"Of course, she wasn't exactly a spring chicken when she died," Paravang's mother was saying. "But she couldn't help that, it was an epidemic. And she's been seeing a few gentlemen in Hell, but no one really suitable though, of course, she'd prefer a living husband. Everyone would, it's such a cachet, so fashionable these days, and when I met her—it was at a local social event, they have these things, you know—"
Paravang thought that it was a good thing that his mother was already dead, because otherwise he would surely have slain her. She had now been resident at his little apartment for a day and the fact that she no longer needed to draw breath was severely evident.
"Mothe—"
"Quite a small woman, not exactly pretty, but very—"
"Mother, I need to talk to you about the money!"
This penetrated.
"What money?" asked Mrs Roche.
"The money I've been giving you all these years. The Hell money."
She was staring at him so blankly that Paravang cracked and told her the truth. "Look, the situation is this. Things haven't been going too well here lately. I lost my license—it's only a temporary thing, I'll get it back—and it was completely unfair. Some demon from your neck of the woods who's working for the police department revoked the license. So, naturally, I had to take steps to get it back and I'm afraid that meant calling in the Assassins' Guild—it wasn't like killing a human, of course. All that would have happened would have been that this guy would have gone back to Hell and stayed there. But the assassin bungled it and died and now they want me to pay. It's a lot of money and I can't afford it. So I'm going to need the money back that I sent you."
"But I don't have it," his mother said, blinking. "I've spent it."
"Spent it? On what?"
"Well, you know. This and that. Things for the house."
"Mother, you live in Hell! How much can you possibly need down there?"
"I entertain a great deal."
"Dear God." Paravang sank into a chair and put his hands over his face.
"But there's really no need to worry, dear. After all, your bride will be bringing you a dowry, so . . ."
"How much?"
"Well, I suggest that under the circumstances you tell her how much you need, and refuse to marry her if she doesn't produce it," his mother said. Her dead face hardened for a moment. "But I imagine she will. She's really quite desperate. And I happen to know that in life, she wasn't badly off—she took the very sensible step of converting all her money into Hell notes when she realized she was ill, and burning it. So when she got to Hell, she had it waiting for her, you see? And she lives very quietly."
"I see."
"I think you should meet her, dear. Talk it over. She's a mature woman and she doesn't have any family, so it would be quite in order."
"When?"
"As soon as possible."
That afternoon, therefore, saw Paravang once more knocking on the butcher's door.