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“—accur—No!” Vlad raised his eyebrows. “You have such a strange mind, Agnes. Of course, you are not one of the…cattle. I expect that no witch is. You people tend to know your own mind. ” He gave her a toothy grin, and on a vampire this was not pleasant. “I wish I did. Come along. ” There was no resisting the pull, unless she wanted to be dragged along the ground. “Father’s very impressed with you witches,” he said, over his shoulder. “He says we should make you all vampires. He says you’re halfway there anyway. But I’d much rather you came to see how marvelous it could be. ” “You would, would you? I’d like to be constantly craving blood?” “You constantly crave chocolate, don’t you?” “How dare you!” “Blood tends to be low in carbohydrates. Your body will adapt. The pounds will just drop away…” “That’s sickening!” “You’ll have complete control over yourself…” “I’m not listening!” “All it takes is a little prick—” “It’s not going to be yours, mister!” “Hah! Wonderful!” said Vlad and, dragging Agnes behind him, he leapt into the Lancre Gorge. Granny Weatherwax opened her eyes. At least, she had to assume they were open. She’d felt the lids move. Darkness lay in front of her. It was velvet black, starless, a hole in space. But there was light behind her. She was standing with her back to the light, she could sense it, see it on her hands. It was streaming past, outlining the darkness that was the long rich deep shadow of her on the… …black sand. It crunched under her boots as she shifted her weight. This was a test. Everything was a test. Everything was a competition. Life put them in front of you every day. You watched yourself all the time. You had to make choices. You never got told which ones were right. Oh, some of the priests said you got given marks afterward , but what was the point of that? She wished her mind was working faster. She couldn’t think properly. Her head felt full of fog. This…wasn’t a real place. No, that wasn’t the right way of thinking about it. It wasn’t a usual place. It might be more real than Lancre. Across it her shadow stretched, waiting… She glanced up at the tall, silent figure beside her. G OOD EVENING. “O H …you again. ” A NOTHER CHOICE , E SMERELDA W EATHERWAX. “Light and dark? It’s never as simple as that, you know, even for you. ” Death sighed. N OT EVEN FOR ME. Granny tried to line up her thoughts. Which light and which dark? She hadn’t been prepared for this. This didn’t feel right. This wasn’t the fight she had expected. Whose light? Whose mind was this? Silly question. She was always her. Never lose your grip on that… So…light behind her, darkness in front… She’d always said witches stood between the light and the dark. “Am I dyin’?” Y ES. “Will I die?” Y ES. Granny thought this over. “But from your point of view, everyone is dying and everyone will die, right?” Y ES. “So you aren’t actually bein’ a lot of help, strictly speakin’. ” I’ M SORRY , I THOUGHT YOU WANTED THE TRUTH. P ERHAPS YOU WERE EXPECTING JELLY AND ICE CREAM ? “Hah…” There was no movement in the air, no sound but her own breathing. Just the brilliant white light on one side, and the heavy darkness on the other…waiting. Granny had listened to people who’d nearly died but had come back, possibly because of a deft thump in the right place or the dislodging of some wayward mouthful that’d gone down the wrong way. Sometimes they talked about seeing a light— That’s where she ought to go, a thought told her. But…was the light the way in, or the way out? Death snapped his fingers. An image appeared on the sand in front of them. She saw herself, kneeling in front of the anvil. She admired the dramatic effect. She’d always had a streak of theatrics, although she’d never admit it, and she appreciated in a disembodied way the strength with which she had thrust her pain into the iron. Someone had slightly spoiled the effect by putting a kettle on one end. Death reached down and took a handful of sand. He held it up, and let it slip between his fingers. C HOOSE , he said. Y OU ARE GOOD AT CHOOSING , I BELIEVE. “Is there any advice you could be givin’ me?” said Granny. C HOOSE RIGHT. Granny turned to face the sheer white brilliance, and closed her eyes. And stepped backward. The light dwindled to a tiny distant point, and vanished. The blackness was suddenly all around, closing in like quicksand. There seemed to be no way, no direction. When she moved she did not sense movement. There was no sound but the faint trickle of sand inside her head. And then, voices from her shadow. “…Because of you, some died who may have lived…” The words lashed at her, leaving livid lines across her mind. “Some lived who surely would have died,” she said. The dark pulled at her sleeves. “…you killed…” “No. I showed the way. ” “…hah! That’s just words…” “Words is important,” Granny whispered into the night. “…you took the right to judge others…” “I took the duty. I’ll own up to it. ” “…I know every evil thought you’ve ever had…” “I know. ” “…the ones you’d never dare tell anyone…” “I know. ” “…all the little secrets, never to be told…” “I know. ” “…how often you longed to embrace the dark…” “Yes. ” “…such strength you could have…” “Yes. ” “…embrace the dark…” “No. ” “…give in to me…” “No,” “…Lilith Weatherwax did. Alison Weatherwax did…” “That’s never been proved!” “…give in to me…” “No. I know you. I’ve always known you. The Count just let you out to torment me, but I’ve always known you were there. I’ve fought you every day of my life and you’ll get no victory now. ” She opened her eyes and stared into the blackness. “I knows who you are now, Esmerelda Weatherwax,” she said. “You don’t scare me no more. ” The last of the light vanished. Granny Weatherwax hung in the dark for a time she couldn’t measure. It was as if the absolute emptiness had sucked all the time and direction into it. There wasn’t anywhere to go, because there wasn’t any anywhere. After what may have been days or seconds, she began to hear another sound, the faintest of whispers on the borders of hearing. She pushed toward it. Words were rising through the blackness like little wriggling golden fish. She fought her way toward them, now that there was a direction. The slivers of light turned into sounds. “—and asketh you in your infinite compassion to see your way clear to possibly intervening here…” Not normally the kind of words she’d associate with light. Perhaps it was the way they were said. But they had a strange echo to them, a second voice, woven in amongst the first voice, glued to every syllable… “…what compassion? How many people prayed at the stake? How foolish I look, kneeling like this…” Ah…one mind, split in half. There were more Agneses in the world than Agnes dreamed of, Granny told herself. All the girl had done was give a thing a name, and once you gave a thing a name you gave it a life… There was something else near by, a glimmer a few photons across, which winked out as she looked for it again. She turned her attention away for a moment, then jerked it back. Again, the tiny spark blinked out. Something was hiding. The sand stopped rushing. Time was up. Now to find out what she was. Granny Weatherwax opened her eyes, and there was light. The coach swished to a halt on the mountain road. Water poured around its wheels. Nanny got out and paddled over to Igor, who was standing where the road wasn’t. Water was foaming where it should have been. “Can we get acroth?” said Igor. “Probably, but it’ll be worse down below, where there’s really bad run-off,” said Nanny. “The plains have been cut off all winter before now…” She looked at the other way. The road wound farther into the mountains, awash but apparently sound. “Where’s the nearest village that way?” she said. “One with a good stone building in it? Slake, isn’t it? There’s a coaching inn up there. ” “That’th right. Thlake. ” “Well, we ain’t going anywhere on foot in this weather,” said Nanny. “Slake it’s got to be, then. ” She got back into the coach and felt it turn around. “Is there a problem?” said Magrat. |
“Why are we going uphill?” “Road’s washed out,” said Nanny. “We’re heading into Uberwald?” “Yes. ” “But there’s werewolves and vampires and—” “Yes, but not everywhere. We should be safe on the main road. Anyway, there’s not much of a choice. ” “I suppose you’re right,” said Magrat reluctantly. “And it could be worse,” said Nanny. “How?” “Well…there could be snakes in here with us. ” Agnes saw the rocks rush past, looked down and saw the foam of the swollen river. The world spun around her when Vlad stopped in mid-air. Water washed over her toes. “Let there be…lightness,” he said. “You’d like to be as light as the air, wouldn’t you, Agnes?” “We—we’ve got broomsticks…” Agnes panted. Her life had just flashed past her eyes and wasn’t it dull ? Perdita added. “Useless cumbersome stupid things,” he said. “And they can’t do this— ” The walls of the gorge went past in a blur. The castle dropped away. Clouds drenched her. Then they unrolled as a silver-white fleece, under the silent cold light of the moon. Vlad wasn’t beside her. Agnes slowed in her rise, flung out her arms to grip what wasn’t there, and began to fall back— He appeared, laughing, and grabbed her around the waist. “—can they?” he said. Agnes couldn’t speak. Her life passing in front of her eyes one way had met it passing in front of her eyes going in the opposite direction, and words would fail her now until she could decide when now was. “And you haven’t seen anything yet,” said Vlad. Wisps of cloud coiled behind them as he raced forward. The clouds vanished under Agnes. They might have been as thin as smoke but their presence, their imitation of groundness , had been a comfort. Now they were a departing edge, and far below were the moonlit plains. “Ghjgh,” gurgled Agnes, too tense and terrified even to scream. Wheee! crowed Perdita, inside. “See that?” said Vlad, pointing. “See the light all around the Rim?” Agnes stared, because anything now was better than looking down. The sun was under the Disc. Around the dark Rim, though, it found its way up through the endless waterfall, creating a glowing band between the nighttime ocean and the stars. It was, indeed, beautiful, but Agnes felt that beauty was even more likely to be in the eye of the beholder if the feet of the beholder were on something solid. At ten thousand feet up, the eye of the beholder tends to water. Perdita thought it was beautiful. Agnes wondered if, should Agnes end up as a circle of pink splash marks on the rocks, Perdita would still be there. “Everything you want,” whispered Vlad. “Forever. ” “I want to get down,” said Agnes. He let go. There was this about Agnes’s shape. It was a good one for falling. She turned automatically belly down, hair streaming behind her, and floated in the rushing wind. Oddly enough, the terror had gone. That had been fear of a situation out of her control. Now, arms outspread, skirts whipping her legs, eyes streaming in the freezing air, she could at least see what the future held even if it was not big enough to hold very much. Perhaps she could hit a snowbank, or deep water— It might have been worth a try, said Perdita. He doesn’t seem entirely bad. “Shut up. ” It’d just be nice if you could stop looking as though you were wearing saddlebags under your skirt… “Shut up. ” And it’d be nice if you didn’t hit the rocks like a balloon full of water… “Shut up. Anyway, I can see a lake. I think I can sort of angle across toward it. ” At this speed it will be like hitting the ground. “How do you know that? I don’t know that. So how do you know?” Everyone knows that. Vlad appeared alongside Agnes, lounging on the air as though it were a sofa. “Enjoying it?” he said. “It’s fine so far,” said Agnes, not looking at him. She felt him touch her wrist. There was no real sense of pressure, but the fall stopped. She felt as light as the air again. “Why are you doing this?” she said. “If you’re going to bite me, then get it over with!” “Oh, but I couldn’t be having with that!” “You did it to Granny!” said Agnes. “Yes, when it’s but against someone’s will…well, they end up so…compliant. Little more than thinking food. But someone who embraces the night of their own volition…ah, that’s another thing entirely, my dear Agnes. And you’re far too interesting to be a slave. ” “Tell me,” said Agnes, as a mountaintop floated by, “have you had many girlfriends?” He shrugged. “One or two. Villages girls. Housemaids. ” “And what happened to them, may I ask?” “Don’t look at me like that. We still find employment for them in the castle. ” Agnes loathed him. Perdita merely hated him, which is the opposite pole to love and just as attractive. … but Nanny said if the worst came to the worst…and then he’ll trust you…and they’ve already got Granny… “If I’m a vampire,” she said, “I won’t know good from evil. ” “That’s a bit childish, isn’t it? They’re only ways of looking at the same thing. You don’t always have to do what the rest of the world wants you to do. ” “Are you still toying with her?” Lacrimosa was walking toward them on the air. Agnes saw the other vampires behind her. “Bite her or let her go,” the girl went on. “Good grief, she’s so blobby. Come on, Father wants you. They’re heading for our castle. Isn’t that just too stupid?” “This is my affair, Lacci,” said Vlad. “Every boy should have a hobby, but… really, ” said Lacrimosa, rolling her black-rimmed eyes. Vlad grinned at Agnes. “Come with us,” he said. Granny did say you need to be with the others, Perdita pointed out. “Yes, but how will I find them when we’re there?” said Agnes aloud. “Oh, we’ll find them,” said Vlad. “I meant—” “ Do come. We don’t intend to hurt your friends— “Much,” said Lacrimosa. “Or…we could leave you here,” said Vlad, smiling. Agnes looked around. They had touched down on the mountain peak, above the clouds. She felt warm and light, which was wrong. Even on a broomstick she’d never felt like this, she’d always between aware of gravity sucking her down, but with the vampire holding her arm every part of her felt that it could float forever. Besides, if she didn’t go with them, it was going to be either a very long or an extremely short journey down to the ground. Besides, she would find the other two, and you couldn’t do that when you were dying in some crevasse somewhere. Besides, even if he did have small fangs and a terrible taste in waistcoats, Vlad actually seemed attracted to her. It wasn’t even as if she had a very interesting neck. She made up both minds. “If you attached a piece of string to her I suppose we could tow her like some sort of balloon,” said Lacrimosa. Besides, there was always the chance that, at some point, she might find herself in a room with Lacrimosa. When that happened, she wouldn’t need garlic, or a stake, or an ax. Just a little talk about people who were too unpleasant, too malicious, too thin. Just five minutes alone. And perhaps a pin, said Perdita. Under the rabbit hole, down below the bank, was a wide, low-roofed chamber. Tree roots wound among the stones in the wall. There were plenty of such things around Lancre. The kingdom had been there many years, ever since the ice withdrew. Tribes had pillaged, tilled, built and died. The clay walls and reed thatch of the living houses had long since rotted and been lost but, down under the moundy banks, the abodes of the dead survived. No one knew now who’d been buried there. Occasionally the spoil heap outside a badger sett would reveal a piece of bone or a scrap of corroded armor. The Lancrastians didn’t go digging themselves, reckoning in their uncomplicated country way that it was bad luck to have your head torn off by a vengeful underground spirit. One or two of the old barrows had been exposed over the years, their huge stones attracting their own folklore. |
If you left your unshod horse at one of them overnight, and placed a sixpence on the stone, in the morning the sixpence would be gone and you’d never see your horse again, either… Down on the earth floor under the bank a fire was burning darkly, filling the barrow with smoke which exited through various hidden crannies. There was a pear-shaped rock beside it. Verence tried to sit up, but his body didn’t want to obey. “Dinna scanna’ whista,” said the rock. It unfolded its legs. It was, he realized, a woman, or at least a female, blue like the other pixies but at least a foot high and so fat that it was almost spherical. It looked exactly like the little figurines back in the days of ice and mammoths, when what men really looked for in a woman was quantity. For the sake of modesty, or merely to mark the equator, it wore what Verence could only think of as a tutu. The whole effect reminded him of a spinning top he’d had when he was a child. “The Kelda says,” said a cracked voice by his ear, “that ye…must get…ready. ” Verence turned his head the other way and tried to focus on a small wizened pixie right in front of his nose. Its skin was faded. It had a long white beard. It walked with two sticks. “Ready? For what?” “Good. ” The old pixie banged its sticks on the ground. “Craik’n shaden ach, Feegle!” The blue men rushed at Verence from the shadows. Hundreds of hands grabbed him. Their bodies formed a human pyramid, pulling him upright against the wall. Some clung to the tree roots that looped across the ceiling, tugging on his nightshirt to keep him vertical. A crowd of others ran across the floor with a full-sized crossbow and propped it on a stone close to him. “Er…I say…” Verence murmured. The Kelda waddled into the shadows and returned with her pudgy fists clenched. She went to the fire and held them over the flames. “Yin!” said the old pixie. “I say…that’s aimed right at my…” “Yin!” shouted the Nac mac Feegle. “…ton!” “Ton!” “Um, it’s, er, right…” “Tetra!” The Kelda dropped something on the fire. A white flame roared up, etching the room in black and white. Verence blinked. When he managed to see again there was a crossbow bolt sticking in the wall just by his ear. The Kelda growled some order, while white light still danced around the walls. The bearded pixie rattled his sticks again. “Now ye must walk awa’. Noo!” The Feegle let Verence go. He took a few tottering steps and collapsed on the floor, but the pixies weren’t watching him. He looked up. His shadow twisted on the wall where it had been pinned. It writhed for a moment, trying to clutch at the arrow with insubstantial hands, and then faded. Verence raised his hand. There seemed to be a shadow there, too, but at least this one looked as if it was the regular kind. The old pixie hobbled over to him. “All fine now,” he said. “You shot my shadow?” said Verence. “Aye, ye could call it a shade,” said the pixie. “It’s the ’fluence they put on ye. But ye’ll be up and aboot in no time. ” “A boot?” “Aboot the place,” said the pixie evenly. “All hail, your kingy. I’m Big Aggie’s Man. Ye’d call me the prime minister, I’m hazardin’. Will ye no’ have a huge dram and a burned bannock while yer waitin’?” Verence rubbed his face. He did feel better already. The fog was drifting away. “How can I ever repay you?” he said. The pixie’s eyes gleamed happily. “Oh, there’s a wee bitty thing the carlin’ Ogg said you could be givin’ us, hardly important at all,” he said. “Anything,” said Verence. A couple of pixies came up staggering under a rolled-up parchment, which was unfolded in front of Verence. The old pixie was suddenly holding a quill pen. “It’s called a signature,” he said, as Verence stared at the tiny handwriting. “An’ make sure ye initial all the sub-clauses and codicils. We of the Nac mac Feegle are a simple folk,” he added, “but we write verra comp-lic-ated documents. ” Mightily Oats blinked at Granny over the top of his praying hands. She saw his gaze slide sideways to the ax, and then back to her. “You wouldn’t reach it in time,” said Granny, without moving. “Should’ve got hold of it already if you were goin’ to use it. Prayer’s all very well. I can see where it can help you get your mind right. But an ax is an ax no matter what you believes. ” Oats relaxed a little. He’d expected a leap for the throat. “If Hodgesaargh’s made any tea, I’m parched,” said Granny. She leaned against the anvil, panting. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand move slowly. “I’ll get—I’ll ask—I’ll—” “Man with his head screwed on properly, that falconer. A biscuit wouldn’t come amiss. ” Oats’s hand reached the ax handle. “Still not quick enough,” said Granny. “Keep hold of it, though. Ax first, pray later. You look like a priest. What’s your god?” “Er…Om. ” “That a he god or a she god?” “A he. Yes. A he. Definitely a he. ” It was one thing the Church hadn’t schismed over, strangely. “Er…you don’t mind, do you?” “Why should I mind?” “Well…your colleagues keep telling me the Omnians used to burn witches…” “They never did,” said Granny. “I’m afraid I have to admit that the records show—” “They never burned witches,” said Granny. “Probably they burned some old ladies who spoke up or couldn’t run away. I wouldn’t look for witches bein’ burned,” she added, shifting position. “I might look for witches doin’ the burning, though. We ain’t all nice. ” Oats remembered the Count talking about contributing to the Arca Instrumentorum … Those books were ancient! But so were vampires, weren’t they? And they were practically canonical! The freezing knife of doubt wedged itself deeper in his brain. Who knew who really wrote anything ? What could you trust ? Where was the holy writ? Where was the truth ? Granny pulled herself to her feet and tottered over the bench, where Hodgesaargh has left his jar of flame. She examined it carefully. Oats tightened his grip on the ax. It was, he had to admit, slightly more comforting than prayer at the moment. Perhaps you could start with the small truths. Like: he had an ax in his hand. “I wa—want to be certain,” he said. “Are you…are you a vampire?” Granny Weatherwax appeared not to hear the question. “Where’s Hodgesaargh with that tea?” she said. The falconer came in with a tray. “Nice to see you up and about, Mistress Weatherwax. ” “Not before time. ” The tea slopped as she took the proffered cup. Her hand was shaking. “Hodgesaargh?” “Yes, mistress?” “So you’ve got a firebird here, have you?” “No, mistress. ” “I saw you out huntin’ it. ” “And I found it, miss. But it had been killed. There was nothing but burnt ground, miss. ” “You’d better tell me all about it. ” “Is this the right time?” said Oats. “Yes,” said Granny Weatherwax. Oats sat and listened. Hodgesaargh was an original storyteller and quite good in a very specific way. If he’d had to recount the saga of the Tsortean War, for example, it would have been in terms of the birds observed, every cormorant noted, every pelican listed, every battlefield raven taxonomically placed, no tern unturned. Some men in armor would have been involved at some stage, but only because the ravens were perching on them. “The phoenix doesn’t lay eggs,” said Oats at one point. This was a point a few points after the point where he asked the falconer if he’d been drinking. “She’s a bird,” said Hodgesaargh. “That’s what birds do. I’ve never seen a bird that doesn’t lay eggs. I collected the eggshell. ” He scuttled off into the mews. Oats smiled nervously at Granny Weatherwax. “Probably a bit of chicken shell,” he said. “I’ve read about the phoenix. It’s a mythical creature, a symbol, it—” “Can’t say for sure,” said Granny. “I’ve never seen one that close to. ” The falconer returned, clutching a small box. It was full of tufts of fleece, in the middle of which was a pile of shell fragments. Oats picked up a couple. They were a silvery gray and very light. “I found them in the ashes. ” “No one’s ever claimed to have found phoenix eggshell before,” said Oats accusingly. “Didn’t know that, sir,” said Hodgesaargh innocently. |
