On a Pale Horse (6 page)

“That’s what Death does!” Zane exclaimed, catching on at last. “Collects ambiguous souls!”

“And sorts them out carefully, determining their proper destination,” Fate concluded. “Those few that are in perfect balance must be delivered to Purgatory for professional treatment.”

“This is really to be my job?” Zane asked. “To collect balanced souls?”

“And to facilitate the progress of all the others,” Fate agreed. “It really is. You may find it difficult at first, but it is certainly better than the alternative.” She glanced at the virtually dead Death.

Zane shuddered. “But why was I chosen to fill this office? I’m completely unqualified! Or is it pure chance?”

Fate stood. “I prefer to answer that at another time. I must not keep you from your appointed rounds any longer.”

“But I don’t even know how to locate my—my clients!”

“There should be an instruction manual somewhere. Mortis will help you.”

“Who is Mortis?”

She looked about. “Oh, I almost forget. You had better take the accouterments; I’m not sure how they work, but you’ll need them.”

“Accouterments?”

“The jewelry. The magic devices.”

“My Wealthstone? I don’t see—”

“Not that junkstone. Leave everything of your former life here as it is. Especially the star. Sapphire is no good for wealth divination at its best, and this one’s inferior. Leave your watch, too, and any rings you have. You are through with living.” She walked toward the door.

“But I have so much to learn!” Zane cried plaintively.

“Then get
to
it, Death,” she said, closing the door behind her.

Zane looked desperately about, seeking some better hold on reality. How could he be Death? He had never even imagined anything like this!

He saw something flashing. It was a solid watch on the wrist of the dead Death that would hardly be in keeping with the corpse of Zane, who had been too broke to redeem his pawned watch. This was surely an accouterment. He bent, with a certain distaste, to remove it, then put it on his own wrist. It was heavy, a good four ounces, but fitted comfortably, as though sized for him, and the flashing stopped. Evidently the watch had merely been calling attention to itself so that it would not be overlooked; it went with the office. It was, of course, dead black: a mechanical, self-winding instrument that seemed dull but expensive.

Why would Death use a mechanical watch, of whatever quality, instead of a sophisticated electronic one, or a miniature magical sundial? Zane couldn’t answer that at the moment. Maybe the last Death officeholder had been of a conservative bent. He might have lived for centuries before getting careless and failed to keep up with the times.

Odd, Zane thought, that he felt no special remorse for the person he had killed. His initial shock at the act was wearing off, so that what remained was mostly horror that there had been a killing, as if he had just watched a singularly brutal murder on television. Maybe this developing indifference was because, to him, Death remained an “it” rather than a human being. But he, Zane, was now that “it.”

He spied another flash. It was from an ear ornament, almost concealed because Death’s left ear lay against the
floor. Surely he was meant to take this, too; it was one of the items of jewelry Fate had mentioned. He nerved himself for another contact with the dead flesh and got the gem removed. It was an earring, with a red garnet cabochon, rounded on one side, flat on the other, shining prettily.

The thing was designed to fit a pierced ear, and Zane’s ear was whole. He hesitated, then put the gem in his voluminous cloak pocket.

There were footfalls in the hall, followed by a tentative knock on the front door. “Mr. Z, are you all right?” a voice came. It was his elderly neighbor, a nosy woman, but nice enough.

Zane stood frozen again. What should he do? If he let her come in—

“Mr. Z!” the neighbor called more urgently.

“I’m all right!” he called back.

“Mr. Z,” she repeated. “I heard what sounded like a gunshot from this room. Please answer me!”

“It’s all right!” Zane shouted.

The door opened. The woman’s head poked in. “Mr. Z, why don’t you answer? I know you’re home; I saw you come in. If there is anything wrong—if a mugger shot you—”

“I
am
home! There’s no mugger!” Zane shouted. “Please get out!”

The woman came all the way into the apartment. “I’m sure I heard—” Then she spied the body on the floor. It now wore Zane’s clothing, though he did not remember dressing it; probably Fate had done that while he was distracted by the enormity of his situation.

