Miel sighed. Oh, absolutely, he said. And look where it's got me.
Now then, said Death. You've lived a life of luxury and privilege, not like those two poor devils you murdered. You've had everything.
No, Miel replied. Most things. Everything that money can buy.
Death clicked his tongue. The mere fact that you're making that distinction proves how privileged you've been. How many people in this world can say they own the land they die on?
Miel laughed, though he couldn't hear himself. You know, he said, I don't think anybody can own land; not great big slices of geography like this. It's a bit like when you see a small man getting dragged along behind a great big dog. Who's walking who?
Death sighed. I'd love to stay here and chat, but you clearly aren't thinking straight. Shall we go?
Not yet. Miel narrowed his eyebrows, as though he was doing long multiplication. I'll tell you something I never had. And it's something that nearly everybody else gets.
Oh, you mean love, Death said. Don't worry about that.
That's easy for you to say, Miel replied irritably. But it's important, it's one of the really important things that matter a lot. You can't just wave a hand and say don't worry about it.
Really?
Yes, really. I missed out on it, and it's not fair. I can hardly remember my parents, so I missed out on that sort of love. No wife, no kids-
You were in love with Veatriz Sirupati, Death pointed out, until she married your friend Orsea.
Doesn't count. She never loved me back.
True, Death replied. Well, maybe when you were both kids, and everybody thought she was going to marry you, for sound political and dynastic reasons.
You can't call persuading yourself to make the best of a bad job love. I'm sorry, but you won't budge me on that one. Love is really, really important, and I missed out entirely. Unfair.
No big deal, Death insisted. Love is a confidence trick, that's all. It's Nature's way of suckering a mammal with a brain and a long, vulnerable gestation period into reproducing. Humans can think, so ordinary animal-grade maternal instinct wouldn't be enough to make human women go through all that, not if they stopped and thought about what's involved. So you have love. It's a substitute for rational thought; look at it that way, it's the complete antithesis of what being human's all about. Humans can make choices, it's what makes them unique. Love takes all your choices away, and there you suddenly are. Worse still, love inevitably leads to the worst pain of all, when you lose the people you love. You might as well be getting all uptight with me because you've never had diphtheria.
I'm not listening, Miel said.
You are, you know. Think how utterly lucky you are. You'll die, and nobody will suffer unspeakable pain because you're not around anymore. Nobody loves you, even your best friend had you thrown in jail. You can die knowing you won't be hurting anybody. Now that's a real privilege.
I don't think I'll die after all, Miel answered, and opened his eyes.
It was getting dark. He considered stopping for the night, in case the horse stumbled and fell, but decided against it. If he was going to reach Cotton Cross before the last dregs of nutrient drained out of his blood, he needed to keep going. I have decided to go on living, he realized, out of pique, just to be difficult. Well.
He could have been lucky, or perhaps the horse was really a fire-dragon or the spirit of one of his ancestors, briefly assuming equine shape in order to keep him alive. In any event, it didn't trip and stumble in the dark, and when the sun rose he was appreciably closer to Sharra Top. Not nearly close enough, though.
In a dip of dead ground was a pool. The water was brown, so dark it was almost black (peat water, seeping up out of the saturated ground at this time of year). The horse put its head down to drink, and he couldn't be bothered to pull it up. He quite fancied a drink himself, in fact he was desperate for one; but that would mean dismounting, and he knew that if he did that, he'd never be able to get back on the horse. The point was academic because he was going to die, but his stubborn streak had worn through onto the surface, like cheap silver plating on a copper dish. I shall die of thirst instead of hunger, he decided, and then all of you who betted on starvation will lose your money. Serves you right. Ghouls.
The horse was still noisily sucking up water. He pulled on the reins to drag its head up, but it jerked back, snatching them out of his hands. He swore, leaned forward to retrieve them, and felt himself slipping, forward and sideways, out of the saddle. He writhed, trying to pull himself back, but it was too late. He'd passed the balance point.
Hell of a stupid way to die, he thought, as he fell. It seemed to take him a very long time to travel the few feet, long enough for him to feel disgust at the ridiculously trivial way his life was ending, and then for the disgust to melt into amusement. If he fell in the water in his state, he probably wouldn't have the strength to swim. Drowning, now; nobody would've bet on that.
The water wasn't deep, but the pool bottom was spongy and soft. He tried to put his weight on his feet, but instead they sank down; he felt peat mud fill his boots, squidging between his toes. He was up to his waist before he stopped sinking. He laughed.
Would being swallowed up in a bog count as drowning, or was it something rarer and unlikelier still? Typical Ducas, got to be different from everyone else. Thorough, too. When the Ducas resolves to die, he's privileged to be provided with a redundancy of alternative causes. Surplus and excess in all things.
"Hold on, don't move." It was a voice, faint on the edge of his awareness. "No, you clown, I said don't move, you'll just go further in." Move? Come to think of it, the voice was right. He was still trampling aimlessly up and down, and each thrashing kick dragged him further into the mud. But a voice…
"Now listen to me." The voice was calm but urgent. He liked it. The voice of a good man. "I'm going to throw you a rope, and I want you to grab hold of it and hang on. Can you hear me?"
"Yes," Miel heard himself say. "Where are you? I can't see you."
"Directly behind you." Ah, that'd account for it. Of course, he couldn't turn round to look. He felt something flop against his neck, looked down at his chest and saw the knotted end of a thin, scruffy hemp rope drooping over his shoulder like a scarf. "Got it?"
Miel nodded. He carefully wrapped his right hand round the rope's end, so that the heel of his hand was jammed against the knot. He had no strength to hold on with, but he might be able to keep his hand gripped shut. As an afterthought he folded, his left hand round the rope as well.
"Good boy. Don't let go, for crying out loud."
A second or two; nothing happened. Then the rope tried to pull away. He felt its fibers rasping into the soft skin of his neck. He was being hauled backward; he couldn't balance and his knees hinged. He was sure he was going to fall back, but remembered he couldn't. The rope jerked his hands up until his clenched fists bashed the underside of his chin. It was like being punched by a very strong man; he swayed, his eyes suddenly cloudy, nearly let go of the rope-would've let go, except that the knot was jammed against his hand. He could feel himself being gradually, unnaturally pulled, like a bad tooth being drawn. It didn't feel right at all. At the last moment, he tried to save his boots by curling his toes upwards, but he was wasting his time. His feet were yanked out of the boots like onions being uprooted. Now he fell; his backside and thighs were in the muddy water. He twisted round a half-turn, and a big stone gouged his hip painfully. He realized he was lying on his side on the grass. The rope's end was still gripped in his right hand; he'd let go with his left when the rope burned it.