“Other-wise I wouldn’t have looked. ” “Did anyone else ever look, I wonder?” said Granny. She poked at the fragments. “Ah…” she said. “I thought p’raps the phoenixes used to live somewhere very dangerous—” Hodgesaargh began. “Everywhere’s like that when you’re newborn,” said Granny. “I can see you’ve been thinking, Hodgesaargh. ” “Thank you, Mistress Weatherwax. ” “Shame you didn’t think further,” Granny went on. “Mistress?” “There’s the bits of more than one egg here. ” “Mistress?” “Hodgesaargh,” said Granny patiently, “this phoenix laid more than one egg. ” “What? But it can’t! According to mythology—” Oats began. “Oh, mythology ,” said Granny. “Mythology’s just the folktales of people who won ’cos they had bigger swords. They’re just the people to spot the finer points of ornithology, are they? Anyway, one of anything ain’t going to last for very long, is it? Firebirds have got enemies, same as everything else. Give me a hand up, Mister Oats. How many birds in the mews, Hodgesaargh?” The falconer looked at his fingers for a moment. “Fifty. ” “Counted ’em lately?” They stood and watched while he walked from post to post. Then they stood and watched while he walked back and counted them again. Then he spent some time looking at his fingers. “Fifty-one?” said Granny, helpfully. “I don’t understand it, mistress. ” “You’d better count them by types, then. ” This produced a count of nineteen lappet-faced worriers where there should have been eighteen. “Perhaps one flew in because it saw the others,” said Oats. “Like pigeons. ” “It doesn’t work like that, sir,” said the falconer. “One of ’em won’t be tethered,” said Granny. “Trust me. ” They found it at the back, slightly smaller that the other worriers, hanging meekly from its perch. Fewer birds could sit more meekly than the Lancre wow-hawk, or lappet-faced worrier, a carnivore permanently on the lookout for the vegetarian option. It spent most of its time asleep in any case, but when forced to find food it tended to sit on a branch out of the wind somewhere and wait for something to die. When in the mews the worriers would initially perch like other birds and then, talons clamped around the pole, doze off peacefully upside down. Hodgesaargh bred them because they were found only in Lancre and he liked the plumage, but all reputable falconers agreed that for hunting purposes the only way you could reliably bring down prey with a wowhawk was by using it in a slingshot. Granny reached out toward it. “I’ll fetch you a glove,” said Hodgesaargh, but she waved him away. The bird hopped onto her wrist. Granny gasped, and little threads of green and blue burned like marsh gas along her arm for a moment. “Are you all right?” said Oats. “Never been better. I’ll need this bird, Hodgesaargh. ” “It’s dark, mistress. ” “That won’t matter. But it’ll need to be hooded. ” “Oh, I never hood wowhawks, mistress. They’re never any trouble. ” “This bird… this bird,” said Granny, “is a bird I reckon no one’s ever seen before. Hood it. ” Hodgesaargh hesitated. He recalled the circle of scorched earth and, before it, something looking for a shape in which it could survive… “It is a wowhawk, isn’t it, mistress?” “And what makes you ask that?” said Granny slowly. “After all, you’re the falconer in these parts…” “Because I found…in the woods…I saw…” “What did you see, Hodgesaargh?” Hodgesaargh gave up in the face of her stare. To think that he’d tried to capture a phoenix! At least the worst the other birds could do would be to draw blood. Supposing he’d been holding it…He was overcome by a very definite burning desire to get this bird out of here. Strangely, though, the other birds weren’t disturbed at all. Every hooded head was turned toward the little bird on Granny Weatherwax’s wrist. Every blind, hooded head. Hodgesaargh picked up another hood. As he fastened it over the bird’s head he thought, for a moment, that there was a flash of gold from underneath. He put that down as not his business. He’d survived quite happily in the castle for many years by knowing where his business was, and he was suddenly very clear that it wasn’t here, thank goodness. Granny took a few deep breaths. “Right,” she said. “Now we’ll go up to the castle. ” “What for? Why?” said Oats. “Good grief, man, why d’you think?” “The vampires are gone,” said the priest. “While you were…getting better. Mr. Hodges…aargh found out. They’ve just left the soldiers and the, er, servants. There was a lot of noise and the coach went, too. There’s guards all over the place. ” “How did the coach get out, then?” “Well, it was the vampires’ coach and their servant was driving it, but Jason Ogg said he saw Mrs. Ogg, too. ” Granny steadied herself against the wall. “Where did they go?” “I thought you could read their minds or something,” said Oats. “Young man, right now I don’t think I can read my own mind. ” “Look, Granny Weatherwax, it’s obvious to me you’re still weak from loss of blood—” “Don’t you dare tell me what I am,” said Granny. “Don’t you dare. Now, where would Gytha Ogg’ve taken them?” “I think—” “Uberwald,” said Granny. “That’ll be it. ” “What? How can you know that?” “Because nowhere in the village’d be safe, she wouldn’t go up to the gnarly ground on a night like this and with a baby to carry as well, and heading down onto the plains’d be downright daft ’cos there’s no cover and I wouldn’t be surprised if the road is washed out by now. ” “But that’ll be right into danger!” “More dangerous than here?” said Granny. “They know about vampires in Uberwald. They’re used to ’em. There’s safe places. Pretty strong inns all along the coach road, for a start. Nanny’s practical. She’ll think of that, I’m betting. ” She winced, and added, “But they’ll end up in the vampires’ castle. ” “Oh, surely not!” “I can feel it in my blood,” said Granny. “That’s the trouble with Gytha Ogg. Far too practical. ” She paused. “You mentioned guards?” “They’ve locked themselves in the keep, mistress,” said a voice in the doorway. It was Shawn Ogg, with the rest of the mob behind him. He advanced awkwardly, one hand held in front of him. “That’s a blessing, then,” said Granny. “But we can’t get in, mistress,” said Shawn. “So? Can they get out?” “Well…no, not really. But the armory’s in there. All our weapons! And they’re boozing!” “What’s that you’re holding?” Shawn looked down. “It’s the Lancrastian Army Knife,” he said. “Er…I left my sword in the armory, too. ” “Has it got a tool for extracting soldiers from castles?” “Er…no. ” Granny peered closer. “What’s the curly thing?” she said. “Oh, that’s the Adjustable Device for Winning Ontological Arguments,” said Shawn. “The King asked for it. ” “Works, does it?” “Er…if you twiddle it properly. ” “And this?” “That is the Tool for Extracting the Essential Truth from a Given Statement,” said Shawn. “Verence asked for that one too, did he?” “Yes, Granny. ” “Useful to a soldier, is it?” said Oats. He glanced at Granny. She’d changed as soon as the others had entered. Before, she’d been bowed and tired. Now she was standing tall and haughty, supported in a scaffolding of pride. “Oh yes, sir, ’cos of when the other side are yelling, ‘We’re gonna cut yer tonk—yer tongue off,’” Shawn blushed and corrected himself, “and things like that…” “Yes?” “Well, you can tell if they’re going to be right,” said Shawn. “I need a horse,” said Granny. “There’s old Poorchick’s plough horse—” Shawn began. “Too slow. ” “I…er…I’ve got a mule,” said Oats. “The King was kind enough to let me put it in the stables. ” “Neither one thing nor t’other, eh?” said Granny. “It suits you. That’ll do for me, then. Fetch it up here and I’ll be off to get the girls back. ” “What? I thought you wanted it to take you up to your cottage! Into Uberwald? Alone? I couldn’t let you do that!” “I ain’t asking you to let me do anything. Now off you go and fetch it, otherwise Om will be angry, I expect. ” “But you can hardly stand up!” “Certainly I can! Off you go. ” Oats turned to the assembled Lancrastians for support. |
“You wouldn’t let a poor old lady go off to confront monsters on a wild night like this, would you?” They watched him owlishly for a while just in case something interestingly nasty was going to happen to him. Then someone near the back said, “So why should we care what happens to monsters?” And Shawn Ogg said, “That’s Granny Weatherwax, that is. ” “But she’s an old lady!” Oats insisted. The crowd took a few steps back. Oats was clearly a dangerous man to be around. “Would you go out alone on a night like this?” he said. The voice at the back said, “Depends if I knew where Granny Weatherwax was. ” “Don’t think I didn’t hear that, Bestiality Carter,” said Granny, but there was just a hint of satisfaction in her voice. “Now, are we fetchin’ your mule, Mr. Oats?” “Are you sure you can walk?” “Of course I can!” Oats gave up. Granny smirked triumphantly at the crowd and strode through them and toward the stables, with him trotting after her. When he hurried around the corner he almost collided with her, standing as stiff as a rod. “Is there anyone watchin’ me?” she said. “What? No, I don’t think so. Apart from me, of course. ” “You don’t count,” said Granny. She sagged, and almost collapsed. He caught her, and she pummeled him on the arm. The wowhawk flapped its wings desperately. “Let go! I just lost my footin’, that’s all!” “Yes, yes, of course. You just lost your footing,” he said soothingly. “And don’t try to humor me, either. ” “Yes, yes, all right. ” “It’s just that it don’t do to let things slide, if you must know. ” “Like your foot did just then…” “Exactly. ” “So perhaps I’ll take your arm, because it’s very muddy. ” He could just make out her face. It was a picture, but not one you’d hang over the fireplace. Some sort of inner debate was raging. “Well, if you think you’re going to fall over…” she said. “That’s right, that’s right,” said Oats, gratefully. “I nearly hurt my ankle back there as it is. ” “I’ve always said young people today don’t have the stamina,” said Granny, as if testing out an idea. “That’s right, we don’t have the stamina. ” “And your eyesight is prob’ly not as good as mine owin’ to too much readin’,” said Granny. “Blind as a bat, that’s right. ” “All right. ” And so, at cross purposes, and lurching occasionally, they reached the stables. The mule shook its head at Granny Weatherwax when they arrived at its loose box. It knew trouble when it saw her. “It’s a bit cantankerous,” said Oats. “Is it?” said Granny. “Then we shall see what we can do. ” She walked unsteadily over to the creature and pulled one of its ears down to the level of her mouth. She whispered something. The mule blinked. “That’s sorted out, then,” she said. “Help me up. ” “Just let me put the bridle on—” “Young man, I might be temp’ry not at my best, but when I need a bridle on any creature they can put me to bed with a shovel. Give me a hand up, and kindly avert your face whilst so doing. ” Oats gave up, and made a stirrup of his hands to help her into the saddle. “Why don’t I come with you?” “There’s only one mule. Anyway, you’d be a hindrance. I’d be worrying about you all the time. ” She slid gently off the other side of the saddle and landed in the straw. The wowhawk fluttered up and perched on a beam, and if Oats had been paying attention he’d have wondered how a hooded bird could fly so confidently. “Drat!” “Madam, I do know something about medicine! You are in no state to ride anything!” “Not right now, I admit,” said Granny, her voice slightly muffled. She pulled some straw away from her face and waved a hand wildly to be helped up. “But you just wait until I find my feet…” “All right! All right ! Supposing I ride and you hang on behind me? You can’t weigh more than the harmonium, and he managed that all right. ” Granny looked owlishly at him. She seemed drunk, at that stage when hitherto unconsidered things seem a good idea, like another drink. Then she appeared to reach a decision. “Oh…if you insist…” Oats found a length of rope and, after some difficulties caused by Granny’s determined belief that she was doing him some sort of favor, got her strapped into a pillion position. “Just so long as you understand that I didn’t ax you to come along and I don’t need your help,” said Granny. “Ax?” “Ask, then,” said Granny. “Slipped into a bit of rural there. ” Oats stared ahead for a while. Then he dismounted, lifted Granny down, propped her up while she protested, disappeared into the night, came back shortly carrying the ax from the forge, used more rope to tie it to his waist, and mounted up again. “You’re learnin’,” said Granny. As they left she raised an arm. The wowhawk fluttered down and settled on her wrist. The air in the rocking coach was acquiring a distinct personality. Magrat sniffed. “I’m sure I changed Esme not long ago…” After a fruitless search of the baby they looked under the seat. Greebo was lying asleep with his legs in the air. “Isn’t that just like him?” said Nanny. “He can’t see an open door without going through it, bless ’im. And he likes to be near his mum. ” “Could we open a window?” said Magrat. “The rain’ll get in. ” “Yes, but the smell will go out. ” Magrat sighed. “You know, we’ve left at least one bag of toys. Verence was really very keen on those mobiles. ” “I still think it’s a bit early to start the poor little mite on education,” said Nanny, as much to take Magrat’s mind off the current dangers as from a desire to strike a blow for ignorance. “Environment is so very important,” said Magrat solemnly. “Did I hear he told you to read improvin’ books and listen to posh music while you were expecting?” said Nanny, as the coach rushed through a puddle. “Well, the books were all right, but the piano doesn’t work properly and all I could hear was Shawn practicing the trumpet solo,” said Magrat. “It’s not his fault if no one wants to join in,” said Nanny. She steadied herself as the coach lurched. “Good turn of speed on this thing. ” “I wish we hadn’t forgotten the bath, too,” Magrat mused. “And I think we left the bag with the toy farm. And we’re low on nappies…” “Let’s have a look at her,” Nanny said. Baby Esme was passed across the swaying coach. “Yes, let’s have a look at you…” said Nanny. The small blue eyes focused on Nanny Ogg. The pink face on the small lolling head gave her a speculative look, working out whether she’d do as a drink or a toilet. “That’s good, at this age,” said Nanny. “Focusing like that. Unusual in a babby. ” “If she is at this age,” said Magrat darkly. “Hush, now. If Granny’s in there, she’s not interfering. She never interferes. Anyway, it wouldn’t be her mind in there, that’s not how she works it. ” “What is it, then?” “You’ve seen her do it. What do you think?” “I’d say…all the things that make her her,” Magrat ventured. “That’s about right. She wraps ’em all up and puts ’em safe somewhere. ” “You know how she can even be silent in her own special way. ” “Oh yes. No one can be quiet like Esme. You can hardly hear yourself think for the silence. ” They bounced in their seats as the coach sprang in and out of a pothole. “Nanny?” “Yes, love?” “Verence will be all right, won’t he?” “Yep. I’d trust them little devils with anything except a barrel of stingo or a cow. Even Granny says the Kelda’s damn good—” “The Kelda?” “Sort of a wise lady. I think the current one’s called Big Aggie. You don’t see much of their women. Some say there’s only ever one at a time, and she’s the Kelda an’ has a hundred kids at a go. ” “That sounds…very…” Magrat began. “Nah, I reckons they’re a bit like the dwarfs and there’s hardly any difference except under the loincloth,” said Nanny. “I expect Granny knows,” said Magrat. “And she ain’t sayin’,” said Nanny. “She says it’s their business. ” “And…he’ll be all right with them?” “Oh yes. ” “He’s very…kind, you know. ” Magrat’s sentence hung in the air. “That’s nice. ” “And a good king, as well. ” Nanny nodded. “It’s just that I wish people took him…more seriously,” Magrat went on. “It’s a shame,” said Nanny. “He does work very hard. And he worries about everything. |
But people just seem to ignore him. ” Nanny wondered how to approach it. “He could try having the crown taken in a bit,” she ventured, as the coach bounced over another rut. “There’s plenty of dwarfs up at Copperhead’d be glad to make it smaller for him. ” “It is the traditional crown, Nanny. ” “Yes, but if it wasn’t for his ears it’d be a collar on the poor man,” said Nanny. “He could try bellowing a bit more, too. ” “Oh, he couldn’t do that, he hates shouting!” “That’s a shame. People like to see a bit of bellowing in a king. The odd belch is always popular, too. Even a bit of carousing’d help, if he could manage it. You know, quaffing and such. ” “I think he thinks that isn’t what people want. He’s very conscious of the needs of today’s citizen. ” “Ah, well, I can see where there’s a problem, then,” said Nanny. “People need something today but they generally need something else tomorrow. Just tell him to concentrate on bellowing and carousing. ” “And belching?” “That’s optional. ” “And…” “Yes, dear?” “He’ll be all right, will he?” “Oh yes. Nothing’s going to happen to him. It’s like that chess stuff, see? Let the Queen do the fightin’, ’cos if you lose the King you’ve lost everything. ” “And us?” “Oh, we’re always all right. You remember that. We happen to other people. ” A lot of people were happening to King Verence. He lay in a sort of warm, empty daze, and every time he opened his eyes it was to see scores of the Feegle watching him in the firelight. He overheard snatches of conversation or, more correctly, argument. “…he’s oor kingie noo?” “Aye, sortaley. ” “That pish of a hobyah?” “Hushagob! D’man’s sicken, can y’no vard?” “Aye, mucken! Born sicky, imhoe!” Verence felt a small yet powerful kick on his foot. “See you, kingie? A’ye a lang stick o’midlin or wha’, bigjobs?” “Yes, well done,” he mumbled. The interrogating Feegle spat near his ear. “Ach, I wouldna’ gi’ye skeppens for him—” There was a sudden silence, a real rarity in any space containing at least one Feegle. Verence swiveled his eyes sideways. Big Aggie had emerged from the smoke. Now that he could see her clearly, the dumpy creature looked like a squat version of Nanny Ogg. And there was something about the eyes. Verence was technically an absolute ruler and would continue to be so provided he didn’t make the mistake of repeatedly asking Lancrastians to do anything they didn’t want to do. He was aware that the commander-in-chief of his armed forces was more inclined to take orders from his mum than his king. Whereas Big Aggie didn’t even have to say anything. Everyone just watched her, and then went and got things done. Big Aggie’s man appeared at her side. “Ye’ll be wantin’ to save yer ladie and yer bairn, Big Aggie’s thinkin’,” he said. Verence nodded. He didn’t feel strong enough to do anything else. “But ye’ll still be verra crassick from loss o’ blud, Big Aggie reckons. The heelins put something in their bite that makes ye biddable. ” Verence agreed absolutely. Anything anyone said was all right by him. Another pixie appeared through the smoke, carrying an earthenware bowl. White suds slopped over the top. “Ye canna be kinging lyin’ down,” said Big Aggie’s man. “So she’s made up some brose for ye…” The pixie lowered the bowl, which looked as though it was full of cream, although dark lines spiraled on its surface. Its bearer stood back reverentially. “What’s in it?” Verence croaked. “Milk,” said Big Aggie’s man, promptly. “And some o’ Big Aggie’s brewin’. An’ herbs. ” Verence grasped the last word thankfully. He shared with his wife the curious but unshakeable conviction that anything with herbs in it was safe and wholesome and nourishing. “So you’ll be having a huge dram,” said the old pixie. “And then we’ll be finding you a sword. ” “I’ve never used a sword,” said Verence, trying to pull himself into a sitting position. “I—I believe violence is the last resort…” “Ach, weel, so long as ye’ve brung yer bucket and spade,” said Big Aggie’s man. “Now you just drink up, kingie. Ye’ll soon see things differently. ” The vampires glided easily over the moonlit clouds. There was no weather up here and, to Agnes’s surprise, no chill either. “I thought you turned into bats!” she shouted to Vlad. “Oh, we could if we wanted to,” he laughed. “But that’s a bit too melodramatic for Father. He says we should not conform to crass stereotypes. ” A girl glided alongside them. She looked rather like Lacrimosa; that is, she looked like someone who admired the way Lacrimosa looked and so had tried to look like her. I bet she’s not a natural brunette, said Perdita. And if I used that much mascara I’d at least try not to look like Harry the Happy Panda. “This is Morbidia,” said Vlad. “Although she’s been calling herself Tracy lately, to be cool. Mor—Tracy, this is Agnes. ” “What a good name!” said Morbidia. “How clever of you to come up with it! Vlad, everyone wants to stop off at Escrow. Can we?” “It’s my real—” Agnes began, but her words were carried away on the wind. “I thought we were going to the castle,” said Vlad. “Yes, but some of us haven’t fed for days and that old woman was hardly even a snack and the Count won’t allow us to feed in Lancre yet and he says it’ll be all right and it’s not much out of our way. ” “Oh. Well, if Father says…” Morbidia swooped away. “We haven’t been to Escrow for weeks,” said Vlad. “It’s a pleasant little town. ” “You’re going to feed there?” said Agnes. “It’s not what you think. ” “You don’t know what I think. ” “I can guess, though. ” He smiled at her. “I wonder if Father said yes because he wants you to see? It’s so easy to be frightened of what you don’t know. And then, perhaps, you could be a sort of ambassador. You could tell Lancre what life under the Magpyrs is really like. ” “People being dragged out of their beds, blood on the walls, that sort of thing?” “There you go again, Agnes. It’s most unfair. Once people find out you’re a vampire they act as if you’re some kind of monster. ” They curved gently through the night air. “Father’s rather proud of his work in Escrow,” said Vlad. “I think you’ll be impressed. And then perhaps I could dare hope—” “No. ” “I’m really being rather understanding about this, Agnes. ” “You attacked Granny Weatherwax! You bit her. ” “Symbolically. To welcome her into the family. ” “Oh really? Oh, that makes it all better, does it? And she’ll be a vampire?” “Certainly. A good one, I suspect. But that’s only horrifying if you think being a vampire is a bad thing. We don’t. You’ll come to see that we’re right, in time,” said Vlad. “Yes, Escrow would be good for you. For us. We shall see what can be done…” Agnes stared. He does smile nicely… He’s a vampire! All right, but apart from that— Oh, apart from that, eh? Nanny would tell you to make the most of it. That might work for Nanny, but can you imagine kissing that? Yes, I can. I will admit, he does smile nicely, and he looks good in those waistcoats, but look at what he is— Do you notice? Notice what? There’s something different about him. He’s just trying to get around us, that’s all. No…there’s something…new… “Father says Escrow is a model community,” said Vlad. “It shows what happens if ancient enmity is put aside and humans and vampires learn to live in peace. Yes. It’s not far now. Escrow is the future. ” A low ground mist drifted between the trees, curling up in little tongues as the mule’s hooves disturbed it. Rain dripped off the twigs. There was even a bit of sullen thunder now, not the outgoing sort that cracks the sky but the other sort, which hangs around the horizons and gossips nastily with other storms. Mightily Oats had tried a conversation with himself a few times, but the problem with a conversation was that the other person had to join in. Occasionally he heard a snore from behind him. When he looked around, the wowhawk on her shoulder flapped its wings in his face. Sometimes the snoring would stop with a grunt, and a hand would tap him on a shoulder and point out a direction which looked like every other direction. It did so now. |
“What’s that you’re singing?” Granny demanded. “I wasn’t singing very loudly. ” “What’s it called?” “It’s called ‘Om Is in His Holy Temple. ’” “Nice tune,” said Granny. “It keeps my spirits up,” Oats admitted. A wet twig slapped his face. After all, he thought, I may have a vampire behind me, however good she is. “You take comfort from it, do you?” “I suppose so. ” “Even that bit about ‘smiting evil with thy sword’? That’d worry me, if I was an Omnian. Do you get just a little sort of tap for a white lie but minced up for murder? That’s the sort of thing that’d keep me awake o’ nights. ” “Well, actually…I shouldn’t be singing it at all, to be honest. The Convocation of Ee struck it from the songbook as being incompatible with the ideals of modern Omnianism. ” “That line about crushing infidels?” “That’s the one, yes. ” “You sung it anyway, though. ” “It’s the version my grandmother taught me,” said Oats. “She was keen on crushing infidels?” “Well, mainly I think she was in favor of crushing Mrs. Ahrim next door, but you’ve got the right idea, yes. She thought the world would be a better place with a bit more crushing and smiting. ” “Prob’ly true. ” “Not as much smiting and crushing as she’d like, though, I think,” said Oats. “A bit judgmental, my grandmother. ” “Nothing wrong with that. Judging is human. ” “We prefer to leave it ultimately to Om,” said Oats and, out here in the dark, that statement sounded lost and all alone. “Bein’ human means judgin’ all the time,” said the voice behind him. “This and that, good and bad, making choices every day…that’s human. ” “And are you so sure you make the right decisions?” “No. But I do the best I can. ” “And hope for mercy, eh?” The bony finger prodded him in the back. “Mercy’s a fine thing, but judgin’ comes first. Otherwise you don’t know what you’re bein’ merciful about. Anyway, I always heard you Omnians were keen on smitin’ and crushin’. ” “Those were…different days. We use crushing arguments now. ” “And long pointed debates, I suppose?” “Well, there are two sides to every question…” “What do you do when one of ’em’s wrong?” The reply came back like an arrow. “I meant that we are enjoined to see things from the other person’s point of view,” said Oats, patiently. “You mean that from the point of view of a torturer, torture is all right?” “Mistress Weatherwax, you are a natural disputant. ” “No I ain’t!” “You’d certain enjoy yourself at the Synod, anyway. They’ve been known to argue for days about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. ” He could almost feel Granny’s mind working. At last she said, “What size pin?” “I don’t know that, I’m afraid. ” “Well, if it’s an ordinary household pin, then there’ll be sixteen. ” “Sixteen angels?” “That’s right. ” “Why?” “I don’t know. Perhaps they like dancing. ” The mule picked its way down a bank. The mist was getting thicker here. “You’ve counted sixteen?” said Oats eventually. “No, but it’s as good an answer as any you’ll get. And that’s what your holy men discuss, is it?” “Not usually. There is a very interesting debate raging at the moment about the nature of sin, for example. ” “And what do they think? Against it, are they?” “It’s not as simple as that. It’s not a black and white issue. There are so many shades of gray. ” “Nope. ” “Pardon?” “There’s no grays, only white that’s got grubby. I’m surprised you don’t know that. And sin, young man, is when you treat people as things. Including yourself. That’s what sin is. ” “It’s a lot more complicated than that—” “No. It ain’t. When people say things are a lot more complicated than that, they means they’re getting worried that they won’t like the truth. People as things, that’s where it starts. ” “Oh, I’m sure there are worse crimes—” “But they starts with thinking about people as things…” Granny’s voice trailed off. Oats let the mule walk on for a few minutes, and then a snort told him that Granny had awoken again. “You strong in your faith, then?” she said, as if she couldn’t leave things alone. Oats sighed. “I try to be. ” “But you read a lot of books, I’m thinking. Hard to have faith, ain’t it, when you read too many books. ” Oats was glad she couldn’t see his face. Was the old woman reading his mind through the back of his head? “Yes,” he said. “Still got it, though?” “Yes. ” “Why?” “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have anything. ” He waited for a while, and then tried a counterattack. “You’re not a believer yourself, then, Mistress Weatherwax?” There was a few moments’ silence as the mule picked its way over the mossy tree roots. Oats thought he heard, behind them, the sound of a horse, but then it was lost in the sighing of the wind. “Oh, I reckon I believes in tea, sunrises, that sort of thing,” said Granny. “I was referring to religion. ” “I know a few gods in these parts, if that’s what you mean. ” Oats sighed. “Many people find faith a great solace,” he said. He wished he was one of them. “Good. ” “Really? Somehow I thought you’d argue. ” “It’s not my place to tell ’em what to believe, if they act decent. ” “But it’s not something that you feel drawn to, perhaps, in the darker hours?” “No. I’ve already got a hot water bottle. ” The wowhawk fluttered its wings. Oats stared into the damp, dark mist. Suddenly he was angry. “And that’s what you think religion is, is it?” he said, trying to keep his temper. “I gen’rally don’t think about it at all,” said the voice behind him. It sounded fainter. He felt Granny clutch his arm to steady herself… “Are you all right?” he said. “I wish this creature would go faster…I ain’t entirely myself. ” “We could stop for a rest?” “No! Not far now! Oh, I’ve been so stupid …” The thunder grumbled. He felt her grip lessen, and heard her hit the ground. Oats leapt down. Granny Weatherwax was lying awkwardly on the moss, her eyes closed. He took her wrist. There was a pulse there, but it was horribly weak. She felt icy cold. When he patted her face she opened her eyes. “If you raise the subject of religion at this point,” she wheezed, “I’ll give you such a hidin’…” Her eyes shut again. Oats sat down to get his breath back. Icy cold…yes, there was something cold about all of her, as though she always pushed heat away. Any kind of warmth. He heard the sound of the horse again, and the faint jingle of a harness. It stopped a little way away. “Hello?” said Oats, standing up. He strained to see the rider in the darkness, but there was just a dim shape farther along the track. “Are you following us? Hello?” He took a few steps and made out the horse, head bowed against the rain. The rider was just a darker shadow in the night. Suddenly awash with dread, Oats ran and slithered back to Granny’s silent form. He struggled out of his drenched coat and put it over her, for whatever good that would do, and looked around desperately for anything that could make a fire. Fire , that was the thing. It brought life and drove away the darkness. But the trees were tall firs, dripping wet with dank bracken underneath among the black trunks. There was nothing that would burn here. He fished hurriedly in his pocket and found a waxed box with his last few matches in it. Even a few dry twigs or a tuft of grass would do, anything that’d dry out another handful of twigs… Rain oozed through his shirt. The air was full of water. Oats hunched over so that his hat kept the drips off, and pulled out the Book of Om for the comfort that it brought. In times of trouble, Om would surely show the way— …I’ve already got a hot water bottle… “Damn you,” he said, under his breath. He opened the book at random, struck a match and read: “…and in that time, in the land of the Cyrinites, there was a multiplication of camels…” The match hissed out. No help there, no clue. He tried again. “…and looked upon Gul-Arah, and the lamentation of the desert, and rode then to…” Oats remembered the vampire’s mocking smile. |
