Mort tds-4

by Terry David John Pratchett

  'I mean, friend or foe?' he stuttered, trying to avoid Mort's gaze.

  'Which would you prefer?' he grinned. It wasn't quite the grin of his master, but it was a pretty effective grin and didn't have a trace of humour in it.

  The guard sagged with relief, and stood aside.

  'Pass, friend,' he said.

  Mort strode across the hall towards the staircase that led to the royal apartments. The hall had changed a lot since he last saw it. Portraits of Keli were everywhere; they'd even replaced the ancient and crumbling battle banners in the shadowy heights of the roof. Anyone walking through the palace would have found it impossible to go more than a few steps without seeing a portrait. Part of Mort's mind wondered why, just as another part worried about the flickering dome that was steadily closing on the city, but most of his mind was a hot and steamy glow of rage and bewilderment and jealousy. Ysabell had been right, he thought, this must be love.

  'The walk-through-walls boy!'

  He jerked his head up. Cutwell was standing at the top of the stairs.

  The wizard had changed a lot too, Mort thought bitterly. Perhaps not that much, though. Although he was wearing a black and white robe embroidered with sequins, although his pointy hat was a yard high and decorated with more mystic symbols than a dental chart, and although his red velvet shoes had silver buckles and toes that curled like snails, there were still a few stains on his collar and he appeared to be chewing.

  He watched Mort climb the stairs towards him.

  'Are you angry about something?' he said. 'I started work, but I got rather tied up with other things. Very difficult, walking through — why are you looking at me like that?'

  'What are you doing here?'

  'I might ask you the same question. Would you like a strawberry?'

  Mort glanced at the small wooden punnet in the wizard's hands.

  'In mid-winter?'

  'Actually, they're sprouts with a dash of enchantment.'

  They taste like strawberries?'

  Cutwell sighed. 'No, like sprouts. The spell isn't totally efficient. I thought they might cheer the princess up, but she threw them at me. Shame to waste them. Be my guest.'

  Mort gaped at him.

  'She threw them at you?'

  'Very accurately, I'm afraid. Very strong-minded young lady.'

  Hi, said a voice in the back of Mort's mind, it's you again, pointing out to yourself that the chances of the princess even contemplating you know with this fellow are on the far side of remote.

  Go away, thought Mort. His subconscious was worrying him. It appeared to have a direct line to parts of his body that he wanted to ignore at the moment.

  'Why are you here?' he said aloud. 'Is it something to do with all these pictures?'

  'Good idea, wasn't it?' beamed Cutwell. 'I'm rather proud of it myself.'

  'Excuse me,' said Mort weakly. 'I've had a busy day. I think I'd like to sit down somewhere.'

  'There's the Throne Room,' said Cutwell. 'There's no one in there at this time of night. Everyone's asleep.'

  Mort nodded, and then looked suspiciously at the young wizard.

  'What are you doing up, then?' he said.

  'Um,' said Cutwell, 'um, I just thought I'd see if there was anything in the pantry.'

  He shrugged.[6]

  Now is the time to report that Cutwell too notices that Mort, even a Mort weary with riding and lack of sleep, is somehow glowing from within and in some strange way unconnected with size is nevertheless larger than life. The difference is that Cutwell is, by training, a better guesser than other people and knows that in occult matters the obvious answer is usually the wrong one.

  Mort can move absentmindedly through walls and drink neat widowmaker soberly not because he is turning into a ghost, but because he is becoming dangerously real.

  In fact, as the boy stumbles while they walk along the silent corridors and steps through a marble pillar without noticing, it's obvious that the world is becoming a pretty insubstantial place from his point of view.

  'You just walked through a marble pillar,' observed Cutwell. 'How did you do it?'

  'Did I?' Mort looked around. The pillar looked sound enough. He poked an arm towards it, and slightly bruised his elbow.

  'I could have sworn you did,' said Cutwell. 'Wizards notice these things, you know.' He reached into the pocket of his robe.

  'Then have you noticed the mist dome around the country?' said Mort.

  Cutwell squeaked. The jar in his hand dropped and smashed on the tiles; there was the smell of slightly rancid salad dressing.

