Reaper Man by Terry Pratchett Page B

then?” he said. “A gang of international crossroads thieves?”
    He was overjoyed. His long-term policing strategy was paying off!
    The Archchancellor tipped a shovelful of Ankh-Morpork loam over his boots.
    “Don’t be stupid, man,” he snapped. “This is vitally important.”
    “Oh, yes. That’s what they all say,” said Sergeant Colon, not a man to be easily steered from a particular course of thought once he’d got up to mental speed. “I bet there’s hundreds of villages in heathen places like Klatch that’d pay good money for a nice prestigious crossroads like this, eh?”
    Ridcully looked up at him with his mouth open.
    “What are you gabbling about, officer?” he said. He pointed irritably to his pointy hat. “Didn’t you hear me? We’re wizards. This is wizard business. So if you could just sort of direct the traffic around us, there’s a good chap—”
    “—these peaches bruise as soon as you even look at ’em—” said a voice behind Sergeant Colon.
    “The old idiots have been holding us up for half an hour,” said a cattle drover who had long ago lost control of forty steers now wandering aimlessly around the nearby streets. “I wants ’em arrested.”
    It dawned on the sergeant that he had inadvertently placed himself center stage in a drama involving hundreds of people, some of them wizards and all of them angry.
    “What are you doing, then?” he said weakly.
    “We’re burying our colleague. What does it look like?” said Ridcully.
    Colon’s eyes swiveled to an open coffin by the side of the road. Windle Poons gave him a little wave.
    “But…he’s not dead…is he?” he said, his forehead wrinkling as he tried to get ahead of the situation.
    “Appearances can be deceptive,” said the Archchancellor.
    “But he just waved to me,” said the sergeant, desperately. “So?”
    “Well, it’s not normal for—”
    “It’s all right, sergeant,” said Windle.
    Sergeant Colon sidled closer to the coffin.
    “Didn’t I see you throw yourself into the river last night?” he said, out of the corner of his mouth.
    “Yes. You were very helpful,” said Windle.
    “And then you threw yourself sort of out again,” said the sergeant.
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “But you were down there for ages.”
    “Well, it was very dark, you see. I couldn’t find the steps.”
    Sergeant Colon had to concede the logic of this.
    “Well, I suppose you must be dead, then,” he said. “No one could stay down there who wasn’t dead.”
    “This is it,” Windle agreed.
    “Only why are you waving and talking?” said Colon.
    The Senior Wrangler poked his head out of the hole.
    “It’s not unknown for a dead body to move and make noises after death, Sergeant,” he volunteered. “It’s all down to involuntary muscular spasms.”
    “Actually, Senior Wrangler is right,” said Windle Poons. “I read that somewhere.”
    “Oh.” Sergeant Colon looked around. “Right,” he said, uncertainly. “Well…fair enough, I suppose…”
    “Okay, we’re done,” said the Archchancellor, scrambling out of the hole, “it’s deep enough. Come on, Windle, down you go.”
    “I really am very touched, you know,” said Windle, lying back in the coffin. It was quite a good one, from the mortuary in Elm Street. The Archchancellor had let him choose it himself.
    Ridcully picked up a mallet.
    Windle sat up again.
    “Everyone’s going to so much trouble—”
    “Yes, right,” said Ridcully, looking around. “Now—who’s got the stake?”
    Everyone looked at the Bursar.
    The Bursar looked unhappy.
    He fumbled in a bag.
    “I couldn’t get any,” he said.
    The Archchancellor put his hand over his eyes.
    “All right,” he said quietly. “You know, I’m not surprised? Not surprised at all. What did you get? Lamb chops? A nice piece of pork?”
    “Celery,” said the Bursar.
    “It’s his nerves,” said the Dean, quickly.
    “Celery,” said the Archchancellor, his self-control rigid enough