cushion. “And you really expect me to stay here for the rest of eternity?”
“Course not,” said the imp. “This is just the waiting zone. The Underworld isn’t actually the Afterlife, if you follow me.”
“I don’t think I am following you.”
The imp sighed, and tried to explain it to her. “Look, we can’t be expected to look after everyone down here. It’s roomy, but not infinite, if you know what I mean. So this is where you dead fellers are supposed to hang around till you decide what to do next.”
“Next?” said Kassa. “But I’m dead!”
“So?” said the imp. “Not the end of the world, is it? I can get you the reincarnation catalogue. It means wipin’ out your memories and startin’ again, so most people don’t pick it straightaway. Generally takes a couple of weeks till they decide to go for that one. Course, there are other alternatives.” He peered at her intently. “Don’t play the harp, do you?”
“Just the harmonica. And the fiddle, on a good day.”
“Well, that’s that option out…there’s always the Val-holler suite upstairs, but they’re a bit rowdy. Is anything wrong?”
“This all sounds a bit haphazard,” Kassa declared, getting to her feet and preparing for action. “Who’s in charge around here, anyway?”
The imp glanced furtively in every direction except directly at Kassa.
“The Boss,” Kassa elaborated. “The Chief, the Big Pineapple. Whatever you call him. Or her.” She spaced out the words carefully. “Take-me-to-your-le
ader.”
The imp opened his mouth confidently, as if he was about to say something of great importance. Then he ran away.
Kassa lay on the luxurious bed, staring at the ceiling. She had never thought of death as being like a hotel with no people in it. She didn’t feel dead, that was the problem. She was just bored. Her brain was full of fluff. Every time she tried to think about something seriously related to her old life, her mind slid away from the topic.
Just as she approached a state of total docility, a little orange person in a lime-green flared suit with sequins, platform shoes and small pink sunglasses fell in through the ceiling.
Kassa sat up, blinking. “Who the hell are you?”
He stood up and struck a pose. “I’m, like, your guardian sprite,” he announced with a flourish, as if expecting applause.
“I don’t think so,” Kassa said darkly. “I already have a guardian sprite. She’s an annoying blonde with a big mouth. Summer Songstrel.”
“Dig it,” agreed her new companion. “Right on. She’s been, like, promoted. Y’know.”
Kassa raised an eyebrow. “They promoted her?”
“Suuuure,” said the little orange sprite, nodding with a vague smile. “To Personnel. She, like, assigned me to you. Babe.”
“I knew she held a grudge,” sighed Kassa. “And will you stop talking like that?”
“Sorry, I thought it sort of went with the outfit.”
“Not even that outfit would go with that outfit. What’s you name, ayway?”
“Vervain,” said the sprite, looking dejected. “Vervain G. Merryweather. And what’s wrong with my outfit?”
Kassa sighed and buried her face in her hands. After a moment, she became aware of Vervain’s face pressed up close to hers. “By the way,” he whispered. “Are you sure you’re supposed to be dead? Because in my portfolio, it says you weren’t due to kick the old bucket thing for another—”
“Look,” said Kassa fiercely, “I’m here, aren’t I? Shut up in a little grey cave in the middle of the Underworld, with nothing but the clothes I stand up in and a sprite with a stupid name! My body is back there on that beach!”
“Oh, yes,” said Vervain, nodding thoughtfully. “The beach. Don’t you think that’s rather—”
Whatever he was about to say was swallowed hastily when the door to Kassa’s room was flung open. There in the doorway stood a perfectly still and elegant girl. She was thin in a cheekboned, hobgoblinish sort of way, but that was as far as the resemblance went. Her hair was a smooth cascade of black, falling past her waist into nothingness. Her skin was a bright white, practically translucent, and every facial feature had been outlined in charcoal. All in all, she looked in serious need of a good square meal or three. She wore a skin-tight gown of dark velvet and a ribbon around her narrow throat.
“You wish to see the person in charge,” she said in a surprisingly sensible voice.
“That’s right,” said Kassa, eyeing her suspiciously.
“Come on, then.” The girl turned with an eerie grace, seeming to arrive from one pose to another without any ungainly movement in between. This was a person who glided rather than walked, and slid into conversations rather than just talking to people. “My name is Trixibelle Cream, daughter of the Watermelon clan, but my friends call me Ebony.”
“Of course they do,” said Kassa. “Lead on.” She glanced back at Vervain, who was staring at the newcomer with blatant adoration. “Are you coming, or what?”
He scrambled to his feet and tugged at her arm insistently. “Do you think I could get away with that look?” he asked in a loud whisper. “I’ve always had a thing for velvet.”
They followed the gliding Ebony through corridor after corridor. “Are you an imp?” Kassa couldn’t help asking, although she found it highly unlikely.
Ebony sniffed disdainfully. “Do I look like a boy? I’m a goth.”
“So imps are boys and goths are girls,” said Kassa, her cloudy brain doing porridgy somersaults and threatening to escape from her completely at any given opportunity. “That makes a vague sort of sense. Do you ever…”
“Certainly not,” said Ebony with a tinge of horror in her voice. “Horrible little creatures, imps. We may be biologically compatible, but a girl has to have standards.” She smiled thinly. “Anyway, we prefer human meat.”