What words could you trust? He struck the third match with shaking hands and flicked the book open again and read, in the weak dancing light: “…and Brutha said to Simony, ‘Where there is darkness we will make a great light…’” The match died. And there was darkness. Granny Weatherwax groaned. At the back of his mind, Oats thought he could hear the sounds of hooves, slowly approaching. Oats knelt in the mud and tried a prayer, but there was no answering voice from the sky. There never had been. He’d been told never to expect one. That wasn’t how Om worked anymore. Alone of all the gods, he’d been taught, Om delivered the answers straight into the depths of the head. Since the prophet Brutha, Om was the silent god. That’s what they said. If you didn’t have faith, then you weren’t anything. There was just the dark. He shuddered in the gloom. Was the god silent, or was there no one to speak? He tried praying again, more desperately this time, fragments of childish prayer, losing control of the words and even of their direction, so that they tumbled out and soared away into the universe addressed simply to The Occupier. The rain dripped off his hat. He knelt and waited in the wet darkness, and listened to his own mind, and remembered, and took out the Book of Om once more. And made a great light. The coach thundered through pine trees by a lake, struck a tree root, lost a wheel and skidded to a halt on its side as the horses bolted. Igor picked himself up, lurched to the coach and raised a door. “Thorry about that,” he said. “I’m afraid thith alwayth happenth when the marthter ithn’t on board. Everyone all right down there?” A hand grabbed him by the throat. “You could have warned us!” Nanny growled. “We were thrown all over the place! Where the hell are we? Is this Slake?” A match flared and Igor lit a torch. “We’re near the cathle,” he said. “Whose?” “The Magpyrth. ” “We’re near the vampires’ castle?” “Yeth. I think the old marthter did thomething to the road here. The wheelth alwayth come off, ath thure ath eggth ith eggth. Bringth in the vithitorth, he thed. ” “It didn’t occur to you to mention it?” said Nanny, climbing out and giving Magrat a hand. “Thorry. It’th been a buthy day…” Nanny took the torch. The flames illuminated a crude sign nailed to a tree. “‘Don’t go near the Castle!!’” Nanny read. “Nice of them to put an arrow pointing the way to it, too. ” “Oh, the marthter did that,” said Igor. “Otherwithe people wouldn’t notice it. ” Nanny peered into the gloom. “And who’s in the castle now?” “A few thervantth. ” “Will they let us in?” “That’th not a problem. ” Igor fished in his noisome shirt and pulled out a very big key on a string. “We going to go into their castle ?” said Magrat. “Looks like it’s the only place around,” said Nanny Ogg. heading up the track. “The coach is wrecked. We’re miles from anywhere else. Do you want to keep the baby out all night? A castle’s a castle. It’ll have locks. All the vampires are in Lancre. And—” “Well?” “It’s what Esme would’ve done. I feels it in my blood. ” A little way off something howled. Nanny looked at Igor. “Werewolf?” she said. “That’th right. ” “Not a good idea to hang around, then. ” She pointed to a sign painted on a rock. “‘Don’t take thi ƒ quicke ƒ t route to the Ca ƒ tle,’” she read aloud. “You’ve got to admire a mind like that. Definitely a student of human nature. ” “Won’t there be a lot of ways in?” said Magrat, as they walked past a sign that said: DON’T GO NERE THE COACH PARK , 20 YDS. ON LEFT. “Igor?” said Nanny. “Vampireth uthed to fight amongtht themthelveth,” said Igor. “There’th only one way in. ” “Oh, all right, if we must,” said Magrat, “You take the rocker, and the used nappy bag. And the teddies. And the thing that goes round and round and plays noises when she pulls the string—” A sign near the drawbridge said LA ƒ T CHANCE NOT TO GO NEAR THE CA ƒ TLE , and Nanny Ogg laughed and laughed. “The Count’s not going to be very happy about you, Igor,” she said, as he unlocked the doors. “Thod him,” he said. “I’m going to pack up my thtuff and head for Blintth. There’th alwayth a job for an Igor up there. More lightning thtriketh per year than anywhere in the mountainth, they thay. ” Nanny Ogg wiped her eye. “Good job we’re soaked already,” she said. “All right, let’s get in. And, Igor, if you haven’t been thtraight with us, sorry, straight with us, I’ll have your guts for garters. ” Igor looked down bashfully. “Oh, that’th more than a man could pothibly hope for,” he murmured. Magrat giggled and Igor pushed open the door and hurriedly shuffled inside. “What?” said Nanny. “Haven’t you noticed the looks he’s been giving you?” said Magrat, as they followed the lurching figure. “What, him ?” said Nanny. “Could be carrying a torch for you,” said Magrat. “I thought it was just to see where he’s going!” said Nanny, a little bit of panic in her voice. “I mean, I haven’t got my best drawers on or anything!” “I think he’s a bit of a romantic, actually,” said Magrat. “Oh, I don’t know, I really don’t,” said Nanny. “I mean, it’s flattering and everything, but I really don’t think I could be goin’ out with a man with a limp. ” “Limp what?” Nanny Ogg had always considered herself unshockable, but there’s no such thing. Shocks can come from unexpected directions. “I am a married woman,” said Magrat, smiling at her expression. And it felt good, just once, to place a small tintack in the path of Nanny’s carefree amble through life. “But is…I mean, is Verence, you know, all right in the—” “Oh yes. Everything’s…fine. But now I understand what your jokes were about. ” “What, all of them?” said Nanny, like someone who’d found all the aces removed from their favorite pack of cards. “Well, not the one about the priest, the old woman and the rhinoceros. ” “I should just about hope so!” said Nanny. “I didn’t understand that one until I was forty!” Igor limped back. “There’th jutht the thervantth,” he said. “You could thtay down in my quarterth in the old tower. There’th thick doorth. ” “Mrs. Ogg would really like that,” said Magrat. “She was saying just now what good legs you’ve got, weren’t you, Nanny…” “Do you want thome?” said Igor earnestly, leading the way up the steps. “I’ve got plenty and I could do with the thpathe in the ithehouthe. ” “You what?” said Nanny, stopping dead. “I’m your man if there’th any organ you need,” said Igor. There was a strangled coughing noise from Magrat. “You’ve got—bits of people stored on ice?” said Nanny, horrified. “Bits of strange people? Chopped up? I’m not taking another step!” Now Igor looked horrified. “Not thtrangerth ,” he said. “Family. ” “You chopped up your family ?” Nanny backed away. Igor waved his hands frantically. “It’s a tradithion!” he said. “Every Igor leaveth hith body to the family! Why wathte good organth? Look at my uncle Igor, he died of buffaloeth, tho there wath a perfectly good heart and thome kidneyth going begging, pluth he’d thtill got Grandad’th handth and they were damn good handth, let me tell you. ” He sniffed. “I with I’d had them, he wath a great thurgeon. ” “We-ll…I suppose every family says things like ‘he’s got his father’s eyes’—” Nanny began. “No, my thecond couthin Igor got them. ” “But—but…who does the cutting and sewing?” said Magrat. “I do. An Igor learnth houthehold thurgery on hith father’th knee,” said Igor. “And then practitheth on hith grandfather’th kidneyth. ” “’scuse me,” said Nanny. “What did you say your uncle died of?” “Buffaloeth,” said Igor, unlocking another door. “He broke out in them?” “A herd fell on him. A freak acthident. We don’t talk about it. ” “Sorry, are you telling us you do surgery on yourself ?” said Magrat. “It’th not hard when you know what you’re doing. Thome-timeth you need a mirror, of courth, and it helpth if thomeone can put a finger on the knotth. ” “Isn’t it painful?” “Oh no, I always tell them to take it away jutht before I pull the thtring tight. ” The door creaked open. It was a long, tortured groaning noise. |
In fact there was more creak than door, and it went on just a few seconds after the door had stopped. “That sounds dreadful ,” said Nanny. “Thank you. It took dayth to get right. Creakth like that don’t jutht happen by themthelveth. ” There was a woof from the darkness and something leapt at Igor, knocking him off his feet. “Got off, you big thoppy!” It was a dog. Or several dogs rolled, as it were, into one. There were four legs, and they were nearly all the same length although not, Agnes noted, all the same color. There was one head, although the left ear was black and pointed while the right ear was brown and white and flopped. It was a very enthusiastic animal in the department of slobber. “Thith ith Thcrapth,” said Igor, fighting to get to his feet in a hail of excited paws. “He’th a thilly old thing. ” “Scraps…yes,” said Nanny. “Good name. Good name. ” “He’th theventy-eight yearth old,” said Igor, leading the way down a winding staircase. “Thome of him. ” “Very neat stitching,” said Magrat. “He looks well on it, too. Happy as a dog with two—oh, I see he does have two…” “I had one thpare,” said Igor, leading the way with Scraps bounding along beside him. “I thought, he’th tho happy with one, jutht think of the fun he could have with two…” Nanny Ogg’s mouth didn’t even get half open— “Don’t you even think of saying anything, Gytha Ogg!” snapped Magrat. “Me?” said Nanny innocently. “Yes! And you were. I could see you! You know he was talking about tails, not…anything else. ” “Oh, I thought about that long ago,” said Igor. “It’th obviouth. Thaveth wear and tear, pluth you can uthe one while you’re replathing the other. I ecthperimented on mythelf. ” Their footsteps echoed on the stairs. “Now, what are we talking about here, exactly?” said Nanny, in a quiet I’m-only-asking-out-of-interest tone of voice. “Heartth,” said Igor. “Oh, two hearts. You’ve got two hearts?” “Yeth. The other one belonged to poor Mr. Thwinetth down at the thawmill, but hith wife thed it wath no uthe to him after the acthident, what with him not having a head to go with it. ” “You’re a bit of a self-made man on the quiet, aren’t you,” said Magrat. “Who did your brain?” said Nanny. “Can’t do brainth yourthelf,” said Igor. “Only…you’ve got all those stitches…” “Oh, I put a metal plate in my head,” said Igor. “And a wire down my neck all the way to my bootth. I got fed up with all thothe lightning thtriketh. Here we are. ” He unlocked another groaning door. “My little plathe. ” It was a dank vaulted room, clearly lived in by someone who didn’t spent a lot of social time there. There was a fireplace with a dog basket in front of it, and a bed with a mattress and one blanket. Crude cupboards lined one wall. “There’th a well under that cover there,” he said, “and there’th a privy through there…” “What’s through that door?” said Nanny, pointing to one with heavy bolts across it. “Nothing,” said Igor. Nanny shot him a glance. But the bolts were very firmly on this side. “This looks like a crypt,” she said. “With a fireplace. ” “When the old Count wath alive he liked to get warm of an evening before going out,” said Igor. “Golden dayth, them wath. I wouldn’t give you tuppenth for the new vampireth. D’you know, they wanted me to get rid of Thcrapth?” Scraps leapt up and tried to lick Nanny’s face. “I thaw Lacrimotha kick him onthe,” said Igor darkly. He rubbed his hands together. “Can I get you ladieth anything to eat?” “No,” said Nanny and Magrat together. Scraps tried to lick Igor. He was a dog with a lot of lick to share. “Thcrapth play dead,” said Igor. The dog dropped and rolled over with his legs in the air. “Thee?” said Igor. “He rememberth!” “Won’t we be cornered down here if the Magpyrs come?” said Magrat. “They don’t come down here. It’th not modern enough for them,” said Igor. “And there’th wayth out if they do. ” Magrat glanced at the bolted door. It didn’t look the kind of way out anyone would want to take. “What about weapons?” she said. “I shouldn’t think there’d be any anti-vampire stuff in a vampire’s castle, would there?” “Why, thertainly,” said Igor. “There is?” “Ath much ath you want. The old marthter wath very keen on that. When we had vithitorth ecthpected, he alwayth thed, ‘Igor, make thertain the windowth are clean and there’th lotth of lemonth and bitth of ornament that can be turned into religiouth thymbolth around the plathe. ’ He enjoyed it when people played by the ruleth. Very fair, the old marthter. ” “Yeah, but that’d mean he’d die, wouldn’t it?” said Nanny. She opened a cupboard and a stack of wrinkled lemons fell out. Igor shrugged. “You win thome, you lothe thome,” he said. “The old marther uthed to thay, ‘Igor, the day vampireth win all the time, that’th the day we’ll be knocked back beyond return. ’ Mind you, he got annoyed when people pinched hith thockth. He’d thay, ‘thod, that wath thilk, ten dollarth a pair in Ankh-Morpork. ’” “And he probably spent a lot of money on blotting paper, too,” said Nanny. Another cupboard revealed a rack of stakes, along with a mallet and a simple anatomical diagram with an X over the heart area. “The chart wath my idea, Mithith Ogg,” said Igor proudly. “The old marthter got fed up with people just hammering the thtaketh in any old where. He thed he didn’t mind the dying, that wath quite rethtful, but he did object to looking like a colander. ” “You’re a bright chap, aren’t you, Igor,” said Nanny. Igor beamed. “I’ve got a good brain in my head. ” “Chose it yourself, did you? No, only joking. You can’t do brains. ” “I’ve got a dithtant couthin at Untheen Univerthity, you know. ” “Really? What’s he do there?” “Floatth around in hith jar,” said Igor, proudly. “Thall I thow you the holy water thellar? The old marthter build up a very good collection. ” “Sorry? A vampire collected holy water ?” said Magrat. “I think I’m beginning to understand,” said Nanny. “He was a sportsman, right?” “Egthactly!” “And a good sportsman always gives the valiant prey a decent chance,” said Nanny. “Even if it means having a cellar of Chateau Nerf de Pope. Sounds an intelligent bird, your old boy. Not like this new one. He’s just clever. ” “I don’t follow you,” said Magrat. “Being killed’s nothing to a vampire,” said Nanny. “They always find a way of coming back. Everyone knows that, who knows anything about vampires. If they’re not too hard to kill and it’s all a bit of an adventure for people, well, like as not they’ll just stake him or chuck him in the river and go home. Then he has a nice restful decade or so, bein’ dead, and comes back from the grave and away he goes again. That way he never gets totally wiped out and the lads of the village get some healthy exercise. ” “The Magpyrs will come after us,” said Magrat, clutching the baby to her. “They’ll see we’re not in Lancre and they’ll know we couldn’t have gone down to the plains. They’ll find the smashed coach, too. They’ll find us, Nanny. ” Nanny looked at the array of jars and bottles, and the stakes neatly arranged in order of size. “It’ll take them a little while,” she said. “We’ve got time to get…prepared. ” She turned around with a bottle of blessed water in one hand, a crossbow loaded with a wooden bolt, and a bag of musty lemons in her mouth. “Eg oo it I ay,” she said. “Pardon?” said Magrat. Nanny spat out the lemons. “Now we’ll try things my way,” she said. “I’m not good at thinkin’ like Granny but I’m bloody good at actin’ like me. Head-ology’s for them as can handle it. Let’s kick some bat. ” The wind soughed across the moors on the edge of Lancre, and hissed through the heather. Around some old mounds, half buried in brambles, it shook the wet branches of a single thorn tree, and shredded the curling smoke that drifted up through the roots. There was a single scream. Down below, the Nac mac Feegle were doing their best, but strength is not the same as weight and mass and even with pixies hanging on to every limb and Big Aggie herself sitting on Verence’s chest he was still hard to control. |
“I think mebbe the drink was a wee bitty too trackle?” said Big Aggie’s man, looking down at Verence’s bloodshot eyes and foaming mouth. “I’m sayin’, mebbe it was wrong jus’ giving him fifty times more than we tak’. He’s not used to it…” Big Aggie shrugged. In the far corner of the barrow half a dozen pixies backed out of the hole they’d hacked into the next chamber, dragging a sword. For bronze, it was quite well preserved—the old chieftains of Lancre reckoned to be buried with their weapons in order to fight their enemies in the next world, and since you didn’t become a chieftain of ancient Lancre without sending a great many enemies to the next world, they liked to take weapons that could be relied upon to last. Under the direction of the old pixie, they maneuvered it within reached of Verence’s flailing hand. “Are ye scrat?” said Big Aggie’s man. “Yin! Tan! Tetra!” The Feegle leapt away in every direction. Verence rose almost vertically, bounced off the roof, grabbed the sword, hacked madly until he’d cut a hole through to the outside world, and escaped into the night. The pixies clustered around the walls of the barrow turned their eyes to their Kelda. Big Aggie nodded. “Big Aggie says ye’d best see him come to nae harm,” said the old pixie. A thousand small but very sharp weapons waved in the smoky air. “Hoons!” “Kill ’em a’!” “Nac mac Feegle!” A few seconds later the chamber was empty. Nanny hurried across the castle’s main hall, burdened with stakes, and stopped dead. “What the hell’s that thing?” she said. “Takes up a whole wall!” “Oh, that wath the old Count’th pride and joy,” said Igor. “He wathn’t very modern, he alwayth thaid, but the Thentury of the Fruitbat had it’th compenthathionth. Thometimeth he’d play with it for hourth on end…” It was an organ, or possibly what an organ hoped to be when it grew up, because it dominated the huge room. A music lover to the core, Nanny couldn’t help trotting over to inspect it. It was black, its pipes framed and enclosed in intricate ebony fretwork, with the stops and keyboard made of dead elephant. “How does it work?” she said. “Water power,” said Igor proudly. “There’th an underground river. The marthter had thith made thpethially to hith own de-thign…” Nanny ran her fingers over a brass plate screwed above the keyboard. It read: HLISTEN TO ZER CHILTREN OFF DER NIGHT…VOT VONDERFUL MHUSICK DEY MAKE. MNFTRD. BY BERGHOLT STUTTLEY JOHNSON, ANKH-MORPORK. “It’s a Johnson,” she breathed. “I haven’t got my hands on a Johnson for ages…” She looked closer. “What’s this? ‘Scream 1’? ‘Thunderclap 14’? ‘Wolf Howl 5’? There’s a whole set of stops just marked ‘Creaky Floors’! Can’t you play music on this thing?” “Oh yeth. But the old marthter wath more interethted in…effectth. ” There was still a dust-covered sheet of music on the stand, which someone had been filling in carefully, with many crossings-out. “‘Return Of The Bride Of The Revenge Of The Son Of Count Magpyr,’” Nanny said aloud, noting that “From 20,000 Fathoms(?)” had been written in subsequently and then crossed out. “‘Sonata for Thunderstorm, Trapdoors and Young Women in Skimpy Clothing. ’ Bit of an artist too, then, your old master?” “In a… thpethial way,” said Igor wistfully. Nanny stepped back. “Magrat’s going to be safe, isn’t she?” she said, picking up the stakes again. “It’th a mob-proof door,” said Igor. “And Thcrapth ith nine-thirty-eighth Rottweiler. ” “Which parts, as a matter of interest?” “Two legth, one ear, lotth of tubeth and lower jaw,” said Igor promptly, as they hurried off again. “Yes, but he’s got a spaniel brain,” said Nanny. “It’th in the bone,” said Igor. “He holdth people in hith jawth and beatth them thentheleth with hith tailth. ” “He wags people to death?” “Thometimeth he drownth them in dribble,” said Igor. The rooftops of Escrow loomed out of the darkness as the vampires drifted lower. A few windows were glowing with candlelight when Agnes’s feet touched the ground. Vlad dropped down beside her. “Of course, you can’t see it at its best in this weather,” he said. “Some quite good architecture in the town square, and a very fine town hall. Father paid for the clock. ” “Really. ” “And the bell tower, naturally. Local labor, of course. ” “Vampires have a lot of cash, do they?” said Agnes. The town looked quite large, and pretty much like the country towns down on the plains save for a certain amount of gingerbread carving on the eaves. “Well, the family has always owned land,” said Vlad, ignoring the sarcasm. “The money mounts up, you know. Over the centuries. And obviously we’ve not enjoyed a particularly active social life. ” “Or spent much on food,” said Agnes. “Yes, yes, very good—” A bell started to toll, somewhere above them. “Now you’ll see,” said Vlad. “And you’ll understand. ” Granny Weatherwax opened her eyes. There were flames roaring right in front of her. “Oh,” she said. “So be it, then…” “Ah. Feeling better, are we?” said Oats. Her head spun round. Then she looked down at the steam rising from her dress. Oats ducked between the branches of two firs and threw another armful of dead wood on the flames. It hissed and spluttered. “How long was I…resting?” said Granny. “About half an hour, I’d say. ” Red light and black shadows danced among the trees. The rain had turned to sleet, but it was flashing into steam overhead. “You did well to get a fire going in this murk,” said Granny. “I thank Om for it,” said Oats. “Very kind of him, I’m sure. But we’ve got to…get on. ” Granny tried to stand up. “Not far now. All downhill…” “The mule ran away,” said Oats. “We’ve got feet, haven’t we? I feel better for the…rest. The fire’s put a…bit of life into me. ” “It’s too dark and far too wet. Wait until morning. ” Granny pulled herself up. “No. Find a stick or something I can lean on. Go on. ” “Well…there’s a hazel grove just along the slope, but…” “Just the thing, a good bit of hazel. Well, don’t just stand there. I’m feeling better every minute. Off you go. ” He disappeared into the dripping shadows. Granny flapped her skirts in front of the blaze to circulate some warm air, and something small and white flew up from the ashes, dancing in the fire and sleet. She picked it up from the moss where it had landed. It was a piece of thin paper, the charred corner of a page. She could just make out, in the red light, the words “…of Om…aid unto…Ossory smote…” The paper was attached to a burnt strip of leather binding. She regarded it for a while, and then dropped it carefully into the flames as the sound of crackling twigs indicated Oats’s return. “Can you even find the way in all this?” he said, handing her a long hazel pole. “Yes. You go on one side of me, and I’ve got this staff. Then it’s just a walk in the woods, eh?” “You don’t look better. ” “Young man, if we’re going to wait for me to look interestin’ we’ll be here for years. ” She raised a hand and the wowhawk flew down out of the shadows. “Good thing you were able to get a fire going, all the same,” she said, without turning round. “I have always found that if I put my trust in Om a way will be found,” said Oats, hurrying after her. “I reckon Om helps those who helps themselves,” said Granny. Throughout the town of Escrow the windows glowed. Lamps were lit and there was the sound of doors being unbolted. Over all, the bell went on ringing out through the fog. “Normally we congregate in the town square,” said Vlad. “It’s the middle of the night!” said Agnes. “Yes, but it doesn’t happen very often, and our covenant says never more than twice in a month,” said Vlad. “Do you see how prosperous the place is? People are safe in Escrow. They’ve seen reason. No shutters on the windows, do you see? They don’t have to bar their windows or hide in the cellar, which I have to admit is what people do in the…less well regulated areas of our country. They exchanged fear for security. They—” He stumbled, and steadied himself against a wall. Then he rubbed his forehead. “Sorry. I felt a little…strange. What was I saying?” “How should I know?” snapped Agnes. |
