There is nothing else in magic but the wild thought of the bird as it casts itself into the void. There is no creature upon the earth with such potential for magic. Even the least of them may fly straight out of this world and come by chance to the Other Lands. Where does the wind come from that blows upon your face, that fans the pages of your book? Where the harum-scarum magic of small wild creatures meets the magic of Man, where the language of the wind and the rain and the trees can be understood, there we will find the Raven King. -- Susanna Clarke, Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell

Death set off immediately for Malish. She slipped through the shadows into the Void, that strange place between places that was everywhere and nowhere. Not even Death fully understood the Void or the things that lurked in it. She saw it as a perfectly normal way to travelling between distant places, as long as she never stayed too long there. The Void's denizens had enough sense to leave her alone. Its eerie silence and bright colours melted away, replaced with the chilly air and dull greys and browns of a mountain village.

She saw at once what had happened. Hamdeyahmar had gone for years without anything remotely interesting taking place within it. The most excitement its people had known was the occasional sheep getting lost, or a burst pipe that flooded someone's house. Now the streets were crowded with shabby, disreputable-looking men wielding weapons.

The villagers were conspicuous by their absence. A few faces peeped out of dirty windows and immediately disappeared. Occasionally someone, evidently a farmer by their mud-stained, patched clothes, hurried by with scared glances at the loitering "soldiers".

Death walked unseen through the streets, watching how the invaders behaved and taking note of how many there were. A large crowd of the young hooligans were harassing a local blacksmith who refused to make weapons for them.

"I've told you," the blacksmith was saying wearily, "I don't know how to make swords. I've never done it in my life."

One of Shuradin's menaces -- who looked like he couldn't be more than sixteen, which was disturbing in multiple ways -- scoffed and punched the man. He injured his own hand more than the blacksmith. He clutched his hand with a muffled whimper. Trying to pretend this hadn't happened, he said in an arrogant tone, "You're a blacksmith. It's your job to make swords."

Death burst out laughing. How could anyone be so ignorant? How had he survived this long?

The blacksmith shared her opinion. "You, my good sir[1], are a born fool. A swordsmith makes swords. I make buckets and doorknobs."

Another young brat tried to slap the man. He only succeeded in missing, hitting his hand on the anvil, and joining his friend in clutching a hand to his chest with pained yelps.

The mercenary who seemed to be in charge of this mob decided it was time to intervene. "Where is the swordsmith, then?"

"Isn't one," the blacksmith said with barely-concealed delight at their expressions. "You'd have to go to one of the big towns to find one."

The mercenary raised his hand to give the man yet another blow. Death pushed over a box of tools. The tools fell everywhere with a tremendous clatter. At once the soldiers -- cowards like all bullies -- decided they had somewhere else to be; preferably somewhere without the risk of decapitation by flying hammers.

Death grinned as she watched them flee. If Fate had any objections... Well, tool-boxes could fall over of their own accord, and if Death just happened to be near this one when it fell, what had that to do with anything?

~~~~

"Approximately one hundred and fifty robbers who think they're soldiers, not counting Shuradin and about forty former soldiers," Death reported. "Less than two hundred people, all told. And a few silly village boys who think joining a lunatic who's busy robbing their families is a good idea. Shuradin sends out small groups of robbers who steal cattle without being noticed, then they butcher the animals, store their meat away -- very badly, too; more than half of it spoils a day after being hidden -- and try to make clothes from their hides -- again, very badly. If you need to find them, look for the mob threatening innocent bystanders and wearing clothes that are falling to pieces."

Kilan scribbled all this down on a piece of paper. "I'll tell Ixerthi this. Do you think I should authorise her to track them down and hang them for their crimes? Will it start a war with Malish?"

Death thought of the tangled mess that would lead to war with Malish. "No, it won't start a war yet. Jalakanavu doesn't even know what's happening. But you won't be able to kill Shuradin yet."

~~~~

Gialma's role as -- in his parents' words -- an unofficial representative of Istogu usually meant that his correspondence with Princess Ixerthi was full of ideas for which schools urgently needed more funding, which rivers were perfect for building mills on, and which towns needed more houses built, to say nothing of occasional research into how to make more land suitable for farming. This was the first time he had read a letter so full of plans to track cattle thieves across a mountain range. He hadn't known it required so much careful planning to get a large group of people, undetected, through a pass in the mountains.

It was more compelling reading than some novels.

Unfortunately, the never-ending stream of Reapers in his house kept distracting him. It was hard to concentrate on anything when at any minute he might look up and see a clumsy uninvited visitor was about to smash a family heirloom.

"Watch out for that vase!"

Too late. Gialma watched in horror as great-great-grandmother Nerdanel's prized vase, one of very few like it in the entire empire, toppled off its stand. Time seemed to slow down as it fell. Just before it hit the ground the Reaper responsible grabbed it and put it back on its stand.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. This particular Reaper looked and sounded like a young boy barely into his teens. How young he must have been when he died! Gialma tried not to think about the implications of that. "I didn't see it."

Gialma put down his letter. What was the point in trying to read when mayhem was unfolding around him? He didn't want to know what sort of chaos he might find in the other rooms.