  'Already?'

  'I don't know about already,' said Mort, 'but there's this sort of crackling wall sliding over the land and no one else seems to worry about it and—'

  'How fast was it moving?'

  '— it changes things!'

  'You saw it? How far away is it? How fast is it moving?'

  'Of course I saw it. I rode through it twice. It was like —'

  'But you're not a wizard, so why —'

  'What are you doing here, anyway —'

  Cutwell took a deep breath. 'Everyone shut up!' he screamed.

  There was silence. Then the wizard grabbed Mort's arm. 'Come on,' he said, pulling him back along the corridor. 'I don't know who you are exactly and I hope I've got time to find out one day but something really horrible is going to happen soon and I think you're involved, somehow.'

  'Something horrible? When?'

  'That depends on how far away the interface is and how fast it's moving,' said Cutwell, dragging Mort down a side passage. When they were outside a small oak door he let go of his arm and fumbled in his pocket again, removing a small hard piece of cheese and an unpleasantly squashy tomato.

  'Hold these, will you? Thank you.' He delved again, produced a key and unlocked the door.

  'It's going to kill the princess, isn't it?' said Mort.

  'Yes,' said Cutwell, 'and then again, no.' He paused with his hand on the doorhandle. 'That was pretty perspicacious of you. How did you know?'

  'I —' Mort hesitated.

  'She told me a very strange story,' said Cutwell.

  'I expect she did,' said Mort. 'If it was unbelievable, it was true.'

  'You're him, are you? Death's assistant?'

  'Yes. Off duty at the moment, though.'

  'Pleased to hear it.'

  Cutwell shut the door behind them and fumbled for a candlestick. There was a pop, a flash of blue light and a whimper.

  'Sorry,' he said, sucking his fingers. 'Fire spell. Never really got the hang of it.'

  'You were expecting the dome thing, weren't you?' said Mort urgently. 'What will happen when it closes in?'

  The wizard sat down heavily on the remains of a bacon sandwich.

  'I'm not exactly sure,' he said. 'It'll be interesting to watch. But not from inside, I'm afraid. What I think will happen is that the last week will never have existed.'

  'She'll suddenly die?'

  'You don't quite understand. She will have been dead for a week. All this —' he waved his hands vaguely in the air — 'will not have happened. The assassin will have done his job. You will have done yours. History will have healed itself. Everything will be all right. From History's point of view, that is. There really isn't any other.'

  Mort stared out of the narrow window. He could see across the courtyard into the glowing streets outside, where a picture of the princess smiled at the sky.

  'Tell me about the pictures,' he said. That looks like some sort of wizard thing.'

  'I'm not sure if it's working. You see, people were beginning to get upset and they didn't know why, and that made it worse. Their minds were in one reality and their bodies were in another. Very unpleasant. They couldn't get used to the idea that she was still alive. I thought the pictures might be a good idea but, you know, people just don't see what their mind tells them isn't there.'

  'I could have told you that,' said Mort bitterly.

  'I had the
town criers out during the daytime,' Cutwell continued. 'I thought that if people could come to believe in her, then this new reality could become the real one.'

  'Mmmph?' said Mort. He turned away from the window. 'What do you mean?'

  'Well, you see — I reckoned that if enough people believed in her, they could change reality. It works for gods. If people stop believing in a god, he dies. If a lot of them believe in him, he grows stronger.'

  'I didn't know that. I thought gods were just gods.'

  'They don't like it talked about,' said Cutwell, shuffling through the heap of books and parchments on his worktable.

  'Well, that might work for gods, because they're special,' said Mort. 'People are — more solid. It wouldn't work for people.'

  'That's not true. Let's suppose you went out of here and prowled around the palace. One of the guards would probably see you and he'd think you were a thief and he'd fire his crossbow. I mean, in his reality you'd be a thief. It wouldn't actually be true but you'd be just as dead as if it was. Belief is powerful stuff. I'm a wizard. We know about these things. Look here.'

