GLANDS,
said Death shortly.
ADRENALIN AND SO FORTH. AND EMOTIONS. YOU DON'T HAVE THEM. ALL YOU HAVE NOW IS THOUGHT.
The tall figure appeared to reach a decision.
THIS IS VERY IRREGULAR,
he went on, apparently to himself.
HOWEVER, WHO AM I TO ARGUE?
'Who indeed.'
WHAT?
'I said, who indeed.'
SHUT UP.
Death stood with his skull on one side, as though listening to some inner voice. As his hood fell away the late king noticed that Death resembled a polished skeleton in every way but one. His eye sockets glowed sky blue. Verence wasn't frightened, however; not simply because it is difficult to be in fear of anything when the bits you need to be frightened with are curdling several yards away, but because he had never really been frightened of anything in his life, and wasn't going to start now. This was partly because he didn't have the imagination, but he was also one of those rare individuals who are totally focused in time.
Most people aren't. They live their lives as a sort of temporal blur around the point where their body actually is – anticipating the future, or holding on to the past. They're usually so busy thinking about what happens next that the only time they ever find out what is happening now is when they come to look back on it. Most people are like this. They learn how to fear because they can actually tell, down at the subconscious level, what is going to happen next. It's already happening to them.
But Verence had always lived only for the present. Until now, anyway.
Death sighed.
I SUPPOSE NO-ONE MENTIONED ANYTHING TO YOU?
he hazarded.
'Say again?'
NO PREMONITIONS? STRANGE DREAMS? MAD OLD SOOTHSAYERS SHOUTING THINGS AT YOU IN THE STREET?
'About what? Dying?'
NO, I SUPPOSE NOT. IT WOULD BE TOO MUCH TO EXPECT,
said Death sourly.
THEY LEAVE IT ALL TO ME.
'Who do?' said Verence, mystified.
FATE. DESTINY. ALL THE REST OF THEM.
Death laid a hand on the king's shoulder.
THE FACT IS, I'M AFRAID, YOU'RE DUE TO BECOME A GHOST.
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