She screamed “Mr. Z! You’re hurt!” She hurried to inspect the corpse, running right past Zane as if not seeing him. “In fact—you’re dead!”

“So it seems,” Zane said, somewhat wryly. Now the shock of what he had done was washing back across him, animated by the neighbor’s reaction. He had set out to suicide—and instead had killed another man. He was a murderer! The immediately following events had been so surprising that much of the horror had passed him by. Now it was clarifying, and he was appalled. He had done
many unfortunate things in his life, and today had been the worst, for never before had he killed another human being.

Well, technically he
had
killed. But that had been a special case, and his mother—He cut off that thought. He had guilt, and he was indeed somewhat hardened to the evils of the world. Still—

The neighbor woman turned. Now she saw him. “Oh, officer!” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here. Mr. Z is dead! I fear it was suicide! I heard the shot, and he didn’t answer—”

Why had she waited so long before investigating? He had fired the gun half an hour ago. It must have taken her that long to work up her curiosity sufficiently. “Yes, thank you,” Zane said gravely. “I will take it from here.”

“Oh, that’s a relief!” The woman fluttered out.

Zane relaxed slightly. So it was true: he was mostly unrecognizable while in the Deathcape. The woman had seen him neither as himself nor as Death; she had taken him for a policeman, the kind of reassuring person she expected. Soon she would have the whole building informed.

He walked out himself, traveling along the narrow hall and down the stairs toward the waiting vehicle. As he did, he realized in a random revelation that the Deathstone in the Mess o’ Pottage shop had been technically correct, but significantly wrong. It had signaled his encounter with Death, but had not advised him that he would in fact assume a new office and become immortal. That was the problem with omens; they suggested the fact without suggesting the implication.

He paused.
What
waiting vehicle? He had no car of his own, and no one had told him of one. Yet he had somehow assumed—what?

Well, how had Death traveled here? Did he flap his arms and fly through the air, or did he drive a car? Whatever it was, that was what Zane had to do.

He stepped outside, peering about, letting his eyes adjust to the night. There was a vehicle: a pale limousine, parked sedately in the landlord’s parking space. The landlord would have had the intruding car towed away—but
the man was coincidentally absent. Probably coincidence favored the operations of the—what had Fate called them?—the Incarnations. After all, how could Death handle his rounds if his car kept getting towed away by irate mortals?

Zane thought it was the Deathcar, because its parking lights were blinking at him. The things of Death made sure Death did not neglect them. Zane would have been pleased, if the whole thing were not so grim.

He walked up to it and around the rear. The license plate said MORTIS. That explained Fate’s reference to the name; he had somehow thought she referred to a person, but obviously it was the machine. There was a bumper sticker: DEATH IS NATURE’S WAY OF TELLING YOU TO SLOW DOWN. Just so. He opened the door and climbed onto the plush driver’s seat.

This was as elegant and comfortable an automobile as he had ever encountered. Somber quality emanated from every part of it. The upholstery was genuine alligator leather and the metalwork was solid chrome. It was probably worth thirty-five thousand dollars in stock condition before the expensive options were added. He wasn’t sure he dared try to drive it.

His watch flashed, calling attention to itself. It was mechanical, but it had a magic way about it. The glowing hands indicated 8:05
P.M
., the correct time of day. But the red sweep hand was moving. It hadn’t been before; the seconds were marked by a miniature inset dial on the left, opposite the day-date windows on the right. This little hand was still moving, so he knew that function had not been usurped by the sweep. What was the red hand doing?

As he watched, the sweep passed the noon spot—and the hand in the little thirty-minute dial just below it clicked back from 9 to 8. The stopwatch function was operating—and now he realized it was running backward. The sweep hand was moving counterclockwise. What kind of stopwatch was that?

A countdown timer, he realized. This watch was telling him he had less than eight minutes to do something, or to get somewhere. But what, or where?

A cold shiver crawled down his back. He was Death, or some poor facsimile thereof. He had to go and collect his first soul!

Zane rebelled. He had not sought this office! Only the purest coincidence had brought him to this incredible pass.