“You were talking about how happy everyone is because the vampires visit, or something. ” “Oh yes. Yes. Because of cooperation, not enmity. Because…” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “…because…well, you’ll see…is it rather cold here?” “Just clammy,” said Agnes. “Let’s get to the square,” Vlad muttered. “I’m sure I shall feel better. ” It was just ahead. Torches had been lit. People had congregated there, most of them with blankets across their shoulders or a coat over their night clothes, standing around in aimless groups like people who’d heard the fire alarm but hadn’t seen the smoke. One of two of them caught sight of Vlad and there was a certain amount of coughing and shuffling. Other vampires were descending through the mist. The Count landed gently and nodded to Agnes. “Ah, Miss Nitt,” he said vaguely. “Are we all here, Vlad?” The bell stopped. A moment later Lacrimosa descended. “You’ve still got her?” she said to Vlad, raising her eyebrows. “Oh well…” “I will just have a brief chat to the mayor,” said the Count. “He appreciates being kept informed. ” Agnes watched him walk toward a small, dumpy man who, despite getting out of bed in the middle of a wet night, seemed to have had the foresight to put on a gold chain of office. She noticed the vampires taking up positions in a line in front of the bell tower, about four or five feet apart. They joked and called out to one another, except for Lacrimosa, who was glaring directly at her. The Count was deep in conversation with the mayor, who was staring down at his own feet. Now, across the square, the people were beginning to form lines. A couple of small children pulled away from their parents’ hands and chased one another up and down the lines of people, laughing. And the suspicion bloomed slowly in Agnes like a great black, red-edged rose. Vlad must have felt her body stiffen, because his grip tightened on her arm. “I know what you’re thinking—” he began. “You don’t know what I’m thinking but I’ll tell you what I’m thinking,” she said, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. “You’re—” “Listen, it could be so much worse, it used to be so much worse—” The Count bustled. “Good news,” he said, “Three children have just turned twelve. ” He smiled at Agnes. “We have a little…ceremony, before the main lottery. A rite of passage, as it were. I think they look forward to it, to tell you the truth. ” He’s watching you to see how you react, said Perdita. Vlad is just stupid and Lacrimosa would weave your hair into a face flannel if she had the chance but this one will go for the throat if you so much as blink at the wrong time…so don’t blink at the wrong time, thank you, because even figments of the imagination want to live… But Agnes felt the terror rising around her. And it was wrong , the wrong kind of terror, a numbing, cold, sick feeling that froze her where she stood. She had to do something, do anything, break its horrible grip— It was Vlad who spoke. “It’s nothing dramatic,” he said quickly. “A little drop of blood…Father went to the school and explained all about citizenship…” “How nice,” she croaked. “Do they get a badge?” It must have been Perdita behind that; she couldn’t imagine Agnes being so tasteless, even in the cause of sarcasm. “Hah, no. But what a good idea,” said the Count, giving her another quick smile. “Yes…perhaps a badge, or a small plaque. Something to be treasured in later life. I shall make a mental note of this. And so…let us begin. Ah, the mayor has assembled the dear children…” There was a shout somewhere at the back of the crowd and, for a moment, Agnes caught sight of a man trying to press forward. The mayor nodded at a couple of the nearby men. They hurried back into the crowd. There was a scuffle in the shadows. She thought she heard a woman’s scream, suddenly muffled. A door slammed. As the mayor turned back, he met Agnes’s stare. She looked away, not wanting to see that expression. People were good at imagining hells, and some they occupied while they were alive. “Shall we get on?” said the Count. “Will you let go of my arm, Vlad?” said Agnes, sweetly. They’re just waiting for you to react, whispered Perdita. Oh, said Agnes inside her head, so I should just stand here and watch? Like everybody else? I just thought I’d point it out. What’s been done to them? They’re like pigs queuing for Hogswatch! I think they saw reason, said Agnes. Oh well…just wipe that smile off Lacrimosa’s face, that’s all I ask… They could move very fast. Even a scream wouldn’t work. She might be able to get in one good wallop, and that would be it. And perhaps she’d wake up as a vampire, and not know the difference between good and evil. But that wasn’t the point. The point was here and now, because here and now she did. She could see every drop of moisture hanging in the air, smell the woodsmoke from damped-down fires, hear the rats in the thatch of the houses. Her senses were working overtime, to make the most of the last few seconds— “I don’t see why!” Lacrimosa’s voice cut through the mist like a saw. Agnes blinked. The girl had reached her father and was glaring at him. “Why do you always start?” she demanded. “Lacrimosa! What has got into you? I am the head of the clan!” “Oh really? Forever?” The Count looked astonished. “Well, yes. Of course!” “So we’ll always be pushed around by you, for ever ? We’ll just be your children for ever ?” “My dear, what do you think you—” “And don’t try that voice on me! That only works on the meat! So I’ll be sent to my room for being disobedient forever ?” “We did let you have your own rack—” “Oh yes! And for that I have to nod and smile and be nice to meat ?” “Don’t you dare talk to your father like that!” screamed the Countess. “And don’t talk about Agnes like that!” snarled Vlad. “Did I use the word Agnes? Did I refer to her in any way?” said Lacrimosa, coldly. “I don’t believe I did. I wouldn’t dream of mentioning her at all. ” “I can’t be having with this arguing !” shouted the Count. “That’s it , isn’t it?” said Lacrimosa. “We don’t argue! We just do what you say, for ever. ” “We agreed—” “No, you agreed, and no one disagreed with you. Vlad was right!” “Indeed?” said the Count, turning to his son. “Right about what, pray?” Vlad’s mouth opened and shut once or twice as he hastily assembled a coherent sentence. “I may have mentioned that the whole Lancre business might be considered unwise—” “Oh,” said the Countess. “You know so much about wisdom all of a sudden and you’re barely two hundred?” “Unwise?” said the Count. “ I ’d say stupid!” said Lacrimosa. “Little badges? Gifts? We don’t give anything! We’re vampires ! We take what we want, like this —” She reached out, grabbed a man standing near her, and turned, mouth open and hair flying. And stopped, as if she’d been frozen. Then she buckled, one hand reaching for her throat, and glared at her father. “What…did you do?” she gasped. “My throat…feels…You did something!” The Count rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lacci—” “And don’t call me that! You know how I hate that!” There was a brief scream from one of the lesser vampires behind them. Agnes couldn’t remember his name, it was probably Fenrir or Maledicta or something, but she did recall that he preferred to be known as Gerald. He sagged to his knees, clawing at his throat. None of the other vampires looked very happy, either. A couple of them were kneeling and groaning, to the bewilderment of the citizens. “I don’t…feel very well,” said the Countess, swaying slightly. “I did say I didn’t think wine was a good idea…” The Count turned and stared at Agnes. She took a step back. “It’s you, isn’t it,” he said. “Of course it is!” moaned Lacrimosa. “You know that old woman put herself somewhere, and she must’ve known Vlad was soppy on that lump!” She’s not in here, is she? said Perdita. Don’t you know? Agnes thought, backing away again. Well, I don’t think she is, but is it me doing the thinking? Look, she’s hidden herself in that priest, we know it. |
No, we don’t, you just thought that’d be a smart thing for her to do because everyone would think she’s hiding in the baby. “Why don’t you just crawl back into your coffin and rot, you slimy little maggot,” Agnes said. It wasn’t that good, but im-promptu insults are seldom well crafted. Lacrimosa leapt at her, but something else was wrong. Instead of gliding through the air like velvet death she lurched like a bird with a broken wing. But fury let her rear up in front of Agnes, one claw out to scratch— Agnes hit her as hard as she could and felt Perdita get behind the blow as well. It shouldn’t have been possible for it to connect, the girl was quick enough to run around Agnes three times before it could, but it did. The people of Escrow watched a vampire stagger back, bleeding. The mayor raised his head. Agnes went into a crouch, fists raised. “I don’t know where Granny Weatherwax went,” she said. “Maybe she is in here with me, eh?” A flash of mad inspiration struck her and she added, in Granny’s sharp tones, “And if you strike me down again I’ll bite my way up through your boots!” “A nice try, Miss Nitt,” said the Count, striding toward her. “But I don’t think so—” He stopped, clutching at the gold chain that was suddenly around his neck. Behind him the mayor hauled on it with all his weight, forcing the vampire to the ground. The citizens looked at one another, and all moved at once. Vampires rose into the air, trying to gain height, kicking at clutching hands. Torches were snatched from walls. The night was suddenly full of screams. Agnes looked up at Vlad, who was staring in horror. Lacrimosa was surrounded by a closing ring of people. “You’d better run,” she said, “or they’ll—” He turned and lunged, and the last thing she saw was teeth. The track downhill was worse that the climb. Springs had erupted in every hollow, and every path was a rivulet. As Granny and Oats lurched from mud slough to bog, Oats reflected on the story in the Book of Om — the story, really—about the prophet Brutha and his journey with Om across the burning desert, which had ended up changing Omnianism forever. It had replaced swords with sermons, which at least caused fewer deaths except in the case of the really very long ones, and had broken the Church into a thousand pieces which had then started arguing with one another and finally turned out Oats, who argued with himself. Oats wondered how far across the desert Brutha would have got if he’d been trying to support Granny Weatherwax. There was something unbending about her, something hard as rock. By about halfway the blessed prophet might, he felt guiltily, have yielded to the temptation to…well, at least say something unpleasant, or give a meaningful sigh. The old woman had got very crotchety since being warmed up. She seemed to have something on her mind. The rain had stopped but the wind was sharp, and there were still occasional stinging bursts of hail. “Won’t be long now,” he panted. “You don’t know that,” said Granny, splashing through black, peaty mud. “No, you’re absolutely right,” said Oats. “I was just saying that to be cheerful. ” “Hasn’t worked,” said Granny. “Mistress Weatherwax, would you like me to leave you here?” said Oats. Granny sniffed. “Wouldn’t worry me,” she said. “Would you like me to?” said Oats. “It’s not my mountain,” said Granny. “I wouldn’t be one to tell people where they should be. ” “I’ll go if you want me to,” said Oats. “I never asked you to come,” said Granny simply. “You’d be dead if I hadn’t!” “That’s no business of yours. ” “My god, Mistress Weatherwax, you try me sorely. ” “Your god, Mister Oats, tries everyone. That’s what gods generally do, and that’s why I don’t truck with ’em. And they lays down rules all the time. ” “There have to be rules, Mistress Weatherwax. ” “And what’s the first one that your Om requires, then?” “That believers should worship no other god but Om,” said Oats promptly. “Oh yes? That’s gods for you. Very self-centered, as a rule. ” “I think it was to get people’s attention,” said Oats. “There are many commandments about dealing well with other people, if that’s what you’re getting at. ” “Really? And ’spose someone doesn’t want to believe in Om and tries to live properly?” “According to the prophet Brutha, to live properly is to believe in Om. ” “Oho, that’s clever! He gets you coming and going,” said Granny. “It took a good thinker to come up with that. Well done. What other clever things did he say?” “He doesn’t say things to be clever,” said Oats hotly. “But, since you ask, he said in his Letter to the Simonites that it is through other people that we truly become people. ” “Good. He got that one right. ” “And he said that we should take light into dark places. ” Granny didn’t say anything. “I thought I’d mention that,” said Oats, “because when you were…you know, kneeling, back in the forge…you said something very similar…” Granny stopped so suddenly that Oats nearly fell over. “I did what ?” “You were mumbling and—” “I was talkin’ in my…sleep?” “Yes, and you said something about darkness being where the light needs to be, which I remember because in the Book of Om —” “You listened ?” “No, I wasn’t listening, but I couldn’t help hearing, could I? And you sounded as if you were having an argument with someone…” “Can you remember everything I said?” “I think so. ” Granny staggered on a little, and stopped in a puddle of black water that began to rise over her boots. “Can you forget?” she said. “Pardon?” “You wouldn’t be so unkind as to pass on to anyone else the ramblings of a poor ol’ woman who was probably off her head, would you?” said Granny, slowly. Oats thought for a moment. “What ramblings were these, Mistress Weatherwax?” Granny seemed to sag with relief. “Ah. Good thing you asked, really, bein’ as there weren’t any. ” Black bubbles arose from the bog around Granny Weatherwax as the two of them watched each other. Some sort of truce had been declared. “I wonder, young man, if you would be so good as to pull me out?” This took some time and involved a branch from a nearby tree and, despite Oats’s best efforts, Granny’s first foot came out of its boot. And once one boot has said goodbye in a peat bog, the other one is bound to follow out of fraternal solidarity. Granny ended up on what was comparatively dry and comparatively land wearing a pair of the heaviest-looking socks Oats had ever seen. They looked as if they could shrug off a hammer blow. “They was good boots,” said Granny, looking at the bubbles. “Oh well, let’s get on. ” She staggered a little as she set off again, but to Oats’s admiration managed to stay upright. He was beginning to form yet another new opinion of the old woman, who caused a new opinion to arise about once every half hour, and it was this: she needed someone to beat. If she didn’t have someone to beat, she’d probably beat herself. “Shame about your little book of holy words…” she said, when she was farther down the track. There was a long pause before Oats replied. “I can easily get another,” he said levelly. “Must be hard, not having your book of words. ” “It’s only paper. ” “I shall ask the King to see about getting you another book of words. ” “I wouldn’t trouble him. ” “Terrible thing to have to burn all them words, though. ” “The worthwhile ones don’t burn. ” “You’re not too stupid, for all that you wear a funny hat,” said Granny. “I know when I’m being pushed, Mistress Weatherwax. ” “Well done. ” They walked on it silence. A shower of hail bounced off Granny’s pointed hat and Oats’s wide brim. Then Granny said: “It’s no good you trying to make me believe in Om, though. ” “Om forbid that I should try, Mistress Weatherwax. I haven’t even given you a pamphlet, have I?” “No, but you’re trying to make me think ‘Oo, what a nice young man, his god must be something special if nice young men like him helps old ladies like me,’ aren’t you. ” “No. ” “Really? Well, it’s not working. People you can believe in, sometimes, but not gods. And I’ll tell you this, Mister Oats…” He sighed. |
“Yes?” She turned to face him, suddenly alive. “It’d be as well for you if I didn’t believe,” she said, prodding him with a sharp finger. “This Om…anyone seen him?” “It is said three thousand people witnessed his manifestation at the Great Temple when he make the Covenant with the prophet Brutha and saved him from death by torture on the iron turtle—” “But I bet that now they’re arguing about what they actually saw, eh?” “Well, indeed, yes, there are many opinions—” “Right. Right. That’s people for you. Now if I’d seen him, really there, really alive, it’d be in me like a fever. If I thought there was some god who really did care two hoots about people, who watched ’em like a father and cared for ’em like a mother…well, you wouldn’t catch me sayin’ things like ‘there are two sides to every question’ and ‘we must respect other people’s beliefs. ’ You wouldn’t find me just being gen’rally nice in the hope that it’d all turn out right in the end, not if that flame was burning in me like an unforgivin’ sword. And I did say burnin’, Mister Oats, ’cos that’s what it’d be. You say that you people don’t burn folk and sacrifice people anymore, but that’s what true faith would mean, y’see? Sacrificin’ your own life, one day at a time, to the flame, declarin’ the truth of it, workin’ for it, breathin’ the soul of it. That’s religion. Anything else is just…is just bein’ nice. And a way of keepin’ in touch with the neighbors. ” She relaxed slightly, and went on in a quieter voice: “Anyway, that’s what I’d be, if I really believed. And I don’t think that’s fashionable right now, ’cos it seems that if you sees evil now you have to wring your hands and say ‘oh deary me, we must debate this. ’ That my two penn’orth, Mister Oats. You be happy to let things lie. Don’t chase faith, ’cos you’ll never catch it. ” She added, almost as an aside, “But, perhaps, you can live faithfully. ” Her teeth chattered as a gust of icy wind flapped her wet dress around her legs. “You got another book of holy words on you?” she added. “No,” said Oats, still shocked. He thought: my god, if she ever finds a religion, what would come out of these mountains and sweep across the plains? My god…I just said “my god”… “A book of hymns, maybe?” said Granny. “No. ” “A slim volume o’ prayers, suitable for every occasion?” “No, Granny Weatherwax. ” “Damn. ” Granny slowly collapsed backward, folding up like an empty dress. He rushed forward and caught her before she landed in the mud. One thin white hand gripped his wrist so hard that he yelped. Then she relaxed, and sagged in his grasp. Something made Oats look up. A hooded figure sat on a white horse a little way away, outlined in the faintest blue fire. “Go away!” he screamed. “You be gone right now or…or…” He lowered the body onto some tufts of grass, grabbed a handful of mud and flung it into the gloom. He ran after it, punching wildly at a shape which was suddenly no more than shadows and curling mist. He dashed back, picked up Granny Weatherwax, slung her over his shoulder and ran on, downhill. The mist behind him formed a shape on a white horse. Death shook his head. I T WASN’T EVEN AS IF I SAID ANYTHING , he said. Waves of black heat broke over Agnes, and then there was a pit, and a fall into hot, suffocating darkness. She felt the desire. It was tugging her forward like a current. Well, she thought dreamily, at least I’ll lose some weight… Yes, said Perdita, but all the eyeliner you’ll have to wear must add a few pounds … The hunger filled her now, accelerating her. And there was light, behind her, shining past her. She felt the fall gradually slow as if she’d hit invisible feathers, and then the world spun and she was rising again, moving up faster than an eagle stoops, toward an expanding circle of cold white— It couldn’t possibly be words that she heard. There was no sound but a faint rushing noise. But it was the shadow of words, the effect they leave in the mind after they had been said, and she felt her own voice rushing in to fill the shape that had appeared there. I…can’t…be…having…with…this… Light exploded. And someone was about to hammer a stake through her heart. “Stdt?” she said, knocking the hand away. She spluttered for a moment and then spat the lemon out of her mouth. “Hey, stop that!” she tried again, this time with all the authority she could muster. “What the heck are you doing? Do I look like a vampire?” The man with the stake and mallet hesitated, and then tapped a finger to the side of his neck. Agnes reached to hers, and found two raised weals. “He must have missed!” she said, pushing the stake away and sitting up. “Who took my stocking off? Who took off my left stocking? Is that boiling vinegar I can smell? What’re all these poppy seeds doing poured down my bra? If it wasn’t a woman who took my stocking off there’s going to be some serious trouble, I can tell you!” The crowd around the table looked at one another, suddenly uncertain in the face of her rage. Agnes glanced up as something brushed her ear. Hanging over her were stars and crosses and circles and more complex designs she recognized as religious symbols. She’d never felt inclined to believe in religion, but she knew what it looked like. “And this is just a very tasteless display,” she said. “She doesn’t act like a vampire,” said a man. “She doesn’t look like one. And she did fight the others. ” “We saw that one bite her!” said a woman. “Bad aim in poor light,” said Agnes, knowing that it wasn’t. There was a hunger welling up. It was not like the black urge she’d felt in the dark, but sharp and urgent all the same. She had to give into it. “I’d kill for a cup of tea,” she added. That seemed to clinch it. Tea wasn’t the liquid usually associated with vampires. “And for goodness’ sake let me shake some of these poppy seeds out,” she went on, adjusting her bosom “I feel like a wholemeal loaf. ” They moved aside as she swung her legs off the table, which now meant that she could see the vampire lying on the floor. She nearly thought of it as the other vampire. It was a man wearing a long frock coat and a fancy waistcoat, both covered in mud and blood; there was a stake through his heart. Further identification, though, would have to await finding where they’d put his head. “I see you got one, then,” she said, trying not to be sick. “Got two,” said the man with the hammer. “Set fire to the other one. They killed the mayor and Mr. Vlack. ” “You mean the rest got away?” said Agnes. “Yes. They’re still strong but they can’t fly much. ” Agnes indicated the headless vampire. “Er…is that one Vlad?” she said. “Which one was he?” “The one that…bit me. Tried to bite me,” she corrected herself. “We can check. Piotr, show her the head. ” A young man obediently went to the fireplace, pulled on a glove, lifted the lid of a big saucepan and held up a head by its hair. “That’s not Vlad,” said Agnes, swallowing. No, said Perdita, Vlad was taller. “They’ll be heading back to their castle,” said Piotr. “On foot! You should see them trying to fly! It’s like watching chickens panicking. ” “The castle…” said Agnes. “They’ll have to make it before cock-crow,” said Piotr, with some satisfaction. “And they can’t cut through the woods, ’cos of the werewolves. ” “What? I thought werewolves and vampires would get along fine,” said Agnes. “Oh, maybe it looks like that,” said Piotr. “But they’re watching one another all the time to see who’s going to be the first to blink. ” He looked around the room. “We don’t mind the werewolves,” he went on, to general agreement. “They leave us alone most of the time because we don’t run fast enough to be interesting. ” He looked Agnes up and down. “What was it you did to the vampires?” he said. “Me? I didn’t do—I don’t know,” said Agnes. “They couldn’t even bite us properly. ” “And they were squabbling like kids when they left,” said the man with the mallet. “You’ve got a pointy hat,” said Piotr. “Did you put a spell on them?” “I—I don’t know. I really don’t. ” And then natural honesty met witchcraft. |