  He pulled a book out of the debris in front of him and opened it at the piece of bacon he'd used as a bookmark. Mort looked over his shoulder, and frowned at the curly magical writing. It moved around on the page, twisting and writhing in an attempt not to be read by a non-wizard, and the general effect was unpleasant.

  'What's this?' he said.

  'It's the Book of the Magick of Alberto Malich the Mage,' said the wizard, 'a sort of book of magical theory. It's not a good idea to look too hard at the words, they resent it. Look, it says here —'

  His lips moved soundlessly. Little beads of sweat sprang up on his forehead and decided to get together and go down and see what his nose was doing. His eyes watered.

  Some people like to settle down with a good book. No one in possession of a complete set of marbles would like to settle down with a book of magic, because even the individual words have a private and vindictive life of their own and reading them, in short, is a kind of mental Indian wrestling. Many a young wizard has tried to read a grimoire that is too strong for him, and people who've heard the screams have found only his pointy shoes with the classic wisp of smoke coming out of them and a book which is, perhaps, just a little fatter. Things can happen to browsers in magical libraries that make having your face pulled off by tentacled monstrosities from the Dungeon Dimensions seem a mere light massage by comparison.

  Fortunately Cutwell had an expurgated edition, with some of the more distressing pages clamped shut (although on quiet nights he could hear the imprisoned words scritching irritably inside their prison, like a spider trapped in a matchbox; anyone who has ever sat next to someone wearing a Walkman will be able to imagine exactly what they sounded like).

  'This is the bit,' said Cutwell. 'It says here that even gods —'

  'I've seen him before!'

  'What?'

  Mort pointed a shaking finger at the book.

  'Him!'

  Cutwell gave him an odd look and examined the left-hand page. There was a picture of an elderly wizard holding a book and a candlestick in an attitude of near-terminal dignity.

  'That's not part of the magic,' he said testily, 'that's just the author.'

  'What does it say under the picture?'

  'Er, It says "Yff youe have enjoyed thiss Boke, youe maye be interestede yn othere Titles by —'

  'No, right under the picture is what I meant!'

  'That's easy. It's old Malich himself. Every wizard knows him. I mean, he founded the University.' Cutwell chuckled. There's a famous statue of him in the main hall, and during Rag Week once I climbed up it and put a —'

  Mort stared at the picture.

  'Tell me,' he said quietly, 'did the statue have a drip on the end of its nose?'

  'I shouldn't think so,' said Cutwell. 'It was marble. But I don't know what you're getting so worked up about. Lots of people know what he looked like. He's famous.'

  'He lived a long time ago, did he?'

  'Two thousand years, I think. Look, I don't know why —'

  'I bet he didn't die, though,' said Mort. 'I bet he just disappeared one day. Did he?'

  Cutwell was silent for a moment.

  'Funny you should say that,' he said slowly. There was a legend I heard. He got up to some weird things, they say. They say he blew himself into the Dungeon Dimensions while trying to perform the Rite of AshkEnte backwards. All they found was his hat. Tragic, really. The whole city in mourning for a day just for a hat. It wasn't even a particularly attractive hat; it had burn marks on it.'

  'Alberto Malich,' said Mort, half to himself. 'Well. Fancy that.'

  He drummed his fingers on the table, although the sound was surprisingly muted.

  'Sorry,' said Cutwell. 'I can't get the hang of treacle sandwiches, either.'

  'I reckon the interface is moving at a slow walking pace,' said Mort, licking his fingers absent-mindedly. 'Can't you stop it by magic?'

  Cutwell shook his head. 'Not me. It'd squash me flat,' he said cheerfully.

  'What'll happen to you when it arrives, then?'

  'Oh, I'll go back to living in Wall Street. I mean, I never will have left. All this won't have happened. Pity, though. The cooking here is pretty good, and they do my laundry for free. How far away did you say it was, by the way?'

  'About twenty miles, I guess.'.

  Cutwell rolled his eyes heavenwards and moved his lips. Eventually he said: 'That means it'll arrive around midnight tomorrow, just in time for the coronation.'

  'Whose?'

  'Hers.'

  'But she's queen already, isn't she?'