Coincidence? He had touched on that before. If the woman who had explained things really had been Fate, then she must have measured the thread of his life; she had guided him to his damnable destiny. She had put him here deliberately. In so doing she had in effect killed his predecessor. Why had she done that?

The watch was blinking insistently. He now had six minutes. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he missed whatever appointment he had, but knew already that these supernatural entities played hardball politics. Maybe his predecessor had balked, and so Fate had arranged to eliminate him. Certainly she had evinced no grief at his demise. If Zane balked, she could do the same to him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this office, but knew he wasn’t ready for that. So he had better get on with the job, trying to buy time to figure out his real feelings about it, and to ascertain what his real options might be.

Where was the instruction manual Fate had mentioned? He didn’t see it, and didn’t have time to look for it. The thing could have been lost a century ago by his predecessor.

Zane put his hands on the steering wheel of the car named Mortis and touched his right foot to the accelerator. Where was the ignition key? He had none. Maybe it was back on the body of the former Death.

Zane shuddered. He had been propelled into this misadventure, but he didn’t want to go back to its starting point! He checked the panel, hoping for an alternative. After all, many vehicles operated by magic in minor ways, just as many magic things had mechanical controls. A simple touch switch was marked ON/OFF. He flicked it to ON—and the car came to life. The front panel lighted, the radio came on, and the seat harness clasped him protectively. The motor thrummed with muted power. Oh, yes, this was some car!

Well, so be it. Zane found the reverse control and
started backing the car out. It handled like a dream device, amazingly smooth and responsive. Death had lived no Spartan existence!

A warning beeper sounded, and the rearview mirror flashed: the way was not clear. But in a moment it was, as a stray auto passed, and he was able to back onto the street.

The Deathmobile continued to move smoothly, responding so instantly and accurately to his smallest guidance that it almost seemed alive. Zane was no automotive expert, but suspected this was one of the finest machines of its breed. It was not magic, basically, but was as apt an instrument of transport as anything magical could be. Oh, yes, Death possessed the best!

Yet Death, for all his perquisites, was dead. This was the somber reality behind the seeming affluence. Death’s killer had inherited the estate.

He shifted to DRIVE and moved carefully forward, getting the feel of this wonderful thing. It was easy to merge with the traffic. The windows and mirrors provided excellent visibility all around, and the wheels seemed almost to steer themselves. Maybe there were crash guards, magnetically distancing the car from other vehicles. Certainly the driving seemed better than Zane’s own, since poverty had kept him out of cars for some years.

The Deathwatch now indicated four minutes. Where was he going?

Zane concentrated on the passing geography and realized he was headed west. But this did not necessarily bear any relation to the direction in which he should go to make his appointment. How did Death home in on his victims?

Victims? He did not like that term! Fate had used the word “client,” as he recalled; that was better.

By whatever term, there had to be a way. Zane felt about his cloak and found an inner pocket with an object inside. He drew this out and glanced at it while driving.

It was a bracelet, with the band broken. That explained why the former Death had not been wearing it. Death had grown careless about a number of details, it seemed! But what did this item signify?

There were three prominent jewels set in the bracelet. One was an orange-yellow cat’s eye, the eye stretching across half the polished surface. It seemed almost alive, looking at him. The middle one was a pink stone with a line across it, the line capped by a kind of arrowhead image at one end. The third was a greenish gridstone, probably rutilated quartz, pretty in its fashion, with two imperfections on its surface. One marking was light, the other dark. There was also a light tracery of curved lines marring the otherwise straight-line pattern.

Zane couldn’t make much sense of this. The watch now showed only two minutes remaining. He had to figure things out in a hurry!

He turned a corner—and as he did so, he saw that the pink stone changed. Its arrow swung around to point in a new direction. No—the car had swung about; the arrow pointed the same way it had before, northwest.

Zane goosed the accelerator and cut into the fast lane. A driver honked in protest, but gave him room. He turned another corner, now going east—and the arrow swung again. It was definitely pointing somewhere.