One aspect of witchcraft is the craftiness, and it’s seldom unwise to take the credit for unexplained but fortuitous events. “I may have done,” she added. “Well, we’re going after them,” said Piotr. “Won’t they have got well away?” “ We can cut through the woods. ” Blood tinted the rain that ran off the wound on Jason Ogg’s shoulder. He dabbed at it with a cloth. “Reckon I’ll be hammerin’ left-handed for a week or two,” he said, wincing. “They got very good fields of fire,” said Shawn, who had taken refuge behind the beer barrel used so recently to wet the baby’s head. “I mean, it’s a castle. A frontal attack simply won’t work. ” He sighed, and shielded his guttering candle to keep the wind from blowing it out. They’re tried a frontal attack nevertheless, and the only reason no one had been killed was that the drink seemed to be flowing freely within the keep. As it was, one or two people would be limping for a while. Then they’d tried what Jason persisted in referring to as a backal attack, but there were arrow slots even over the kitchens. One man creeping up to the walls very slowly—a sidle attack, as Shawn had thought of it—had worked, but since all the doors were very solidly barred this had just meant that he’d stood there feeling like a fool. He was trying to find some help in the ancient military journals of General Tacticus, whose intelligent campaigning had been so successful that he’d lent his very name to the detailed prosecution of martial endeavor, and had actually found a section headed What to Do If One Army Occupies a Well-fortified and Superior Ground and the Other Does Not, but since the first sentence read “Endeavor to be the one inside” he’d rather lost heart. The rest of the Lancre militia cowered behind buttresses and upturned carts, waiting for him to lead them. There was a respectful clang as Big Jim Beef, who was acting as cover for two other part-time soldiers, saluted his commander. “I reckon,” he ventured, “dat it we got big fire’s goin’ in frun’ of the doors we could smoke dem out. ” “Good idea,” said Jason. “That’s the King’s door,” Shawn protested. “He’s already been a bit sharp with me for not cleaning the privy pit this week—” “He can send Mum the bill. ” “That’s seditious talk, Jason! I could have you arr—I could arr—Mum would have something to say about you talking like that!” “Where is the King, anyway?” said Darren Ogg. “Sittin’ back and lettin’ Mum sort everything out while we get shot at?” “You know he’s got a weak chest,” said Shawn. “He does very well considering he—” He stopped as a sound rolled out across the countryside. It had a hoarse, primal quality, the sound of an animal who is in pain but who also intends to pass it on as soon as possible. The men looked around nervously. Verence came thundering through the gates. Shawn recognized him only by the embroidery on his nightshirt and his fluffy slippers. He held a long sword over his head in both hands and was running straight for the door of the keep, trailing a scream behind him. The sword struck the wood. Shawn heard the whole door shudder. “He’s gone mad!” shouted Darren. “Let’s grab the poor creature before he gets shot!” A couple of them scurried across to the struggling King, who was standing horizontally on the door in an effort to get the sword out. “Now, see here, your maj—Aargh!” “Ach, tak a faceful o’heid!” Darren staggered back, clutching at his face. Little shapes swarmed across the courtyard after the King, like some kind of plague. “Gibbins!” “Fackle!” “Nac mac Feegle!” There was another scream as Jason, trying to restrain his monarch’s enthusiasm, found that while the touch of a monarch may indeed cure certain scalp conditions, the scalp of a king itself is capable of spreading someone’s nose into an interesting flat shape. Arrows thudded into the ground around them. Shawn grabbed Big Jim. “They’re all going to get shot, drink or not!” he shouted above the din. “You come with me!” “What we gonna do?” “Clean the privies!” The troll scuttled after him as he edged his way around the keep, to where the Gong Tower loomed against the night in all its odiferous splendor. It was the bane of Shawn’s life. All the keep’s garderobes discharged into it. One of his jobs was to clean it out and take the contents to the pits in the gardens where Verence’s efforts at composting were gradually turning them into, well, Lancre. * But now that the castle was a lot busier than it used to be his weekly efforts with shovel and wheelbarrow weren’t the peaceful and solitary interludes they had been. Of course he’d let the job sort of…pile up these last few weeks, but did they expect him to do everything ? He waved Big Jim toward the door at the bottom of the tower. Fortunately, trolls have not much interest in organic odors, although they can easily distinguish types of limestone by smell. “I want you to open it when I say,” he said, tearing a strip off his shirt and wrapping it around an arrow. He searched his pockets for a match. “And when you’ve opened the door,” he went on, as the cloth caught, “I want you to run away very, very fast, right? Okay…open the door!” Big Jim pulled at the handle. There was a very faint whoosh as the door swung back. “Run!” Shawn shouted. He drew back the bowstring, and fired through the doorway. The flaming arrow vanished into the noisome darkness. There was a pause of a few heartbeats. Then the tower exploded. It happened quite slowly. The green-blue light mushroomed up from story to story in an almost leisurely way, blowing out stones at every level to give the tower a nice sparkling effect. The roofing leads opened up like a daisy. A faint flame speared the clouds. Then time, sound and motion came back with a thump. After a few seconds the main doors burst open and the soldiers ran out. The first one was smacked between the eyes by a ballistic king. Shawn had just started to run back to the fight when someone landed on his shoulders, bearing him to the ground. “Well, well, one of the toy soldiers,” sneered Corporal Svitz, leaping up and drawing his sword. As he raised it Shawn rolled and struck upward with the Lancrastian Peace-time Army Knife. He might have had time to select the Device for DFissecting Paradoxes, or the Appli-ance for Detecting Small Grains of Hope, or the Spiral Thing for Ascertaining the Reality of Being, but as it happened it was the Instrument for Ending Arguments Very Quickly that won the day. Presently, there came a short sharp shower of soft rain. Well…certainly a shower. Definitely soft, anyway. Agnes hadn’t seen a mob like this before. Mobs, in her limited experience, were noisy. This one was silent. Most of the town was in it, and to Agnes’s surprise they’d brought along many of the children. It didn’t surprise Perdita. They’re going to kill the vampires , she said, and the children will watch. Good, thought Agnes, that’s exactly right. Perdita was horrified. It’ll give them nightmares! No, thought Agnes. It’ll take the nightmares away. Sometimes, everyone has to know the monster is dead, and remember, so that they can tell their grandchildren. “They tried to turn people into things,” she said aloud. “Sorry, miss?” said Piotr. “Oh…just thinking aloud. ” And where had she got that other idea, Perdita wondered, the one where she’d told the villagers to send runners out to other towns to report on the night’s work. That was unusually nasty of her. But she remembered the look of horror on the mayor’s face, and, later, the blank engrossed expression when he was trying to throttle the Count with his chain of office. The vampire had killed him with a blow that had almost broken him in half. She fingered the wounds on her neck. She was pretty certain vampires didn’t miss, but Vlad must have done, because she clearly wasn’t a vampire. She didn’t even like the idea of rare steak. She’d tried to see if she could fly, when she thought people weren’t looking, but she was as attractive to gravity as ever. |
The blood-sucking…no, never that, even if it was the ultimate diet program, but she’d have liked the flying. It’s changed you, said Perdita. “How?” “Sorry, miss?” You’re sharper…edgier…nastier. “Maybe it’s about time I was, then. ” “Sorry, miss?” “Oh, nothing. Do you have a spare sickle?” The vampires traveled fast but erratically, appearing not so much to fly as to be promising entries in the world long-jump championships. “We’ll burn that ungrateful place to the ground,” moaned the Countess, landing heavily. “ Afterward we’ll burn that place to the ground,” said Lacrimosa. “This is what kindness leads to, Father, I do hope you’re paying attention?” “After you paid for that bell tower, too,” said the Countess. The Count rubbed his throat, where the links of the gold chain still showed as a red weal. He wouldn’t have believed that a human could be so strong. “Yes, that might be a good course of action,” he said. “We would have to make sure the news got around, of course. ” “You think this news won’t get around?” said Lacrimosa, landing beside him. “It will be dawn soon, Lacci,” said the Count, with heavy patience. “Because of my training, you will regard it as rather a nuisance, not a reason to crumble into a little pile of dust. Reflect on this. ” “That Weatherwax woman did this, didn’t she,” said Lacri-mosa, ignoring this call to count her blessings. “She put her self somewhere and she’s attacking us. She can’t be in the baby. I suppose she wasn’t in your fat girl, Vlad? Plenty of room in there. Are you listening, Brother?” “What?” said Vlad, distantly, as they turned a corner in the road and saw the castle ahead of them. “I saw you give in and bite her. So romantic. They still dragged her off, though. They’ll have to use quite a long stake to hit any useful organ. ” “She’d have put her self somewhere close,” said the Count. “It stands to reason. It must’ve been someone in the hall…” “One of the other witches, surely,” said the Countess. “I wonder…” “That stupid priest,” said Lacrimosa. “That would probably appeal to her,” said the Count. “But I suspect not. ” “Not…Igor?” said his daughter. “I wouldn’t give that a moment’s thought,” said the Count. “I still think it was Fat Agnes. ” “She wasn’t that fat,” said Vlad sulkily. “You’d have got tired of her in the end and we’d have ended up with her always getting in the way, just the others,” said Lacrimosa. “ Traditionally a keepsake is meant to be a lock of their hair, not their entire skull—” “She’s different. ” “Just because you can’t read her mind? How interesting would that be?” “At least I did bite someone,” said Vlad. “What was wrong with you?” “Yes, you were acting very strangely, Lacci,” said the Count, as they reached the drawbridge. “If she was hiding in me I’d know!” snarled Lacrimosa. “I wonder if you would,” said the Count. “She just has to find a weak spot…” “She’s just a witch, Father. Honestly, we’re acting as though she’s got some sort of terrible power—” “Perhaps it was Vlad’s Agnes after all,” said the Count. He gave his son a slightly longer stare than was strictly necessary. “We’re nearly at the castle,” said the Countess, trying to rally them. “We’ll all feel better for an early day. ” “Our best coffins got taken to Lancre,” said Lacrimosa sullenly. “ Someone was so sure of themselves. ” “Don’t you adopt that tone with me, young woman!” said the Count. “I’m two hundred years old,” said Lacrimosa. “Pardon me, but I think I can choose any tone I like. ” “That’s no way to speak to your father!” “Really, Mother, you might at least act as if you had two brain cells of your own!” “It is not your father’s fault that everything’s gone wrong!” “It has not all gone wrong, my dear! This is just a temporary setback!” “It won’t be when the Escrow meat tell their friends! Come on, Vlad, stop moping and back me up here…” “If they tell them, what can they do? Oh, there will be a little bit of protesting, but then the survivors will see reason,” said the Count. “In the meantime, we have those witches waiting for us. With the baby. ” “And we’ve got to be polite to them, I suppose?” “Oh, I don’t think we need to go that far,” said the Count. “Let them live, perhaps—” Something bounced on the bridge beside him. He reached down to pick it up, and dropped it with a yelp. “But…garlic shouldn’t burn…” he began. “Thith ith water from the Holy Turtle Pond of Thquintth,” said a voice above them. “Blethed by the Bithop himthelf in the Year of the Trout. ” There was a glugging noise and the sound of someone swallowing. “That wath a good year for beatitude,” Igor went on. “But you don’t have to take my word for it. Duck, you thuckerth!” The vampires dived for cover as the bottle, turning over and over, arced down from the battlements. It shattered on the bridge, and most of the contents hit a vampire, who burst into flame as if hit by burning oil. “Now really , Cryptopher, there’s no call for that sort of thing,” said the Count, as the blazing figure screamed and spun around in a circle. “It’s all in your mind, you know. Positive thinking, that’s the ticket…” “He’s turning black,” said the Countess. “Aren’t you going to do something?” “Oh, very well. Vlad, just kick him off the drawbridge, will you?” The luckless Cryptopher was pushed, squirming, into the chasm. “You know, that should not have happened,” said the Count, looking at his blistered fingers. “He obviously was not…truly one of us. ” Far below, there was a splash. The rest of the vampires scrambled for the cover of the gate arch as another bottle exploded near the Count. A drop splashed his leg, and he glanced down at the little wisp of smoke. “Some error appears to have crept in,” he said. “I’ve never been one to put myself forward,” said the Countess, “but I strongly suggest you find a new plan, dear. One which works, perhaps?” “I have one already formed,” he said, tapping his knuckles against the huge oak gates. “If everyone would perhaps stand aside…” Up on the battlement Igor nudged Nanny Ogg, who lowered a decanter of water from the Holy Fountain of Seven-Handed Sek and followed his pointing thumb. * Clouds were suddenly spiraling, with blue light flashing inside them. “There’th going to be a thtorm!” he said. “The top of my head’th tingling! Run!” They reached the tower just as a single bolt of lightning blew the doors apart and shattered the stones where they had been standing. “Well, that was easy,” said Nanny, lying full length on the floor. “They can control the weather,” said Igor. “Blast!” said Nanny. “That’s right. Everyone knows that, who knows anything about vampires. ” “Thorry. But they won’t be able to try that on the inthide doorth. Come on!” “What’s that smell?” said Nanny, sniffing. “Igor, your boots are on fire!” “Damn! And thethe feet were nearly new thicth montth ago,” said Igor, as Nanny’s holy water sizzled over the smoking leather. “It’th my wire, it pickth up thtray currentth. ” “What happened, someone was hit by a falling buffalo?” said Nanny, as they hurried down the stairs. “It wath a tree,” said Igor reproachfully. “Mikhail Thwenitth up at the logging camp, the poor man. Practically nothing left, but hith parentth thaid I could have hith feet to remember him by. ” “That was strangely kind of them. ” “Well, I gave him a thpare arm after the acthe acthident a few yearth ago and when old Mr. Thwenitth’th liver gave out I let him have the one Mr. Kochak left to me for giving Mithith Kochak a new eye. ” “People round here don’t so much die as pass on,” said Nanny. “What goeth around cometh around,” said Igor. “And your new plan is…?” said Lacrimosa, stepping across the rubble. “We’ll kill everyone. Not an original plan, I admit, but tried and tested,” said the Count. This met with general approval, but his daughter looked unsatisfied. “What, everyone? All at once?” “Oh, you can save some for later if you must. ” The Countess clutched his arm. “Oh, this does so remind me of our honeymoon,” she said. |
“Don’t you remember those wonderful nights in Grjsknvij?” “Oh, fresh morning of the world indeed,” said the Count, solemnly. “Such romance…and we met such lovely people, too. Do you remember Mr. and Mrs. Harker?” “Very fondly. I recall they lasted nearly all week. Now, listen all of you. Holy symbols will not hurt us. Holy water is just water—yes, I know, but Cryptopher just wasn’t concentrating. Garlic is just another member of the allium family. Do onions hurt us? Are we frightened of shallots? No. We’ve just got a bit tired, that’s all. Malicia, call up the rest of the clan. We will have a little holiday from reason. And afterward, in the morning, there will be room for a new world order I can’t be having with this at all…” He rubbed his forehead. The Count prided himself on his mind, and tended it carefully. But right now it felt exposed, as though someone was looking over his shoulder. He wasn’t certain he was thinking right. She couldn’t have got into his head, could she? He’d had hundreds of years of experience. There was no way some village witch could get past his defenses. It stood to reason… His throat felt parched. At least he could obey the call of his nature. But this time it was an oddly disquieting one. “Do we have any…tea?” he said. “What is tea?” said the Countess. “It…grows on a bush, I think,” said the Count. “How do you bite it, then?” “You…er…lower it into boiling water, don’t you?” The Count shook his head, trying to free himself of this demonic urge. “While it’s still alive?” said Lacrimosa, brightening up. “…sweet biscuits…” mumbled the Count. “I think you should try to get a grip, dear,” said the Countess. “This…tea,” said Lacrimosa. “Is it…brown?” “…yes…” whispered the Count. “Because when we were in Escrow I was going to put the bite on one of them and I had this horrible mental picture of a cup full of the wretched stuff,” said his daughter. The Count shook himself again. “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he said. “So let’s stick to what we do know, shall we? Obey our blood…” The second casualty in the battle for the castle was Vargo, a lank young man who actually become a vampire because he thought he’d meet interesting girls, or any girls at all, and had been told he looked good in black. And then he’d found that a vampire’s interests always center, sooner or later, on the next meal, and hitherto he’d never really thought of the neck as the most interesting organ a girl could have. Right now all he wanted to do was sleep, so as the vampires surged into the castle proper he sauntered gently away in the direction of his cellar and nice comfortable coffin. Of course he was hungry, since all he’d got in Escrow was a foot in the chest, but he had just enough sense of self-preservation to let the others get on with the hunting so that he could turn up later for the feast. His coffin was in the center of the dim cellar, its lid lying carelessly on the floor beside it. He’d always been messy with the bedclothes, even as a human. Vargo climbed in, twisted and turned a few times to get comfortable on the pillow, then pulled the lid down and latched it. As the eye of narrative drew back from the coffin on its stand, two things happened. One happened comparatively slowly, and this was Vargo’s realization that he never recalled the coffin having a pillow before. The other was Greebo deciding that he was as mad as hell and wasn’t going to take it anymore. He’d been shaken around in the wheely thing and then sat on by Nanny, and he was angry about that because he knew, in a dim animal way, that scratching Nanny might be the single most stupid thing he could do in the whole world, since no one else was prepared to feed him. This hadn’t helped his temper. Then he’d encountered a dog, which had tried to lick him. He’d scratched and bitten it a few times, but this had no effect apart from encouraging it to try to be more friendly. He’d finally found a comfy resting place and had curled up into a ball, and now someone was using him as a cushion— There wasn’t a great deal of noise. The coffin rocked a few times, and then pivoted around. Greebo sheathed his claws, and went back to sleep. “—burn, with a clear bright light—” Splash, suck, splash. “—and I in mine…Om be praised. ” Squelch, splash. Oats had worked his way through most of the hymns he knew, even the old ones which you shouldn’t really sing anymore but you nevertheless remembered because the words were so good. He sang them loudly and defiantly, to hold back the night and the doubts. They helped take his mind off the weight of Granny Weatherwax. It was amazing how much she’d apparently gained in the last mile or so, especially whenever he fell over and she landed on top of him. He lost one of his own boots in a mire. His hat was floating in a pool somewhere. Thorns had ripped his coat to tatters— He slipped and fell once again as the mud shifted under his feet. Granny rolled off, and landed in a clump of sedge. If Brother Melchio could only see him now… The wowhawk swooped past and landed on the branch of a dead tree, a few yards away. Oats hated the thing. It appeared demonic. It flew even though it surely couldn’t see through the hood. Worse, whenever he thought about it, as now, the hooded head turned to fix him with an invisible stare. He took off his other useless shoe, its shiny leather all stained and cracked, and flung it inexpertly. “Go away, you wicked creature!” The bird didn’t stir. The shoe flew past it. Then, as he tried to get to his feet, he smelled burning leather. Two wisps of smoke were curling up from either side of the hood. Oats reached to his neck for the security of the turtle, and it wasn’t there. It has cost him five obols in the Citadel, and it was too late now to reflect that perhaps he shouldn’t have hung it from a chain worth a tenth of an obol. It was probably lying in some pool, or buried in some muddy, squelching marsh… Now the leather burned away, and the yellow glow from the holes was so bright he could barely see the outline of the bird. It turned the dank landscape into lines and shadows, put a golden edge on every tuft of grass and stricken tree—and winked out so quickly that it left Oats’s eyes full of purple explosions. When he’d recovered his breath and his balance, the bird was swooping away down the moor. He picked up Granny Weatherwax’s unconscious body and ran after it. The track did lead downhill, at least. Mud and bracken slipped under his feet. Streams were running from every hole and gully. Half the time it seemed to him that he wasn’t walking, merely controlling a slide, bouncing off rocks, slithering through puddles of mud and leaves. And then there was the castle, seen through a gap in the trees, lit by a flash of lightning. Oats staggered through a clump of thorn bushes, managed to keep upright down a slope of loose boulders, and collapsed on the road with Granny Weatherwax on top of him. She stirred. “…holiday from reason…kill them all…can’t be havin’ with this…” she murmured. The wind blew a branchful of raindrops on her face, and she opened her eyes. For a moment they seemed to Oats to have red pupils, and then the icy blue gaze focused on him. “Are we here, then?” “Yes. ” “What happened to your holy hat?” “It got lost,” said Oats abruptly. Granny peered closer. “Your magic amulet’s gone too,” she said. “The one with the turtle and the little man on it. ” “It’s not a magic amulet, Mistress Weatherwax! Please! A magic amulet is a symbol of primitive and mechanistic superstition, whereas the Turtle of Om is…is…is…well, it’s not, do you understand?” “Oh, right. Thank you for explaining,” said Granny. “Help me up, will you?” Oats was having some difficulty with his temper. He’d carried the old bit—biddy for miles, he was frozen to the bone, and now they were here she acted as if she’d somehow done him a favor. “What’s the magic word?” he snarled. “Oh, I don’t think a holy man like you should be having with magic words,” said Granny. “But the holy words are: do what I tell you or get smitten. They should do the trick. |
” He helped her to her feet, alive with badly digested rage, and supported her as she swayed. There was a scream from the castle, suddenly cut off. “Not female,” said Granny. “I reckon the girls have started. Let’s give ’em a hand, shall we?” Her arm shook as she raised it. The wowhawk fluttered down and settled on her wrist. “Now help get me to the gate. ” “Don’t mention it, glad to be of service,” Oats mumbled. He looked at the bird, whose hood swiveled to face him. “That’s the…other phoenix, isn’t it,” he said. “Yes,” said Granny, watching the door. “ A phoenix. You can’t have just one of anything. ” “But it looks like a little hawk. ” “It was born among hawks, so it looks like a hawk. If it was hatched in a hen roost it’d be a chicken. Stands to reason. And a hawk it’ll remain, until it needs to be a phoenix. They’re shy birds. You could say a phoenix is what it may become …” “Too much eggshell…” “Yes, Mister Oats. And when does the phoenix sometimes lay two eggs? When it needs to. Hodgesaargh was right. A phoenix is of the nature of birds. Bird first, myth second. ” The doors were hanging loose, their iron reinforcements twisted out of shape and their timbers smoldering, but some effort had been made to pull them shut. Over what remained of the arch, a bat carved in stone told visitors everything they needed to know about this place. On Granny’s wrist the hood of the hawk was crackling and smoking. As he watched, little flames erupted from the leather again. “It knows what they did,” said Granny. “It was hatched knowing. Phoenixes share their minds. And they don’t tolerate evil. ” The head turned to look at Oats with its white-hot stare and, instinctively, he backed away and tried to cover his eyes. “Use the doorknocker,” said Granny, nodding to the big iron ring hanging loosely from one splintered door. “What? You want me to knock on the door ? Of a vampire’s castle ?” “We’re not going to sneak in, are we? Anyway, you Omnians are good at knocking on doors. ” “Well, yes ,” said Oats, “but normally just for a shared prayer and to interest people in our pamphlets—” he let the knocker fall a few times, the boom echoing around the valley “—not to have my throat ripped out!” “Think of this as a particularly difficult street,” said Granny. “Try again…mebbe they’re hidin’ behind the sofa, eh?” “Hah!” “You’re a good man, Mister Oats?” said Granny, conversationally, as the echoes died away. “Even without your holy book and holy amulet and holy hat?” “Er…I try to be…” he ventured. “Well…this is where you find out,” said Granny. “To the fire we come at last, Mister Oats. This is where we both find out. ” Nanny raced up some stairs, a couple of vampires at her heels. They were hampered because they hadn’t got to grips with not being able to fly, but there was something else wrong with them as well. “Tea!” one screamed. “I must have… tea !” Nanny pushed open the door to the battlements. They followed her, and tripped over Igor’s leg as he stepped out of the shadows. He raised two sharpened table legs. “How d’you want your thtaketh, boyth?” he shouted excitedly, as he struck. “You thould have thed you liked my thpiderth!” Nanny leaned against the wall to get her breath back. “Granny’s somewhere here,” she panted. “Don’t ask me how. But those two were craving a cup of tea, and I reckon only Esme could mess up someone’s head like that—” The sounds of the doorknocker boomed around the courtyard below. At the same time the door at the other end of the battlements opened. Half a dozen vampires advanced. “They’re acting very dumb, aren’t they,” said Nanny. “Give me a couple more stakes. ” “Run out of thtaketh, Nanny. ” “Okay, then, pass me a bottle of holy water…hurry up…” “None left, Nanny. ” “We’ve got nothing? ” “Got’n orange, Nanny. ” “What for?” “Run out of lemonth. ” “What good with an orange do if I hit a vampire in the mouth with it?” said Nanny, eyeing the approaching creatures. Igor scratched his head. “Well, I thuppothe they won’t catch coldth tho eathily…” The knocking reverberated around the castle again. Several vampires were creeping across the courtyard. Nanny caught a flicker of light around the edge of the door. Instinct took over. As the vampires began to run, she grabbed Igor and pulled him down. The arch exploded, every stone and plank drifting away on an expanding bubble of eyeball-searing flame. It lifted the vampires off their feet and they screamed as the fire carried them up. When the brightness had faded a little Nanny peered carefully into the courtyard. A bird, house-sized, wings of flame wider than the castle, reared in the broken doorway. Mightily Oats pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Hot flames roared around him, thundering like fiercely burning gas. His skin should be blackening already, but against all reason the fire felt no more deadly than a hot desert wind. The air smelled of camphor and spices. He looked up. The flames wrapped Granny Weatherwax, but they looked oddly transparent, not entirely real. Here and there little gold and green sparks glittered on her dress, and all the time the fire whipped and tore around her. She looked down at him. “You’re in the wings of the phoenix now, Mister Oats,” she shouted, above the noise, “and you ain’t burned!” The bird flapping its wings on her wrist was incandescent. “How can—” “You’re the scholar! But male birds are always ones for the big display, aren’t they?” “Males? This is a male phoenix?” “Yes!” It leapt. What flew…what flew, as far as Oats could see, was a great bird-shape of pale flame, with the little form of the real bird inside like the head of a comet. He added to himself: if that is indeed the real bird… It swooped up into the tower. A yell, cut off quickly, indicated that a vampire hadn’t been fast enough. “It doesn’t burn itself?” Oats said, weakly. “Shouldn’t think so,” said Granny, stepping over the wreckage. “Wouldn’t be much point. ” “Then it must be magical fire…” “They say that whether it burns you or not is up to you,” said Granny. “I used to watch them as a kid. My granny told me about ’em. Some cold nights you see them dancin’ in the sky over the Hub, burnin’ green and gold…” “Oh, you mean the aurora coriolis,” said Oats, trying to make his voice sound matter-of-fact. “But actually that’s caused by magic particles hitting the—” “Dunno what it’s caused by,” said Granny sharply, “but what it is , is the phoenix dancin’. ” She reached out. “I ought to hold your arm. ” “In case I fall over?” said Oats, still watching the burning bird. “That’s right. ” As he took her weight the phoenix above them flung back its head and screamed at the sky. “And to think I thought it was an allegorical creature,” said the priest. “Well? Even allegories have to live,” said Granny Weatherwax. Vampires are not naturally cooperative creatures. It’s not in their nature. Every other vampire is a rival for the next meal. In fact, the ideal situation for a vampire is a world in which every other vampire has been killed off and no one seriously believes in vampires anymore. They are by nature as cooperative as sharks. Vampyres are just the same, the only real difference being that they can’t spell properly. The remnant of the clan scurried through the keep and headed for a door that for some reason had been left ajar. The bucket containing a cocktail of waters blessed by a Knight of Offler, a High Priest of Io and a man so generically holy that he hadn’t cut his hair or washed for seventy years, landed on the first two to run through. They did not include the Count and his family, who had moved as one into a side tower. There’s no point in having underlings if you don’t let them be the first to go through suspicious doors. “How could you have been so—” Lacrimosa began, and to her shock got a slap across the face from her father. “All we need to do is remain calm,” said the Count. “There’s no need to panic. ” “You struck me!” “And most satisfying it was, too,” said the Count. “Careful thought is what will save us. That is why we will survive. |