This evening a dinner party was being held at the palace. He had been invited, but hadn't intended to go. His plans changed now. Anything was better than staying in a house infested with Reapers for a second longer than necessary. He usually didn't mind his odd visitors, but there were times when his nerves couldn't bear their company.

~~~~

Some Reapers preferred to spend their free time gossiping. Others would rather plan elaborate pranks. Still others kept an eye on their still-living relatives. Most of them did all three and many other things beside. When one had eternity ahead of them, they had to find many way to fill it. Varan, when she wasn't visiting Gialma, found endless amusement in travelling the universe. It was amazing how many strange and fascinating places there were. She could watch the sunset on Yegorl[2] one day, and visit the eternally dark planet of Thlogia[3] the next. On several planets she found civilisations that believed they could summon supernatural spirits.

She never realised there might be some power that could summon spirits. More importantly, she never realised she could be summoned.

It happened so suddenly. One minute she was in the Land of the Dead. The next she felt a tugging sensation, as if someone had grabbed her hand and was pulling her backward. Her house disappeared. She found herself sitting in the middle of a strange room, on the cold stone floor, with a teenage girl staring at her in disbelief.

"Who are you?" the girl asked, rubbing her eyes. "Did it work?"

Varan looked around. Red and gold wallpaper, an orange mat on the floor -- though not the part of the floor she'd landed on, curtains embroidered with diamond-shaped designs, high vaulted ceiling... Everything about this place looked like Nirnian architecture and decorating. How had she gotten here?

"I beg your pardon," she said politely. She might have been unexpectedly transported to someone's living room, but she had no reason not to remember her manners. "There seems to have been... a slight accident." The meaning of the girl's last words finally dawned on her. "Wait, what did you mean? Did what work?"

The girl held up a book. "I wanted to ask my grandmother's spirit what she thinks of my sister's behaviour. I did everything the ritual requires. But you aren't my grandmother."

Varan thought that went without saying. "What ritual is that?"

The girl held out the book. A glance told Varan that the ritual in question was nothing but superstitious folly. It had been tried hundreds of times before, she knew. Yet never before had it accidentally summoned a Reaper.

"I think there's been a misunderstanding somewhere," she said. That was putting it mildly. "Sorry I'm not your grandmother." Now there was a sentence she had never thought she'd say. Had anyone ever said that before? "I'll leave now."

"No, wait!" The girl grabbed her cape before she could leave. Varan immediately froze, afraid of reenacting Kilan's first trip to the Land of the Dead. "You're some sort of spirit, aren't you?"

There was no point in denying it when she had appeared out of nowhere after a spirit-summoning ritual.

"Then you have to tell my grandmother to speak to me!"

Varan felt a sudden sense of approaching doom. She tried to shake it off. "I don't know who your grandmother is. Was. I mean, is."

Talking about the dead when you were one of them inevitably led to some confusion about tenses.

"My grandmother was Queen Consort Suwadera," the girl said proudly. "I am Princess Kiroshnoy."

Varan did a quick mental check of the Nirnian royal family. This was the queen's youngest daughter, then. And she implicitly didn't think much of Losradan's behaviour. "I'll... tell your grandmother to visit."

She would also have to ask Death's permission to let a soul temporarily leave the Land of the Dead. What a lot of trouble this fiasco would cause her!

~~~~

Death knew what was and wasn't possible. She knew that it was impossible to bring a Reaper anywhere without their consent, no matter what ritual one used. She also knew that it was impossible for a mere mortal to summon a spirit, any spirit, by any ritual.

So what in heaven's name was Varan talking about?

"I don't understand this," she said, resenting the fact she had to admit it.

"Neither do I." Varan shrugged. "Do you think it's Fate?"

Usually one could sense Fate's hand a mile off. She left Her dirty fingerprints over everything She touched. This didn't quite fit the pattern Death was used to seeing from her infuriating employer. It was more like something Death herself might do, if she took leave of her senses.

This required more investigation. But not right now. Death had quite enough to deal with without investigating more mysteries.

"Take Suwadera to see her granddaughter then," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

~~~~

Suwadera learnt what Losradan was up to. Kiroshnoy learnt what her grandmother thought of it. And Varan learnt many new Nirnian swear-words.

~~~~

Most people thought Empress Qihadal was very elegant and graceful at the dinner party that evening. Few of them cared to look closer.

Gialma did look closer. And the closer he looked, the more the Empress's air of polite interest in everything happening around her turned into a mask to hide how unhappy she really was. He had grown up around people who said one thing while they felt another. He knew how to see past the dignified façade royals learnt to adopt from childhood.

He remembered all the other things he had seen. Qihadal walking alone. Qihadal crying in the garden. Even a brief angry look she had once given Tinuviel when she thought no one was watching. Put together all those minor things added up to something much more serious than they were on their own.

He said nothing. But he watched, and wondered.

Chapter Footnotes:

[1] my good sir = The term translated as this here, faliyahedat, means something like "respected sir", but is always used sarcastically.

[2] Yegorl = A planet with three suns.

[3] Thlogia = A planet that once orbited a now-dead sun. Now it floats in space where the sun used to be.