Kassa couldn’t reply to that comment in a normal tone of voice, so she followed the gliding goth in silence. A moment later, she paused to read a large notice which was tacked up on one of the winding stone walls:
FOR THE GENERAL HEALTH AND WELLBEING OF ALL—NO MAGIC, NO BALL GAMES, NO LOOKING OUT OF WINDOWS AND ABSOLUTELY NO PHILOSOPHY.
Kassa turned away from the notice to see Ebony staring at her. “They really mean it,” said the goth girl. “If you’re thinking about trying to magic your way out of here, forget it.”
“I don’t think I can do magic without my body,” said Kassa. “I was never any good at it at the best of times. But thanks for the tip. Why is philosophy forbidden?”
“Let’s just say that it is a redundant craft up here where anything and everything is possible,” said Ebony. “It would only upset people if they indulged.”
“You said ‘up here’,” Kassa challenged, trying to collect her thoughts, which were constantly bouncing away from her like horses on a carousel. “Isn’t this the Underworld?”
“Geographically speaking, we are absolutely everywhere, all at the same time,” said Ebony with a thin charcoal smile. “Up and down. Now, if you want to see the Lord and Master I suggest we hurry. He goes for his Aerobics class at eleven.”
Even in her present state of muddled thinking, that sounded very wrong to Kassa. “Aerobics?”
Tippett followed Aragon Silversword’s footsteps as far as a small anonymous village, and a tavern with a rusty, faded sign. All thoughts of writing his next ballad immediately fled his little poet’s brain. This was a tavern! A place of ale, hot pies and merry music.
Although he had never actually been into a tavern in his entire life, Tippett’s romantic little mind exulted. He just knew that this was the place to launch his Daggersharp epic. He would be famous and rich and renowned (and Kassa’s memory would be kept alive, he reminded himself guiltily) beyond his wildest dreams, which got pretty wild around midnight after a late night cheese sandwich.
Tippett took a deep breath, pushed open the swinging doors and went forth to meet his destiny.
Unfortunately, a rather nasty bar brawl broke out before he even got to declaim the first “O!” He spent the whole afternoon hiding under a table and hoping no one would hit him.
It was a magnificent chamber, tiled in black and white mosaics which portrayed the impossible in several easy steps. Kassa’s eyes could hardly take in the elaborate images of staircases going nowhere and inside-out clockwork twisting in every direction. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“That’s what I usually do,” said a mournful voice. “Gets a bit much, doesn’t it? Hang on.”
There was a swishing sound. Kassa opened one eye, and then the other. The entire chamber was now swathed in black velvet curtains which mostly concealed the disturbing mosaics. And sitting on a jet-black throne was a tallish man, long-nosed and droopy of features. He was wearing…
“Great dress!” said Vervain enthusiastically.
“It’s a robe, you little insect,” snapped the long-nosed man. “It’s supposed to symbolise grandeur and dignity.”
“It’s a very nice robe,” said Kassa, for wont of something sensible to say. The robe was high-necked and full-skirted, made of black velvet. She couldn’t help scanning the room to see if there was a robe-shaped hole in any of the curtains.
“It helps me look the part,” the long-nosed man said, not sounding too pleased about it. “I’m forgetting my manners. How do you do, I’m the Dark One.”
Something clicked in the back of Kassa’s brain. “Hang on a minute,” she said accusingly. “You’re a god! You’re not supposed
to be here!”
“I assure you, I am,” said the Dark One reproachfully.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Kassa declared. “My brains may have turned to porridge since my unfortunate demise, but I know my Comparative Mythology and you, sir, are not supposed to be governing the Underworld.” She frowned. “I’m not sure what it is you should be doing, but I do know that there are no gods in the Underworld. Everyone knows that!”
“That’s what I tried to tell them,” sighed the Dark One. “Nobody ever listens to me.”
He explained, and Kassa tried to get her already-fuddled brain around the concept. “You’re temping?”
“That’s right,” said the Dark One bitterly. “The King of the Imps had some vital mission, apparently. And who do they think of? Do they send in Amorata, or Wordern, or whatsisname, the Zibrian fellow who keep turning into a shower of gold and seducing women? No. The first one who springs to mind is Muggins here. Good old me. Just because I’m the Lord of Darkness, they assume I must know something about dead people! Not only that, but I can’t vote in the God Council for as long as I’m allied with Underworld. Something about compromised neutrality. Hah!”
“So where is the King Imp now?” Kassa asked. Her mind was starting to clear a little, probably the influence of all the black velvet.
“Gone,” said the Dark One. “I don’t know where. I don’t think he’s coming back. Why should he bother? I’m stuck with it now. Lord of Darkness, Walker in Shadows, Slayer of the…oh, whatever it is I’m a Slayer of. I’ve got hundreds of titles like that, you know. All dark and dismal and thoroughly depressing.”
Kassa nodded sympathetically and perched on the edge of his throne. “You know what? You don’t sound like someone who’s very happy with his self-image.”
The Dark One laughed hollowly. “My self-image? How could anyone be happy with my self-image? I’m the Harbinger of Horribleness, the Despot of…”
“So change it!”
He broke off and stared at Kassa, his long nose twitching slightly. “Change what?”
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