” “It’s not working !” said Lacrimosa. “I’m a vampire! I’m supposed to crave blood! And all I can think about is a cup of tea with three sugars in it, whatever the hell that is! That old woman’s doing something to us, can’t you see?” “Not possible,” said the Count. “Oh, she’s sharp for a human, but I don’t reckon there’s any way she could get into your head or mine—” “You’re even talkin’ like her!” shouted Lacrimosa. “Be resolute, my dear,” said the Count. “Remember—that which does not kill us can only make us stronger. ” “And that which does kill us leaves us dead !” snarled Lacri-mosa. “You saw what happened to the others! You got your fingers burned!” “A moment’s lapse of concentration,” said the Count. “That old witch is not a threat. She’s a vampire. Subservient to us. She’ll be seeing the world differently—” “Are you mad? Something killed Cryptopher. ” “He let himself be frightened. ” The rest of the family looked at the Count. Vlad and Lacrimosa exchanged a glance. “I am supremely confident,” said the Count. His smile looked like a death mask, waxen and disturbingly tranquil. “My mind is like a rock. My nerve is firm. A vampire with his wits about him, or her, of course, can never be defeated. Didn’t I teach you this? What’s this one?” His hand flew from his pocket, holding a square of white cardboard. “Oh, Father this is really no time for—” Lacrimosa froze, then jerked her arm in front of her face. “Put it away! Put it away! It’s the Agatean Chlong of Destiny!” “Exactly, which is merely three straight lines and two curved lines pleasantly arranged which—” “—I’d never have known about if you hadn’t told me, you old fool!” screamed the girl, backing away. The Count turned to his son. “And do you —” he began. Vlad sprang back, putting his hand over his eyes. “It hurts !” he shouted. “Dear me, the two of you haven’t been practicing—” the Count began, and turned the card around so that he could look at it. He screwed up his eyes and turned his face away. “What have you done to us?!” Lacrimosa screamed. “You’ve taught us how to see hundreds of the damned holy things! They’re everywhere! Every religion has a different one! You taught us that, you stupid bastard! Lines and crosses and circles…oh my…” She caught sight of the stone wall behind her astonished brother, and shuddered. “Everywhere I look I see something holy! You’ve taught us to see patterns !” She snarled at her father, teeth exposed. “It’ll be dawn soon,” said the Countess nervously. “Will it hurt?” “It won’t! Of course it won’t!” shouted Count Magpyr, as the others glanced up at the pale light coming through a high window. “It’s a learned psychochromatic reaction! A superstition! It’s all in the mind!” “What else is in our minds, Father?” said Vlad coldly. The Count was circling, trying to keep an eye on Lacrimosa. The girl was flexing her fingers and snarling. “I said—” “Nothing’s in our minds that we didn’t put there!” the Count roared. “I saw that old witch’s mind! It’s weak. She relies on trickery! She couldn’t possibly find a way in! I wonder if there are other agendas here?” He bared his teeth at Lacrimosa. The Countess fanned herself desperately. “Well, I think we’re all getting a little bit overexcited,” she said. “I think we should all settle down and have a nice cup of…a nice…of tea…a cup of…” “We’re vampires !” Lacrimosa shouted. “Then let’s act like them!” screamed the Count. Agnes opened her eyes, kicked up, and the man with the hammer and stake lost all interest in vampires and in consciousness as well. “Whsz—” Agnes removed from her mouth what was, this time, a fig. “Can you get it into your stupid heads that I’m not a vampire? And this isn’t a lemon. It’s a fig. And I’d watch that bloke with the stake. He’s altogether too keen on it, I reckon there’s some psychology there—” “I wouldn’t have let him use it,” said Piotr, close by her ear. “But you did act very odd and then you just collapsed. So we thought we’d better see what woke up. ” He stood up. The citizens of Escrow stood watching among the trees, their faces gaunt in the flickering torchlight. “It’s all right, she’s still not one,” he said. There was some general relaxation. You really have changed, said Perdita. “You’re not affected?” said Agnes. She felt as if she was on the end of a string with someone jerking the other end. No. I’m the bit of you that watches, remember? “What?” said Piotr. “I really, really hope this wears off,” said Agnes. “I keep tripping over my own feet! I’m walking wrong! My whole body feels wrong!” “Er…can we go on to the castle?” said Piotr. “ She’s already there,” said Agnes. “I don’t know how, but—” She stopped, and looked at the worried faces, and for a moment she found herself thinking in the way Granny Weatherwax thought. “Yes,” she said, more slowly. “I reckon…I mean, I think we ought to get there right away. People have to kill their own vampires. ” Nanny hurried down the steps again. “I told you!” she said. “That’s Esme Weatherwax down there, that is. I told you! I knew she was just biding her time! Hah, I’d like to see the bloodsucker who could put one over on her!” “I wouldn’t,” said Igor, fervently. Nanny stepped over a vampire who hadn’t noticed, in the shadows, a cunning combination of a tripwire, a heavy weight and a stake, and opened a door into the courtyard. “Coo-ee, Esme!” Granny Weatherwax pushed Oats away and stepped forward. “Is the baby all right?” she said. “Magrat and Es… young Esme are locked up in the crypt. It’s a very strong door,” said Nanny. “And Thcrapth ith guarding them,” said Igor. “He’th a wonderful guard dog. ” Granny raised her eyebrows and looked Igor up and down. “I don’t think I know this… these gentlemen,” she said. “Oh, this is Igor,” said Nanny. “A man of many parts. ” “So it seems,” said Granny. Nanny glared at Mightily Oats. “What did you bring him for?” she said. “Couldn’t seem to shake him off,” said Granny. “I always try hiding behind the sofa, myself,” said Nanny. Oats looked away. There was a scream from somewhere on the battlements. The phoenix had spotted another vampire. “All over now bar sweeping up the dust, then,” said Nanny. “They didn’t seem very smart—” “The Count’s still here,” said Granny flatly. “Oh, I vote we just set fire to the place and go home,” said Nanny. “It’s not as though he’ll be coming back to Lancre in a hurry—” “There’th a crowd coming,” said Igor. “I can’t hear anything,” said Nanny. “I’ve got very good ear’th,” said Igor. “Ah, well, of course some of us don’t get to choose,” said Nanny. There was a clattering of footsteps across the bridge and people were suddenly swarming over the rubble. “Isn’t that Agnes?” said Nanny. Normally, there’d be no mistaking the figure advancing across the courtyard, but there was something about the walk, the way every foot thudded down as though the boots were not on speaking terms with the earth. And the arms, too, swung in a way— “I can’t be having with this!” Agnes shouted, marching up to Granny. “I can’t think straight. It’s you, isn’t it?” Granny reached out and touched the wounds on her neck. “Ah, I see,” she said. “One them bit you, yes?” “Yes! And somehow you spoke to me!” “Not me. That was something in your blood talkin’, I reckon,” said Granny. “Who’re all these people? Why’s that man trying to set fire to the wall? Don’t he know stone don’t burn?” “Oh, that’s Claude, he’s a bit single-minded. Just let me know if he picks up a stake, will you? Look, they’re from Escrow, it’s a town not far away…the Magpyrs treated them like…well… pets. Farm animals! Just like they were trying to do back home!” “We ain’t leaving until we’ve dealt with the Count,” said Granny. “Otherwise he’ll be sneaking back—” “Er, excuse me,” said Oats, who seemed to have been thinking about something. “Excuse me, but did someone mention that the Queen was locked up in the crypt?” “Safe as houses,” said Nanny. “Huge thick door and you can bar it from the inside. ” “How safe are houses from vampires?” said Oats. Granny’s head turned sharply. “What do you mean?” Oats took a step backward. |
“Ah, I know what he means,” said Nanny. “It’s all right, we’re not daft, she won’t open up until she’s knows it’s us—” “I meant, how does the door stop vampires?” “Stop them? It’s a door. ” “So…they can’t turn themselves into some sort of mist, then?” said Oats, frying in the joint radiation of their stares. “Only I thought that vampires could, you see. I thought everyone knew that who knows anything about vampires…” Granny turned on Igor. “D’you know anything about this?” Igor’s mouth opened and shut a few times. “The old Count never did anything like that ,” he said. “Yes,” said Nanny, “But he played fair. ” There was a rising howl from the depths of the castle, cut off suddenly. “That was Thcrapth!” said Igor, breaking into a run. “Thcraapthhh?” said Agnes, wrinkling her brow. Nanny grabbed her arm and dragged her after Igor. Granny swayed a little. Her eyes had an unfocused look. Oats glanced at her, made up his mind, staggered rather theatrically and sprawled in the dust. Granny blinked, shook her head and glared down at him. “Hah! All too much for you, eh?” she said hoarsely. Trembling fingers reached down for Oats. He took them, taking care not to pull, and stood up. “If you could just give me a hand,” he said, as her grateful weight hit his shoulder. “Right,” said Granny. “Now let’s find the kitchens. ” “Huh? What do we want with the kitchens?” “After a night like this we could all do with a cup of tea,” said Granny. Magrat leaned against the door as a second thump rattled the bolts. Beside her, Scraps started to growl. Perhaps it was something to do with his extensive surgery, but Scraps growled in half a dozen different pitches all at once. Then there was silence, which was even more terrifying than the thumping. A faint noise made her look down. A green smoke was pouring through the keyhole. It was thick, and had an oily quality… She darted across the room and snatched up a jar that had contained lemons so sportingly provided by the mysterious old Count that Igor thought so highly of. She wrenched off the lid and held it under the keyhole. When the smoke had filled it up she dropped a few cloves of garlic in and slammed the lid back on. The jar rocked urgently on the floor. Then Magrat glanced at the lid of the well. When she lifted it up, she heard rushing water a long way below. Well, that was likely, wasn’t it? There must be lots of underground rivers in the mountains. She held the jar over the center of the hole, and let it go. Then she slammed the lid back down. Young Esme gurgled in the corner. Magrat hurried over to her and shook a rattle. “Look at the pretty bunny rabbit,” she said, and darted back again. There was whispering on the other side of the door. Then Nanny Ogg’s voice said, “It’s all right, dear, we’ve got them. You can open the door now. Lawks. ” Magrat rolled her eyes. “Is that really you, Nanny?” “That’s right, dear. ” “Thank goodness. Just tell me the joke about the old woman, the priest and the rhinoceros, then, and I’ll let you in. ” There was a pause, and some more whispering. “I don’t think we’ve got time for that, dear,” said the voice. “Ha ha, nice try,” said Magrat. “I’ve dropped one of you in the river! Who was it?” After some silence the voice of the Count said: “We thought the Countess could persuade you to listen to reason. ” “Not in a jar she can’t,” said Magrat. “And I’ve got more jars if you want to try it again!” “We had hoped that you would be sensible about this,” said the Count. “However…” The door slammed back, pulling the bolts out of the wall. Magrat grabbed the baby and stepped backward, her other hands raised. “You come near me and I’ll stab you with this!” she shouted. “It’s a teddy bear,” said the Count. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t work, even if you sharpened it. ” The door was so hard that the wood was like stone with a grain. Someone had once thought hard about the maximum amount of force a really determined mob would be able to apply, and had then overdesigned. It hung open. “But we heard her put the bars across!” wailed Nanny. A variously colored lump was sprawled in front of the door. Igor knelt down and picked up a limp paw. “They kill Thcrapth! The bathtardth!” “They’ve got Magrat and the babby!” snapped Nanny. “He wath my only friend!” Nanny’s arm shot out and, despite his bulk, Igor was lifted up by his collar. “You’re going to have one very serious enemy really soon , my lad, unless you help us out right now ! Oh, for heaven’s sake…” With her spare hand she reached into her knickerleg and produced a large crumpled handkerchief. “Have a good blow, will you?” There was a noise like a foghorn being trodden on. “Now, where would they take them? The place is swarming with righteous peasants!” said Nanny, when he’d finished. “He wath alwayth ready with hith waggy tailth and hith cold nothe—” Igor sobbed. “ Where , Igor?” Igor pointed with his finger, or at least one that he currently owned, to the far door. “That goeth to the vaultth,” he said. “An’ they can get out through the iron gate down in the valley. You’ll never catch them!” “But it’s still bolted,” said Agnes. “Then they’re thtill in the cathtle, which ith thtupid—” He was interrupted by several huge organ chords, which made the floor rumble. “Any of the Escrow folk big musicians?” said Nanny, lowering Igor. “How do I know?” said Agnes, as another couple of descending chords brought dust down from the ceiling. “They wanted to hammer a stake in me and boil my head! That is not the time to ask them to give a little whistle!” The organ piped its summons once more. “Why’d they stay?” said Nanny. “They could be dug in deep somewhere by now—Oh…” “Granny wouldn’t run,” said Agnes. “No, Granny Weatherwax likes a showdown,” said Nanny, grinning artfully. “And they’re thinkin’ like her. Somehow, she’s making them think like her …” “ She thinks like her, too,” said Agnes. “Let’s hope she’s had more practice, then,” said Nanny. “Come on!” Lacrimosa pulled an organ stop marked “Ghastly Face at Win-dow” and was rewarded with a chord, a crash of thunder and a slightly mechanical scream. “Thank goodness we don’t take after your side of the family, Father, that’s all I can say,” she said. “Although I suppose it could be fun if we could arrange some sort of mechanical linkage to the torture chamber. That certainly wasn’t a very realistic scream. ” “This is ridiculous,” said Vlad. “We’ve got the child. We’ve got the woman. Why don’t we just leave? There’re plenty of other castles. ” “That would be running away,” said the Count. “And surviving,” said Vlad, rubbing his head. “We don’t run,” said the Count. “And—No, step back, please…” This was to the mob, which was hovering uncertainly just inside the doors. Mobs become uncertain very quickly, in view of the absence of a central brain, and in this case the hesitation was caused by the sight of Magrat and the baby. Vlad had a bruise on his forehead. A push-and-go wooden duck on wheels can cause quite a lot of damage if wielded with enough force. “Well done,” said the Count, cradling baby Esme on one arm. Magrat writhed to escape the grip of his other hand, but it clamped her wrist like steel. “You see? Absolute obedience. It’s just as in chess. If you take the Queen, you’ve as good as won. It doesn’t matter if a few pawns are lost. ” “That’s a very nasty way to talk about Mother,” said Vlad. “I am very attached to your mother,” said the Count. “And she’ll find a way to return, in the fullness of time. A voyage will be good for her health. Some fisherman will find the jar and next thing you know she’ll be back with us, fat and healthy—Ah, the inestimable Mrs. Ogg…” “Don’t you go smarming me!” snapped Nanny, pushing her way through the bewildered crowd. “I’m fed up with you smarming at me smarmily as if you were Mister Smarm! Now you just free the both of them or—” “Ah, so quickly we get to or ,” sighed the Count. “But I will say: you will all leave the castle, and then we shall see. Perhaps we shall let the Queen go. But the little princess…Isn’t she charming? She can remain as our guest. |
She’ll brighten the place up—” “She’s coming back to Lancre with us, you bastard!” screamed Magrat. She twisted in the Count’s grip and tried to slap him, but Agnes saw her face whiten as his hand tightened on her wrist. “That’s very bad language for a queen,” said the Count. “And I am still very strong, even for a vampire. But you’re right. We shall all go back to Lancre. One big happy family, living in the castle. I must say this place is losing its attractions. Oh, don’t blame yourself, Mrs. Ogg. I’m sure others will do that for you—” He stopped. A sound that had been on the edge of hearing was getting louder. It had a rhythmic, almost tinny sound. The crowd parted. Granny Weatherwax walked forward, slowly stirring “No milk in this place,” she said, “Not to be wondered at, really. I sliced a bit of lemon, but it’s not the same, I always think. ” She laid the spoon in the saucer with a clink that echoed around the hall, and gave the Count a smile. “Am I too late?” she said. The bolts rattled back, one by one. “…’th gone too far,” Igor muttered. “The old marthter wouldn’t…” The door creaked back on lovingly rusted hinges. Cool dry air puffed out of the darkness. Igor fumbled with some matches and lit a torch. “…it’th all very well wanting a nithe long retht, but thith ith a dithgrathe…” He ran along the dark corridors, half rough masonry, half sheer naked rock, and reached another chamber which was completely empty apart from a large stone sarcophagus in the center, on the side of which was carved MAGPYR. He stuffed the torch into a bracket, removed his coat, and after considerable pushing heaved the stone lid aside. “Thorry about thith, marthter,” he grunted as it thudded to the ground. Inside the coffin, gray dust twinkled in the torchlight. “…coming up here, mething everything up…” Igor picked up his coat and took a thick wad of material out of his pocket. He unrolled it on the edge of the stone. Now the light glinted off an array of scalpels, scissors and needles. “…threatening little babieth now… you never done that…only adventurouth femaleth over the age of theventeen and looking good in a nightie, you alwayth thed…” He selected a scalpel and, with some care, nicked the little finger of his left hand. A drop of blood appeared, swelled and dropped onto the dust, where it smoked. “That one’th for Thcrapth,” said Igor with grim satisfaction. By the time he’d reached the door white mist was already pouring over the edge of the coffin. “I’m an old lady,” said Granny Weatherwax, looking around sternly. “I’d like to sit down, thank you so very much. ” A bench was rushed forward. Granny sat, and eyed the Count. “What were you saying?” she said. “Ah, Esmerelda,” said the Count. “At last you come to join us. The call of the blood is too strong to be disobeyed, yes?” “I hope so,” said Granny. “We’re all going to walk out of here, Miss Weatherwax. ” “You’re not leaving here,” said Granny. She stirred the tea again. The eyes of all three vampires swiveled to follow the spoon. “You have no choice but to obey me. You know that,” said the Count. “Oh, there’s always a choice,” said Granny. Vlad and Lacrimosa leaned down on either side of their father. There was some hurried whispering. The Count looked up. “No, you couldn’t have resisted it,” he said. “Not even you!” “I won’t say it didn’t cost me,” said Granny. She stirred the tea again. There was more whispering. “We do have the Queen and the baby,” said the Count. “I believe you think highly of them. ” Granny raised the cup halfway to her lips. “Kill ’em,” she said. “It won’t benefit you. ” “Esme!” snapped Nanny Ogg and Magrat together. Granny put the cup back in the saucer. Agnes thought she saw Vlad sigh. She could feel the pull herself… I know what she did, whispered Perdita. So do I, thought Agnes. “He’s bluffing,” Granny said. “Oh? You’d like a vampire queen one day, would you?” said Lacrimosa. “Had one once, in Lancre,” said Granny, conversationally. “Poor woman got bitten by one of you people. Got by on blue steak and such. Never laid a tooth on anyone, the way I heard it. Griminir the Impaler, she was. ” “The Impaler ?” “Oh, I just said she wasn’t a bloodsucker. I didn’t say she was a nice person,” said Granny. “She didn’t mind shedding blood, but she drew the line at drinking it. You don’t have to, neither. ” “You know nothing about true vampires!” “I know more’n you think, and I know about Gytha Ogg,” said Granny. Nanny Ogg blinked. Granny Weatherwax raised the teacup again, and then lowered it. “She likes a drink. She’ll tell you it has to be the best brandy…” Nanny nodded affirmation “…and that’s certainly what she desires , but really she’ll settle for beer just like everyone else. ” Nanny Ogg shrugged as Granny went on: “But you wouldn’t settle for black puddings, would you, because what you really drink is power over people. I know you like I know myself. And one of the things I know is that you ain’t going to hurt a hair of that child’s head. Leastways,” and here Granny absentmindedly stirred the tea again, “if she had any yet, you wouldn’t. You can’t, see. ” She picked up the cup and carefully scraped it on the edge of the saucer. Agnes saw Lacrimosa’s lips part, hungrily. “So all I’m really here for, d’you see, is to see whether you get justice or mercy,” said Nanny. “It’s just a matter of choosing. ” “You really think we wouldn’t harm meat ?” said Lacrimosa, striding forward. “Watch!” She brought her hand down hard toward the baby, and then jerked back as if she’d been stung. “Can’t do it,” said Granny. “I nearly broke my arm!” “Shame,” said Granny calmly. “You’ve put some…something magical in the child, have you?” said the Count. “Can’t imagine who’d think I’d do such a thing,” said Granny, while behind her Nanny Ogg looked down at her boots. “So here’s my offer, you see. You hand back Magrat and the baby and we’ll chop your heads off. ” “And that’s what you call justice, is it?” said the Count. “No, that’s what I call mercy,” said Granny. She put the cup back in the saucer. “For goodness’ sake, woman, are you going to drink that damn tea or not?” roared the Count. Granny sipped it, and made a face. “Why, what have I been thinkin’ of? I’ve been so busy talking, it’s got cold,” she said, and daintily tipped the contents of the cup onto the floor. Lacrimosa groaned. “It’ll probably wear off soon,” Granny went on, in the same easy voice. “But until it does, you see, you’ll not harm a child, you’ll not harm Magrat, you hate the thought of drinking blood, and you won’t run because you’ll never run from a challenge…” “ What will wear off?” said Vlad. “Oh, they’re strong, your walls of thought,” said Granny dreamily. “I couldn’t get through them. ” The Count smiled. Granny smiled, too. “So I didn’t,” she added. The mist rolled through the crypt, flowing along the floor, walls and ceiling. It poured up the steps and along a tunnel, the billows boiling ahead on one another as though engaged in a war. An unwary rat, creeping across the flagstones, was too late. The mist flowed over it. There was a squeak, cut off, and when the mist had gone a few small white bones were all that remained. Some equally small bones, but fully assembled and wearing a black hooded robe and carrying a tiny scythe, appeared out of nowhere and walked over to them. Skeletal claws tippy-tapped on the stone. “Squeak?” said the ghost of the rat pathetically. S QUEAK , said the Death of Rats. This was really all it needed to know. “You wanted to know where I’d put my self,” said Granny. “I didn’t go anywhere. I just put it in something alive, and you took it. You invited me in. I’m in every muscle in your body and I’m in your head, oh yes. I was in the blood , Count. In the blood. I ain’t been vampired. You’ve been Weatherwaxed. All of you. And you’ve always listened to your blood, haven’t you?” The Count stared at her, open mouthed. The spoon dropped out of her saucer and tinkled onto the floor, raising a wave in a thin white mist. |