  'In a way, but officially she's not queen until she's crowned.' Cutwell grinned, his face a pattern of shade in the candlelight, and added, 'If you want a way of thinking about it, then it's like the difference between stopping living and being dead.'

  Twenty minutes earlier Mort had been feeling tired enough to take root. Now he could feel a fizzing in his blood. It was the kind of late-night, frantic energy that you knew you would pay for around midday tomorrow, but for now he felt he had to have some action or else his muscles would snap out of sheer vitality.

  'I want to see her,' he said. 'If you can't do anything, there might be something I can do.'

  There's guards outside her room,' said Cutwell. 'I mention this merely as an observation. I don't imagine for one minute that they'll make the slightest difference.'

  It was midnight in Ankh-Morpork, but in the great twin city the only difference between night and day was, well, it was darker. The markets were thronged, the spectators were still thickly clustered around the whore pits, runners-up in the city's eternal and byzantine gang warfare drifted silently down through the chilly waters of the river with lead weights tied to their feet, dealers in various illegal and even illogical delights plied their sidelong trade, burglars burgled, knives flashed starlight in alleyways, astrologers started their day's work and in the Shades a nightwatch-man who had lost his way rang his bell and cried out: 'Twelve o'clock and all's arrrrrgghhhh, . . .'

  However, the Ankh-Morpork Chamber of Commerce would not be happy at the suggestion that the only real difference between their city and a swamp is the number of legs on the alligators, and indeed in the more select areas of Ankh, which tend to be in the hilly districts where there is a chance of a bit of wind, the nights are gentle and scented with habiscine and Cecillia blossoms.

  On this particular night they were scented with saltpetre, too, because it was the tenth anniversary of the accession of the Patrician[7] and he had invited a few friends round for a drink, five hundred of them in this case, and was letting off fireworks. Laughter and the occasional gurgle of passion filled the palace gardens, and the evening had just got to that interesting stage where everyone had drunk too much for their own good but not enough actually to fall over. It is the kind of state in which one does things that one will recall with crimson shame in later life,
such as blowing through a paper squeaker and laughing so much that one is sick.

  In fact some two hundred of the Patrician's guests were now staggering and kicking their way through the Serpent Dance, a quaint Morporkian folkway which consisted of getting rather drunk, holding the waist of the person in front, and then wobbling and giggling uproariously in a long crocodile that wound through as many rooms as possible, preferably ones with breakables in, while kicking one leg vaguely in time with the beat, or at least in time with some other beat. This dance had gone on for half an hour and had wound through every room in the palace, picking up two trolls, the cook, the Patrician's head torturer, three waiters, a burglar who happened to be passing and a small pet swamp dragon.

  Somewhere around the middle of the dance was fat Lord Rodley of Quirm, heir to the fabulous Quirm estates, whose current preoccupation was with the thin fingers gripping his waist. Under its bath of alcohol his brain kept trying to attract his attention.

  'I say,' he called over his shoulder, as they oscillated for the tenth hilarious time through the enormous kitchen, 'not so tight, please.'

  I AM MOST TERRIBLY SORRY.

  'No offence, old chap. Do I know you?' said Lord Rodley, kicking vigorously on the back beat.

  I THINK IT UNLIKELY. TELL ME, PLEASE, WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS ACTIVITY?

  'What?' shouted Lord Rodley, above the sound of someone kicking in the door of a glass cabinet amid shrieks of merriment.

  WHAT IS THIS THING THAT WE DO? said the voice, with glacial patience.

  'Haven't you been to a party before? Mind the glass, by the way.'

  I AM AFRAID I DO NOT GET OUT AS MUCH AS I WOULD LIKE TO. PLEASE EXPLAIN THIS. DOES IT HAVE TO DO WITH SEX?

  'Not unless we pull up sharp, old boy, if you know what I mean?' said his lordship, and nudged his unseen fellow guest with his elbow.

  'Ouch,' he said. A crash up ahead marked the demise of the cold buffet.

  NO.

  'What?'

  I DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN.

  'Mind the cream there, it's slippery — look, it's just a dance, all right? You do it for fun.'

  FUN.

  'That's right. Dada, dada, da — kick!' There was an audible pause.