It was rolling in from the walls, leaving a shrinking circle of black and white tiles in the middle of which were the vampires. Igor pushed his way through the crowd until he was alongside Nanny. “It’th all right,” he said, “I couldn’t let it go on, it wath dithgratheful…” The mist rose in a boiling tower, there was a moment of discontinuity, a feeling of sliced time, and then a figure stood behind Vlad and Lacrimosa. He was rather taller than most men, and wearing evening dress that might have been in style once upon a time. His hair was streaked with gray and brushed back over his ears in a way that gave the impression his head had been designed for its aerodynamic efficiency. Beautifully manicured hands gripped the shoulders of the younger vampires. Lacrimosa turned to scratch him, and cowered when he snarled like a tiger. Then the face returned to something closer to human, and the newcomer smiled. He seemed genuinely pleased to see everyone. “Good morning,” he said. “Another bloody vampire?” said Nanny. “Not any old vampire,” said Igor, hopping from one foot to the other. “It’th the old marthter! Old Red Eyeth ith back!” Granny stood up, ignoring the tall figure firmly holding the two suddenly docile vampires. She advanced on the Count. “I know all about what you can and can’t do,” she said, “because you let me in. An’ that means you can’t do what I can’t do. An’ you think just like me, the difference bein’ I’ve done it longer and I’m better’n you at it. ” “You’re meat ,” snarled the Count. “Clever meat !” “And you invited me in,” said Granny. “I’m not the sort to go where I’m not welcome, I’m sure. ” In the Count’s arms the baby started to cry. He stood up. “How sure are you that I won’t harm this child?” he said. “I wouldn’t. So you can’t. ” The Count’s face contorted as he wrestled with his feelings and also with Magrat, who was kicking him in the shins. “It could have worked…” he said, and for the first time the certainty had been drained from his voice. “You mean it could have worked for you!” shouted Agnes. “We are vampires. We cannot help what we are. ” “Only animals can’t help what they are,” said Granny. “Will you give me the child now?” “If I…” the Count began, and then straightened up. “No! I don’t have to bargain! I can fight you, just as you fought me! And if I walk out of here now, I don’t think there’s anyone who’ll dare stop me. Look at you…all of you…and look at me. And now look at…him. ” He nodded at the figure holding Vlad and Lacri-mosa as still as statues. “Is that what you want?” “Sorry…who is this we’re supposed to be looking at?” said Granny. “Oh…Igor’s ‘old master’? The old Count Magpyr, I believe. ” The old Count nodded gracefully. “Your servant, madam,” he said. “I doubt it,” said Granny. “Oh, no one minded him ,” said Piotr, from among the Escrow citizens. “He only ever came around every few years and anyway if you remembered about the garlic he wasn’t a problem. He didn’t expect us to like him. ” The old Count smiled at him. “You look familiar. One of the Ravi family, aren’t you?” “Piotr, sir. Son of Hans. ” “Ah yes. Very similar bone structure. Do remember me to your grandmother. ” “She passed away ten years ago, sir. ” “Oh really? I am so sorry. Time goes so quickly when you’re dead. ” The old master sighed. “A very fine figure in a nightdress, as I recall. ” “Oh, he was all right,” said someone else in the crowd. “We got a nip every now and again but we got over it. ” “That’s a familiar voice,” said the vampire. “Are you a Veyzen?” “Yessir. ” “Related to Arno Veyzen?” “Great-granddaddy, sir. ” “Good man. Killed me stone dead seventy-five years ago. Stake right through the heart from twenty paces. You should be proud. ” The man in the crowd beamed with ancestral pride. “We’ve still got the stake hung up over the fireplace, yer honor,” he said. “Well done. Good man. I like to see the old ways kept up—” Count Magpyr screamed. “You can’t possibly prefer that ? He’s a monster !” “But he never made an appointment!” shouted Agnes, even louder. “I bet he never thought it was all just an arrangement !” Count Magpyr was edging toward the door with his hostages. “No,” he said, “this is not how it’s going to happen. If anyone really believes that I won’t harm my charming hostages, perhaps you will try to stop me? Does anyone really believe that old woman?” Nanny Ogg opened her mouth, caught Granny’s eye, and shut it again. The crowd parted behind the Count as he dragged Magrat toward the door. He walked into the figure of Mightily Oats. “Have you ever thought of letting Om into your life?” said the priest. His voice trembled. His face glistened with sweat. “Oh…you again ?” said the Count. “If I can resist her, little boy, you are not a problem!” Oats held his ax before him as if it were made of some rare and delicate metal. “Begone, foul fiend—” he began. “Oh, dear me,” said the Count, thrusting the ax aside. “And don’t you learn anything, you stupid man? Little stupid man who has a little stupid faith in a little stupid god?” “But it…lets me see things as they are,” Oats managed. “Really? And you think you can stand in my way? An ax isn’t even a holy symbol!” “Oh. ” Oats looked crestfallen. Agnes saw his shoulders sag as he lowered the blade. Then he looked up, smiled brightly and said, “Let’s make it so. ” Agnes saw the blade leave a gold trail in the air as it swept around. There was a soft, almost silken sound. The ax dropped onto the flagstones. In the sudden silence, it clanged like a bell. Then Oats reached out and snatched the child from the vampire’s unresisting hands. He held her out to Magrat, who took her in shocked silence. The first sound after that was the rustle of Granny’s dress as she stood up and walked over to the ax. She nudged it with her foot. “If I’ve got a fault,” she said, contriving to suggest that this was only a theoretical possibility, “it’s not knowing when to turn and run. And I tends to bluff on a weak hand. ” Her voice echoed in the hall. No one else had even breathed out yet. She nodded at the Count, who’d slowly raised his hands to the red wound that ran all around his neck. “It was a sharp ax,” she said. “Who says there’s no mercy in the world? Just don’t nod, that’s all. And someone’ll take you down to a nice cold coffin and I daresay fifty years’ll just fly past and maybe you’ll wake with enough sense to be stupid. ” There was a murmur from the mob as they came back to life. Granny shook her head. “They want you deader than that, I see,” she said, as the Count gazed ahead of him with frozen, desperate eyes and the blood welled and seeped between his fingers. “An’ there’s ways. Oh yes. We could burn you to ashes and scatter them in the sea—” This met with a general sigh of approval. “—or throw ’em up in the air in the middle of a gale—” This got a smattering of applause. “—or just pay some sailor to drop you over the edge. ” This even got a few whistles. “Of course, you’d come back alive again, I suppose, one day. But just floating in space for millions of years, oh, that sounds very boring to me. ” She raised a hand to silence the crowd. “No. Fifty years to think about things, that’s about right. People need vampires,” she said. “They helps ’em remember what stakes and garlic are for. ” She snapped her fingers at the crowd. “Come on, two of you take him down to the vaults. Show some respect for the dead—” “That’s not enough!” said Piotr, stepping forward. “Not after all he—” “Then when he comes back you deal with him yourself!” snapped Granny loudly. “Teach your children! Don’t trust the cannibal just ’cos he’s usin’ a knife and fork! And remember that vampires don’t go where they’re not invited!” They backed away. Granny relaxed a little. “This time round, it’s up to me. My…choice. ” She leaned closer to the Count’s horrible grimace. “You tried to take my mind away from me,” she said, in a lower voice. “And that’s everything to me. Reflect on that. Try to learn. ” She stood back. “Take him away. ” She turned away, to the tall figure. |
“So…you’re the old master, are you?” she said. “Alison Weatherwax?” said the old master. “I have a good memory for necks. ” Granny froze for a second. “What? No! Er…how do you know the name?” “Why, she passed through here, what, fifty years ago. We met briefly, and then she cut off my head and stuck a stake in my heart. ” The Count sighed happily. “A very spirited woman. You’re a relative, I presume? I lose track of generations, I’m afraid. ” “Granddaughter,” said Granny weakly. “There’s a phoenix outside the castle, Igor tells me…” “It’ll leave, I expect. ” The Count nodded. “I’ve always rather liked them,” he said, wistfully. “There were so many of them when I was young. They made the nights…pretty. So pretty. Everything was so much simpler then…” His voice trailed off, and then came back louder. “But now, apparently, we’re in modern times. ” “That’s what they say,” murmured Granny. “Well, madam, I’ve never taken too much notice of them. Fifty years later they never seem so modern as all that. ” He shook the younger vampires like dolls. “I do apologize for my nephew’s behavior. Quite out of keeping for a vampire. Would you people from Escrow like to kill these two? It’s the least I could do. ” “Ain’t they your relatives?” said Nanny Ogg, as the crowd surged forward. “Oh yes. But we’ve never been much of a species for playing happy families. ” Vlad looked imploringly at Agnes, and reached out to her. “You wouldn’t let them kill me, would you? You wouldn’t let them do this to me? We could have…we might…you wouldn’t , would you?” The crowd hesitated. This sounded like an important plea. A hundred pairs of eyes stared at Agnes. She took his hand. I suppose we could work on him, said Perdita. But Agnes thought about Escrow, and the queues, and the children playing while they waited, and how evil might come animal sharp in the night, or grayly by day on a list… “Vlad,” she said gently, looking deep into his eyes, “I’d even hold their coats. ” “A fine sentiment but that ain’t happenin’,” said Granny, behind her. “You take ’em away, Count. Teach ’em the old ways. Teach ’em stupidity. ” The Count nodded, and grinned toothily. “Certainly. I shall teach them that to live you have to rise again—” “Hah! You don’t live , Count. The phoenix lives. You just don’t know you’re dead. Now get along with you!” There was another moment sliced out of time and then a flock of magpies rose up from where the three vampires had been, screaming and chattering, and disappeared in the darkness of the roof. “There’s hundreds of them!” said Agnes to Nanny. “Well, vampires can turn into things,” said Nanny. “Everyone knows that, who knows anything about vampires. ” “And what do three hundred magpies mean?” “They mean it’s time to put covers on all the furniture,” said Nanny. “And that it’s time for me to have a very big drink. ” The crowd began to break up, aware that the show was over. “Why didn’t she just let us wipe them out?” hissed Piotr by Agnes’s ear. “Death’s too good for them!” “Yes,” said Agnes. ” I suppose that’s why she didn’t let them have it. ” Oats hadn’t moved. He was still staring straight ahead of him, but his hands were shaking. Agnes led him gently to a bench, and eased him down. “I killed him, didn’t I,” he whispered. “Sort of,” said Agnes. “It’s a bit hard to tell with vampires. ” “There was just nothing else to do! Everything just went…the air just went gold, and there was just this one moment to do something—” “I don’t think anyone’s complaining,” said Agnes. You’ve got to admit he’s quite attractive, whispered Perdita. If only he’d do something about that boil… Magrat sat down on the other side of Oats, clutching the baby. She breathed deeply a few times. “That was very brave of you,” she said. “No, it wasn’t,” said Oats hoarsely. “I thought Mistress Weather-wax was going to do something…” “She did,” said Magrat, shivering. “Oh, she did. ” Granny Weatherwax sat down on the other end of the bench and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I just want to go home now,” she said. “I just want to go home and sleep for a week. ” She yawned. “I’m dyin’ for a cuppa. ” “I thought you’d made one!” said Agnes. “You had us slavering for it!” “Where’d I get tea here? It was just some mud in water. But I know Nanny keeps a bag of it somewhere on her person. ” She yawned again. “Make the tea, Magrat. ” Agnes opened her mouth, but Magrat waved her into silence and then handed her the baby. “Certainly, Granny,” she said, gently pushing Agnes back into her seat. “I’ll just find out where Igor keeps the kettle, shall I?” Mightily Oats stepped out onto the battlements. The sun was well up, and a breeze was blowing in over the forests of Uberwald. A few magpies chattered in the trees nearest the castle. Granny was leaning with her elbows on the wall, and staring out over the thinning mists. “It looks like it’s going to be a fine day,” said Oats, happily. And he did feel happy, to his amazement. There was sharpness to the air, and the sense of the future brimming with possibilities. He remembered the moment when he’d swung the ax, when both of him had swung it, together. Perhaps there was a way… “There’s a storm coming down from the Hub later,” said Granny. “Well…at least that’ll be good for the crops, then,” said Oats. Something flickered overhead. In the new daylight the wings of the phoenix were hard to see, mere yellow shimmers in the air, with the tiny shape of the little hawk in the center as it circled high over the castle. “Why would anyone want to kill something like that?” said Oats. “Oh, some people’ll kill anything for the fun of it. ” “Is it a true bird or is it something that exists within a—” “It’s a thing that is,” said Granny sharply. “Don’t go spilling allegory all down your shirt. ” “Well, I feel…blessed to have seen it. ” “Really? I gen’rally feel the same about the sunrise,” said Granny. “You would too, at my time of life. ” She sighed, and then seemed to be speaking mainly to herself. “She never went to the bad, then, whatever people said. And you’d have to be on your toes with that ol’ vampire. She never went to the bad. You heard him say that, right? He said it. He didn’t have to. ” “Er…yes. ” “She’d have been older’n me, too. Bloody good witch, was Nana Alison. Sharp as a knife. Had her funny little ways, o’ course, but who hasn’t?” “No one I know, certainly. ” “Right. You’re right. ” Granny straightened up. “Good,” she said. “Er…” “Yes?” Oats was looking down at the drawbridge and the road to the castle. “There’s a man in a nightshirt covered in mud and waving a sword down there,” he said, “followed by a lot of Lancre people and some…little blue men…” He looked down again. “At least it looks like mud,” he added. “That’ll be the King,” said Granny. “Big Aggie’s given him some of her brose, by the sound of it. He’ll save the day. ” “Er…hasn’t the day been saved?” “Oh, he’s the King. It looks like it might be a nice day, so let him save it. You’ve got to give kings something to do. Anyway, after a drink from Big Aggie he won’t know what day it is. We’d better get down there. ” “I feel I should thank you,” said Oats, when they reached the spiral staircase. “For helping you across the mountains, you mean?” “The world is…different. ” Oats’s gaze went out across the haze, and the forests, and the purple mountains. “Everywhere I look I see something holy. ” For the first time since he’d met her, he saw Granny Weather-wax smile properly. Normally her mouth went up at the corners just before something unpleasant was going to happen to someone who deserved it, but this time she appeared to be pleased with what she’d heard. “That’s a start, then,” she said. The Magpyrs’ coach had been righted and dragged up to the castle. Now it returned, with Jason Ogg at the reins. He was concentrating on avoiding the bumps. They made his bruises tender. Besides, the royal family was on board and he was feeling extremely loyal at the moment. Jason Ogg was very big and very strong and, therefore, not a violent man, because he did not need to be. |
Sometimes he was summoned down to the pub to sort out the more serious fights, which he usually did by picking up both contestants and holding them apart until they stopped struggling. If that didn’t work, he’d bang them together a few times, in as friendly a way as possible. Aggressiveness did not normally impress him, but since in yesterday’s battle at Lancre Castle he’d had to physically lift Verence off the ground in order to stop him slaughtering enemies, friends, furniture, walls and his own feet, he was certainly seeing his king in a new light. It had turned out to be an extremely short battle. The mercenaries had been only too keen to surrender, especially after Shawn’s assault. The real fight had been to keep Verence away from them long enough to allow them to say so. Jason was impressed. King Verence, inside the coach, laid his head in his wife’s lap and groaned as she wiped his brow with a cloth… At a respectable distance, the coach was followed by a cart containing the witches, although what it contained mostly was snore. Granny Weatherwax had a primal snore. It had never been tamed. No one had ever had to sleep next to it, to curb its wilder excesses by means of a kick, a prod in the small of the back or a pillow used as a bludgeon. It had had years in a lonely bedroom to perfect the knark , the graaah and the gnoc, gnoc, gnoc unimpeded by the nudges, jabs and occasional attempts at murder that usually moderate the snore impulse over time. She sprawled in the straw at the bottom of the cart, mouth open, and snored. “You half expect to find the shafts sawed through, don’t you,” said Nanny, who was leading the horse. “Still, you can hear it doin’ her good. ” “I’m a bit worried about Mister Oats, though,” said Agnes. “He’s just sitting there and grinning. ” Oats was sitting with his legs over the tail of the cart, staring happily at the sky. “Did he hit his head?” said Nanny. “I don’t think so. ” “Let him be, then. At least he ain’t settin’ fire to anything…oh, here’s an old friend…” Igor, tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth in the ferocity of his concentration, was putting the finishing touches to a new sign. It read WHY NOT VYSYT OUR GIFTE SHOPPE ? He stood up and nodded as the cart drew near. “The old marthter came up with some new ideath while he wath dead,” he said, feeling that some explanation was called for. “Thith afternoon I’ve got to thtart building a funfair, whatever that ith. ” “That’s basic’ly swings,” said Nanny. Igor brightened up. “Oh, I’ve plenty of rope and I’ve alwayth been a dab hand at nootheth,” he said. “No, that’s not—” Agnes began, but Nanny Ogg cut in quickly. “I s’pose it all depends on who’s going to have the fun,” she said. “Well, be seeing you, Igor. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, if you ever find anything I wouldn’t do. ” “We’re very sorry about Scraps,” said Agnes. “Perhaps we can find you a puppy or—” “Thankth all the thame, but no. There’th only one Thcrapth. ” He waved to them until they were round the next bend. As Agnes turned round again she saw the three magpies. They were perched on a branch over the road. “‘Three for a funeral—’” she began. A stone whirred up. There was an indignant squawk and a shower of feathers. “Two for mirth,” said Nanny, in a self-satisfied voice. “Nanny, that was cheating. ” “Witches always cheat,” said Nanny Ogg. She glanced back at the sleeping figure behind them. “Everyone knows that—who knows anything about witches. ” They went home to Lancre. It had been raining again. Water had seeped into Oats’s tent and also into the harmonium, which now emitted an occasional squashed-frog burp when it was played. The songbooks also smelled rather distressingly of cat. He gave up on them and turned to the task of disassembling his camp bed, which had skinned two knuckles and crushed one finger when he put it up and still looked as though it was designed for a man shaped like a banana. Oats was aware that he was trying to avoid thinking. On the whole, he was happy with this. There was something pleasing about simply getting on with simple tasks, and listening to his own breath. Perhaps there was a way… From outside there was the faint sound of something wooden hitting something hollow, and whispering on the evening air. He peered through the tent flap. People were filing stealthily into the field. The first few were carrying planks. Several were pushing barrels. He stood with his mouth open as the very rough benches were constructed and began to fill up. A number of the men had bandages across their noses, he noticed. Then he heard the rattle of wheels and saw the royal coach lurch through the gateway. This woke him up and he scurried back into the tent, pulling damp clothes out of his bag in a frantic search for a clean shirt. His hat had never been found and his coat was caked with mud, the leather of his shoes was cracked and the buckles had instantly tarnished in the acid marshes, but surely a clean shirt— Sometime tried to knock on the damp canvas and then, after an interval of half a second, stepped into the tent. “Are you decent?” said Nanny Ogg, looking him up and down. “We’re all out here waitin’, you know. Lost sheep waitin’ to be shorn, you might say,” she added, her manner suggesting very clearly that she was doing something that she personally disapproved of, but doing it just the same. Oats turned around. “Mrs. Ogg, I know you don’t like me very much—” “Don’t see why I should like you at all,” said Nanny. “What with you tagging after Esme and her havin’ to help you all that way across the mountains like that. ” The response was screaming up Oats’s throat before he noticed the faint knowing look in Nanny’s eyes, and he managed to turn it into a cough. “Er…yes,” he said. “Yes. Silly of me, wasn’t it. Er…how many are out there, Mrs. Ogg?” “Oh, a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty. ” Levers, thought Oats, and had a fleeting vision of the pictures in Nanny’s parlor. She controls the levers of lots of people. But someone pulled her lever first, I’ll bet. “And what do they expect of me?” “Says Evensong on the poster,” said Nanny simply. “Even beer would be better. ” So he went out and saw the watching faces of a large part of Lancre’s population lined up in the late-afternoon light. The King and Queen were in the front row. Verence nodded regally at Oats to signal that whatever it was that he intended ought to start around now. It was clear from the body language of Nanny Ogg that any specifically Omnian prayers would not be tolerated, and Oats made do with a generic prayer of thanks to any god that may be listening and even to the ones that weren’t. Then he pulled out the stricken harmonium and tried a few chords until Nanny elbowed him aside, rolled up her sleeves, and coaxed notes out of the damp bellows that Oats never even knew were in there. The singing wasn’t very enthusiastic, though, until Oats tossed aside the noisome songbook and taught them some of the songs he remembered from his grandmother, full of fire and thunder and death and justice and tunes you could actually whistle, with titles like “Om Shall Trample The Ungodly” and “Lift Me To The Skies” and “Light The Good Light. ” They went down well. Lancre people weren’t too concerned about religion, but they knew what it ought to sound like. While he led the singing, with the aid of a long stick and the words of the hymns scrawled on the side of his tent, he scanned his…well, he decided to call it his congregation. It was his first real one. There were plenty of women, and a lot of very well-scrubbed men, but one face was patently not there. Its absence dominated the scene. But, as he raised his eyes upward in mid-song, he did notice an eagle far overhead, a mere speck gyrating across the darkening sky, possibly hunting for lost lambs. And then it was over and people left, quietly, with the look of those who’d done a job which had not not been unpleasant but which was nevertheless over. |
The collection plate produced two pennies, some carrots, a large onion, a small loaf, a pound of mutton, a jug of milk and a pickled pig’s trotter. “We’re not really a cash economy,” said King Verence, stepping forward. He had a bandage across his forehead. “Oh, it’ll make a good supper, sire,” said Oats, in the madly cheerful voice that people use when addressing royalty. “Surely you’ll dine with us?” said Magrat. “I…er…was planning to leave at first light, sire. So I really ought to spend the evening packing and setting fire to the camp bed. ” “Leaving? But I thought you were staying here. I’ve taken…community soundings,” said the King, “and I think I can say that popular opinion is with me on this. ” Oats looked at Magrat’s face, which said plainly, Granny doesn’t object. “Well, I, er…I expect I shall pass through again, sire,” he said. “But…to tell you the truth, I was thinking of heading on to Uberwald. ” “That’s a hellish place, Mr. Oats. ” “I’ve thought about it all day, sire, and I’m set on it. ” “Oh. ” Verence looked nonplussed, but kings learn to swing back upright. “I’m sure you know your own mind best. ” He swayed slightly as Magrat’s elbow grazed his ribs. “Oh…yes…we heard you lost your, er, holy amulet and so this afternoon we, that is to say the Queen and Miss Nitt…got Shawn Ogg to make this in the mint…” Oats unwrapped the black velvet scroll. Inside, on a golden chain, was a small golden double-headed ax. He stared at it. “Shawn isn’t very good at turtles,” said Magrat, to fill the gap. “I shall treasure it,” said Oats, at last. “Of course, we appreciate it’s not very holy,” said the King. Oats waved a hand dismissively. “Who knows, sire? Holiness is where you find it,” he said. Behind the King, Jason and Darren Ogg were standing respectfully to attention. Both still had plasters stuck across their noses. They moved aside hurriedly to make way for the King, who didn’t seem to notice. Nanny Ogg struck a chord on the harmonium when the royal couple had departed with their retinue. “If you drop in to our Jason’s forge first thing when you’re leavin’ I’ll see to it he fixes the bellows on this contraption,” she said diffidently, and Oats realized that in the context of Nanny Ogg this was as close as he was going to get to three rousing cheers and the grateful thanks of the population. “I was so impressed that everyone turned up on their own free will,” he said. “Spontaneously, as it were. ” “Don’t push your luck, sonny boy,” said Nanny, getting up. “Nice to have met you, Mrs. Ogg. ” Nanny walked away a few steps, but Oggs never left anything unsaid. “I can’t say as I approve of you,” she said, stiffly. “But should you ever come knockin’ on an Ogg door in these parts you’ll…get a hot meal. You’re too skinny. I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil. ” “Thank you. ” “Not necessarily puddin’ as well, mark you. ” “Of course not. ” “Well, then…” Nanny Ogg shrugged. “Best of luck in Uber-wald, then. ” “Om will go with me, I’m sure,” said Oats. He was interested in how annoyed you could make Nanny by speaking calmly to her, and wondered if Granny Weatherwax had tried it. “I hope he does,” said Nanny. “I person’ly don’t want him hanging around here. ” When she’d gone Oats lit a fire of the horrible bed and stuck the songbooks around it to dry out. “Hello…” The thing about a witch in darkness is that all you see is her face, bobbing toward you, surrounded by black. Then a little contrast reasserted itself, and an area of shadow detached from the rest and became Agnes. “Oh, good evening,” said Oats. “Thank you for coming. I’ve never heard anyone singing in harmony with themselves before. ” Agnes coughed nervously. “Are you really going on into Uberwald?” “There’s no reason to stay here, is there?” Agnes’s left arm twitched a few times. She steadied it with her right hand. “S’pose not,” she said, in a small voice. “No! Shut up! This is not the time!” “I beg your pardon?” “I was, um, just talking to myself,” said Agnes, wretchedly. “Look, everyone knows you helped Granny. They just pretend they don’t. ” “Yes. I know. ” “You don’t mind?” Oats shrugged. Agnes coughed. “I thought perhaps you were going to stay on here for a while. ” “There’d be no point, I’m not needed here. ” “I shouldn’t think vampires and so on would be very keen on singing hymns,” said Agnes quietly. “Perhaps they can learn something else,” said Oats. “I shall see what may be done. ” Agnes stood hesitantly for a few moments. “I’ve got to give you this,” she said, suddenly handing over a small bag. Oats reached inside and took out a small jar. Inside, a phoenix feather burned, lighting up the field with a clear, cool light. “It’s from—” Agnes began. “I know who it’s from,” said Oats. “Is Mistress Weatherwax all right? I didn’t see her here. ” “Er…she’s been having a rest today. ” “Well, thank her from me, will you?” “She said it’s to take into dark places. ” Oats laughed. “Er…yes. Er…I might come and see you off in the morning…” said Agnes, uncertainly. “That would be nice of you. ” “So…until…you know…” “Yes. ” Agnes seemed to be struggling with some inner resistance. Then she said, “And, er…there’s something I’ve been meaning to…I mean, perhaps you could…” “Yes?” Agnes’s right hand dived urgently into her pocket and she pulled out a small package wrapped in greased paper. “It’s a poultice,” she blurted out, “It’s a very good recipe and the book says it always works and if you heat it up and leave it on it’ll do wonders for your boil. ” Oats took it gently. “It’s just possible that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me,” he said. “Er…good. It’s from…er…both of us. Goodbye. ” Oats watched her leave the circle of light, and then something drew his eye upward again. The circling eagle had risen above the shadow of the mountains and into the light of the setting sun. For a moment it flashed gold, and then dropped into the dark again. From up here the eagle could see for miles across the mountains. Over Uberwald, the threatened storm had broken. Lightning scribbled across the sky. Some of it crackled around the highest tower of Don’tgonearthe Castle, and on the rain hat that Igor wore to stop his head rusting. It raised little balls of glowing light on the big telescopic iron spike as, taking care to stand on his portable rubber mat, he patiently wound it upward. At the foot of the apparatus, which was already humming with high tension, was a bundle wrapped in a blanket. The spike locked itself in position. Igor sighed, and waited. D OWN, BOY! D OWN, I SAY! W ILL YOU STOP—LET GO! L ET GO THIS MINUTE! A LL RIGHT, LOOK …F ETCH? F ETCH? T HERE WE GO… Death watched Scraps bound away. He wasn’t used to this. It wasn’t that people weren’t sometimes glad to see him, because the penultimate moments of life were often crowded and complex and a cool figure in black came as something of a relief. But he’d never encountered quite this amount of enthusiasm or, if it came to it, this amount of flying mucus. It was disconcerting. It made him feel he wasn’t doing his job properly. T HERE’S A SATISFACTORY DOG. N OW…DROP. LET GO, PLEASE. D ID YOU HEAR ME SAY LET GO ? L ET GO THIS MINUTE ! Scraps bounced away. This was far too much fun to end. There was a soft chiming from within his robe. Death rubbed his hand on the cloth in an effort to get it dry and brought out a lifetimer, its sand all pooled in the bottom bulb. But the glass itself was misshapen, twisted, covered in welts of raised glass and, as Death watched, it filled up with crackling blue light. Normally, Death was against this sort of thing but, he reasoned as he snapped his fingers, at the moment it looked as though it was the only way he’d get his scythe back. The lightning hit. There was a smell of singed wool. Igor waited awhile and then trudged round to the bundle, trailing molten rubber behind him. Kneeling down, he carefully unwrapped the blanket. Scraps yawned. A large tongue licked Igor’s hand. |
As he smiled with relief there came, from far down below in the castle, the sound of the mighty organ playing “Toccata for Young Women in Underwired Nighdresses. ” The eagle swooped on into the bowl of Lancre. The long light glowed on the lake, and on the big V-shaped ripple, made up of many small V-shaped ripples, that arrowed through the water toward the unsuspecting island. The voices echoed around the mountains. “See you, otter!” “Taggit, jins ma greely!” “Wee free men!” “Nac mac Feegle!” The eagle passed overhead, dropping fast and steep now. It drifted silently over the shadowy woods, curved over the trees, and landed suddenly on a branch beside a cottage in a clearing. Granny Weatherwax awoke. Her body did not move, but her gaze darted this way and that, sharply, and in the gloom her nose looked more hooked than normal. Then she settled back, and her shoulders lost the hunched, perching look. After a while she stood up, stretched, and went to the doorway. The night felt warmer. She could feel greenness in the ground, uncoiling. The year was past the edge, heading away from the dark…Of course, dark would come again, but that was in the nature of the world. Many things were beginning. When at last she’d shut the door she lit the fire, took the box of candles out of the dresser and lit every single one and put them around the room, in saucers. On the table, the pool of water that had accumulated in the last two days rippled and rose gently in the middle. Then a drip soared upward and plopped into the damp patch in the ceiling. Granny wound up the clock, and started the pendulum. She left the room for a moment and came back with a square of cardboard attached to a loop of elderly string. She sat down in the rocking chair and reached down into the hearth for a stick of half-burned wood. The clock ticked as she wrote. Another drop left the table and plunged toward the ceiling. Then Granny Weatherwax hung the sign around her neck, and lay back with a smile. The chair rocked for a while, a counterpoint to the dripping of the table and the ticking of the clock, and then slowed. The sign read: I still ATE’NT DEAD The light faded from can to can’t. After a few minutes an owl woke up in a nearby tree and sailed out over the forests. About the Author Terry Pratchett’s novels have sold more than thirty million (give or take a few million) copies worldwide. He lives in England. www. terrypratchettbooks. com Visit www. AuthorTracker. com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author. UNANIMOUS Praise for CARPE JUGULUM “Pratchett lampoons everything from Christian superstition to Swiss Army knives here, proving that the fantasy sire of Discworld ’still ate’nt dead. ’” Publishers Weekly “Fresh, inventive, and funny…Pratchett has a gift for the absurd, the comic, the fantastic, and the outrageous. His world is a combination of slapstick, puns, humorous situations and outlandish characters. Any new novel by him is guaranteed…it will make the bestseller list. ” Birmingham Post (U. K. ) “An enduring, endearing presence in comic literature…Pratchett’s position as a leading comic novelist now seems as permanently assured as that of P. G. Wodehouse…. Despite outward appearances, these cannot really be called fantasy novels, partly because Pratchett is too intent on undermining all the conventions of the genre and partly because they mirror so effectively the current concerns of our own society. ” The Guardian (U. K. ) and TERRY PRATCHETT “The funniest parodist working in the field today, period. ” New York Review of Science Fiction “If I were making my list of Best Books of the Twentieth Century, Terry Pratchett’s would be most of them. ” Elizabeth Peters “Pratchett…should be recognized as one of the more significant contemporary English-language satirists. ” Publishers Weekly “Simply the best humorous writer of the twentieth century. ” Oxford Times (U. K. ) “A brilliant storyteller with a sense of humor…whose infectious fun completely engulfs you…The Dickens of the twentieth century. ” Mail on Sunday (U. K. ) “If you are unfamiliar with Pratchett’s unique blend of philosophical badinage interspersed with slapstick, you are on the threshold of a mind-expanding opportunity. ” Financial Times (U. K. ) “Pratchett demonstrates just how great the distance is between one-or two-joke writers and the comic masters whose work will be read into the next century. ” Locus “As always he is head and shoulders above the best of the rest. He is screamingly funny. He is wise. He has style. ” Daily Telegraph (U. K. ) “Pratchett is a comic genius. ” The Express (U. K. ) “Pratchett is as funny as Wodehouse and as witty as Waugh. ” The Independent (U. K. ) “Terry Pratchett does for fantasy what Douglas Adams did for science fiction. ” Today (U. K. ) “What makes Terry Pratchett’s fantasies so entertaining is that their humor depends on the characters first, on the plot second, rather than the other way around. The story isn’t there simply to lead from one slapstick pratfall to another pun. Its humour is genuine and unforced. ” Ottawa Citizen “Terry Pratchett ought to be locked in a padded cell. And forced to write a book a month. ” Barbara Michaels “Terry Pratchett is more than a magician. He is the kindest, most fascinating teacher you ever had. ” Harlan Ellison “It is his unexpected insights into human morality that make the Discworld series stand out. ” Times Literary Supplement (U. K. ) “Quite probably the funniest living author, bar nobody. ” Good Book Guide (England) “Delightful…Logically illogical as only Terry Pratchett can write. ” Anne McCaffrey B OOKS BY T ERRY P RATCHETT The Carpet People The Dark Side of the Sun Strata Truckers Diggers Wings Only You Can Save Mankind Johnny and the Dead Johnny and the Bomb The Unadulterated Cat (with Gray Jollife) Good Omens (with Neil Gaiman) T HE D ISCWORLD S ERIES The Color of Magic* The Light Fantastic* Equal Rites* Mort Sourcery Wyrd Sisters Pyramids Guards! Guards! Eric (with Josh Kirby) Moving Pictures Reaper Man Witches Abroad Small Gods* Lords and Ladies* Men at Arms* Soul Music* Feet of Clay* Interesting Times* Maskerade* Hogfather* Jingo* The Last Continent* Carpe Jugulum* Mort: A Discworld Big Comic (with Graham Higgins) The Streets of Ankh-Morpork (with Stephen Briggs) The Discworld Companion (with Stephen Briggs) The Discworld Mapp (with Stephen Briggs) A ND IN H ARDCOVER The Fifth Elephant* *Published by HarperCollins Copyright This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. CARPE JUGULUM. Copyright © 1998 by Terry Pratchett. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. 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com * Which presumably mean that some are virulent and deadly, and others just make you walk in a funny way and avoid fruit. * Sometimes, of course, to say, “please stop doing it. ” * It struck people as odd that, while Lancre people refused pointblank to have any truck with democracy, on the basis that governing was what the king ought to do and they’d be sure to tell him if he went wrong, they didn’t make very good servants. Oh, they could cook and dig and wash and footle and buttle and did it very well but could never quite get the hang of the serving mentality. King Verence was quite understanding about this, and put up with Shawn ushering guests into the dining room with a cry of “Lovely grub, get it while it’s hot!” * Apart from the ones containing small postal orders attached to letters which, generally, said pretty much the same thing: Dear Mum and Dad, I am doing pretty well in Ankh-Morpork and this week I earned a whole seven dollars… * When there was nothing much else to occupy her time Granny Weatherwax sent her mind Borrowing, letting it piggyback inside the heads of other creatures. She was widely accepted as the most skilled exponent of the art that the Ramtops had seen for centuries, being practically able to get inside the minds of things that didn’t even have minds. The practice meant, among other things, that Lancre people were less inclined toward the casual cruelty to animals that is a general feature of the rural idyll, on the basis that the rat you throw a brick at today might turn out to be the witch you need some toothache medicine from tomorrow. It also meant that people calling on her unexpectedly would find her stretched out apparently cold and lifeless, heart and pulse barely beating. The sign had saved a lot of embarrassment. * It was obvious to King Verence that even if every adult were put under arms the kingdom of Lancre would still have a very small and insignificant army, and he’d therefore looked for other ways to put it on the military map. Shawn had come up with the idea of the Lancrastrian Army Knife, containing a few essential tools and utensils for the soldier in the field, and research and development work had been going on for some months now. One reason for the slow progress was that the king himself was taking an active interest in the country’s only defense project, and Shawn was receiving little notes up to three times every day with further suggestions for improvement. Generally they were on the lines of: “A device, possibly quite small, for finding things that are lost,” or “A curiously shaped hook-like thing of many uses. ” Shawn diplomatically added some of them but lost as many notes as he dared, lest he design the only pocket knife on wheels. * The leitmotif of the Guild of Barber-Surgeons * On the rare maps on the Ramtops that existed, it was spelled Überwald. But Lancre people had never got the hang of accents and certainly didn’t agree with trying to balance two dots on another letter, where they’d only roll off and cause unnecessary punctuation. * Lancre people considered that anything religious that wasn’t said in some ancient and incomprehensible speech probably wasn’t the genuine article. * This was because Lancre people had a fresh if somewhat sideways approach to names, generally just picking a sound they liked. Sometimes there was a logic to it, but only by accident. There’d be a Chlamydia Weaver toddling around today if her mother hadn’t suddenly decided that Sally was easier to spell. * King Verence was very keen that someone should compose a national anthem for Lancre, possibly referring to its very nice trees, and had offered a small reward. Nanny Ogg reasoned that it would be easy money because national anthems only ever have one verse or, rather, all have the same second verse, which goes “nur…hnur…mur…nur nur, hnur…nur…nur, hnur” at some length until everyone remembers the last line of the first verse and sings it as loudly as they can. * In a society that had progressed beyond the privy and the earth closet she would have said “pulling my chain. ” * The role of the lower intestine in the efforts to built a better nation is one that is often neglected by historians. * Igor had two thumbs on his right hand. If something was useful, he always said, you may as well add another. Table of Contents Cover Title Page Contents Begin Reading About the Author Praise Other Books by Terry Pratchett Copyright About the Publisher Terry Pratchett Mort A Novel of Discworld ® To Rhianna Contents Begin Reading About the Author Praise Books by Terry Pratchett Copyright About the Publisher Begin Reading This is the bright candlelit room where the life-timers are stored—shelf upon shelf of them, squat hourglasses, one for every living person, pouring their fine sand from the future into the past. The accumulated hiss of the falling grains makes the room roar like the sea. This is the owner of the room, stalking through it with a preoccupied air. His name is Death. But not any Death. This is the Death whose particular sphere of operations is, well, not a sphere at all, but the Discworld, which is flat and rides on the back of four giant elephants who stand on the shell of the enormous star turtle Great A’Tuin, and which is bounded by a waterfall that cascades endlessly into space. Scientists have calculated that the chance of anything so patently absurd actually existing are millions to one. But magicians have calculated that million-to-one chances crop up nine times out of ten. Death clicks across the black and white tiled floor on toes of bone, muttering inside his cowl as his skeletal fingers count along the rows of busy hourglasses. Finally he finds one that seems to satisfy him, lifts it carefully from its shelf and carries it across to the nearest candle. He holds it so that the light glints off it, and stares at the little point of reflected brilliance. The steady gaze from those twinkling eye sockets encompasses the world turtle, sculling through the deeps of space, carapace scarred by comets and pitted by meteors. One day even Great A’Tuin will die, Death knows; now, that would be a challenge. But the focus of his gaze dives onwards towards the blue-green magnificence of the Disc itself, turning slowly under its tiny orbiting sun. Now it curves away towards the great mountain range called the Ramtops. The Ramtops are full of deep valleys and unexpected crags and considerably more geography than they know what to do with. They have their own peculiar weather, full of shrapnel rain and whiplash winds and permanent thunderstorms. Some people say it’s all because the Ramtops are the home of old, wild magic. Mind you, some people will say anything. Death blinks, adjusts for depth of vision. Now he sees the grassy country on the turnwise slopes of the mountains. Now he sees a particular hillside. Now he sees a field. Now he sees a boy, running. Now he watches. Now, in a voice like lead slabs being dropped on granite, he says: Y ES. There was no doubt that there was something magical in the soil of that hilly, broken area which—because of the strange tint that it gave to the local flora—was known as the octarine grass country. For example, it was one of the few places on the Disc where plants produced reannual varieties. Reannuals are plants that grow backwards in time. You sow the seed this year and they grow last year. Mort’s family specialized in distilling the wine from reannual grapes. These were very powerful and much sought after by fortune-tellers, since of course they enabled them to see the future. The only snag was that you got the hangover the morning before , and had to drink a lot to get over it. Reannual growers tended to be big, serious men, much given to introspection and close examination of the calendar. A farmer who neglects to sow ordinary seeds only loses the crop, whereas anyone who forgets to sow seeds of a crop that has already been harvested twelve months before risks disturbing the entire fabric of causality, not to mention acute embarrassment. |
It was also acutely embarrassing to Mort’s family that the youngest son was not at all serious and had about the same talent for horticulture that you would find in a dead starfish. It wasn’t that he was unhelpful, but he had the kind of vague, cheerful helpfulness that serious men soon learn to dread. There was something infectious, possibly even fatal, about it. He was tall, red-haired and freckled, with the sort of body that seems to be only marginally under its owner’s control; it appeared to have been built out of knees. On this particular day it was hurtling across the high fields, waving its hands and yelling. Mort’s father and uncle watched it disconsolately from the stone wall. “What I don’t understand,” said father Lezek, “is that the birds don’t even fly away. I’d fly away, if I saw it coming towards me. ” “Ah. The human body’s a wonderful thing. I mean, his legs go all over the place but there’s a fair turn of speed there. ” Mort reached the end of a furrow. An overfull woodpigeon lurched slowly out of his way. “His heart’s in the right place, mind,” said Lezek, carefully. “Ah. ’Course, ’tis the rest of him that isn’t. ” “He’s clean about the house. Doesn’t eat much,” said Lezek. “No, I can see that. ” Lezek looked sideways at his brother, who was staring fixedly at the sky. “I did hear you’d got a place going up at your farm, Hamesh,” he said. “Ah. Got an apprentice in, didn’t I?” “Ah,” said Lezek gloomily, “when was that, then?” “Yesterday,” said his brother, lying with rattlesnake speed. “All signed and sealed. Sorry. Look, I got nothing against young Mort, see, he’s as nice a boy as you could wish to meet, it’s just that—” “I know, I know,” said Lezek. “He couldn’t find his arse with both hands. ” They stared at the distant figure. It had fallen over. Some pigeons had waddled over to inspect it. “He’s not stupid, mind,” said Hamesh. “Not what you’d call stupid. ” “There’s a brain there all right,” Lezek conceded. “Sometimes he starts thinking so hard you has to hit him round the head to get his attention. His granny taught him to read, see. I reckon it overheated his mind. ” Mort had got up and tripped over his robe. “You ought to set him to a trade,” said Hamesh, reflectively. “The priesthood, maybe. Or wizardry. They do a lot of reading, wizards. ” They looked at each other. Into both their minds stole an inkling of what Mort might be capable of if he got his well-meaning hands on a book of magic. “All right,” said Hamesh hurriedly. “Something else, then. There must be lots of things he could turn his hand to. ” “He starts thinking too much, that’s the trouble,” said Lezek. “Look at him now. You don’t think about how to scare birds, you just does it. A normal boy, I mean. ” Hamesh scratched his chin thoughtfully. “It could be someone else’s problem,” he said. Lezek’s expression did not alter, but there was a subtle change around his eyes. “How do you mean?” he said. “There’s the hiring fair at Sheepridge next week. You set him as a prentice, see, and his new master’ll have the job of knocking him into shape. ’Tis the law. Get him indentured, and ’tis binding. ” Lezek looked across the field at his son, who was examining a rock. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him, mind,” he said doubtfully. “We’re quite fond of him, his mother and me. You get used to people. ” “It’d be for his own good, you’ll see. Make a man of him. ” “Ah. Well. There’s certainly plenty of raw material,” sighed Lezek. Mort was getting interested in the rock. It had curly shells in it, relics of the early days of the world when the Creator had made creatures out of stone, no one knew why. Mort was interested in lots of things. Why people’s teeth fitted together so neatly, for example. He’d given that one a lot of thought. Then there was the puzzle of why the sun came out during the day, instead of at night when the light would come in useful. He knew the standard explanation, which somehow didn’t seem satisfying. In short, Mort was one of those people who are more dangerous than a bag full of rattlesnakes. He was determined to discover the underlying logic behind the universe. Which was going to be hard, because there wasn’t one. The Creator had a lot of remarkably good ideas when he put the world together, but making it understandable hadn’t been one of them. Tragic heroes always moan when the gods take an interest in them, but it’s the people the gods ignore who get the really tough deals. His father was yelling at him, as usual. Mort threw the rock at a pigeon, which was almost too full to lurch out of the way, and wandered back across the field. And that was why Mort and his father walked down through the mountains into Sheepridge on Hogswatch Eve, with Mort’s rather sparse possessions in a sack on the back of a donkey. The town wasn’t much more than four sides to a cobbled square, lined with shops that provided all the service industry of the farming community. After five minutes Mort came out of the tailor’s wearing a loose fitting brown garment of imprecise function, which had been understandably unclaimed by a previous owner and had plenty of room for him to grow, on the assumption that he would grow into a nineteen-legged elephant. His father regarded him critically. “Very nice,” he said, “for the money. ” “It itches,” said Mort. “I think there’s things in here with me. ” “There’s thousands of lads in the world’d be very thankful for a nice warm—” Lezek paused, and gave up—“garment like that, my lad. ” “I could share it with them?” Mort said hopefully. “You’ve got to look smart,” said Lezek severely. “You’ve got to make an impression, stand out in the crowd. ” There was no doubt about it. He would. They set out among the throng crowding the square, each listening to his own thoughts. Usually Mort enjoyed visiting the town, with its cosmopolitan atmosphere and strange dialects from villages as far away as five, even ten miles, but this time he felt unpleasantly apprehensive, as if he could remember something that hadn’t happened yet. The fair seemed to work like this: men looking for work stood in ragged lines in the center of the square. Many of them sported little symbols in their hats to tell the world the kind of work they were trained in—shepherds wore a wisp of wool, carters a hank of horsehair, interior decorators a strip of rather interesting hessian wallcovering, and so on. The boys seeking apprenticeships were clustered on the Hub side of the square. “You just go and stand there, and someone comes and offers you an apprenticeship,” said Lezek, his voice trimmed with uncertainty. “If they like the look of you, that is. ” “How do they do that?” said Mort. “Well,” said Lezek, and paused. Hamesh hadn’t explained about this bit. He drew on his limited knowledge of the marketplace, which was restricted to livestock sales, and ventured, “I suppose they count your teeth and that. And make sure you don’t wheeze and your feet are all right. I shouldn’t let on about the reading, it unsettles people. ” “And then what?” said Mort. “Then you go and learn a trade,” said Lezek. “What trade in particular?” “Well…carpentry is a good one,” Lezek hazarded. “Or thievery. Someone’s got to do it. ” Mort looked at his feet. He was a dutiful son, when he remembered, and if being an apprentice was what was expected of him then he was determined to be a good one. Carpentry didn’t sound very promising, though—wood had a stubborn life of its own, and a tendency to split. And official thieves were rare in the Ramtops, where people weren’t rich enough to afford them. “All right,” he said eventually, “I’ll go and give it a try. But what happens if I don’t get prenticed?” Lezek scratched his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I expect you just wait until the end of the fair. At midnight. I suppose. ” And now midnight approached. A light frost began to crisp the cobblestones. In the ornamental clock tower that overlooked the square a couple of delicately-carved little automatons whirred out of trapdoors in the clockface and struck the quarter hour. |
Fifteen minutes to midnight. Mort shivered, but the crimson fires of shame and stubbornness flared up inside him, hotter than the slopes of Hell. He blew on his fingers for something to do and stared up at the freezing sky, trying to avoid the stares of the few stragglers among what remained of the fair. Most of the stallkeepers had packed up and gone. Even the hot meat pie man had stopped crying his wares and, with no regard for personal safety, was eating one. The last of Mort’s fellow hopefuls had vanished hours ago. He was a wall-eyed young man with a stoop and a running nose, and Sheepridge’s one licensed beggar had pronounced him to be ideal material. The lad on the other side of Mort had gone off to be a toymaker. One by one they had trooped off—the masons, the farriers, the assassins, the mercers, coopers, hoodwinkers and ploughmen. In a few minutes it would be the new year and a Hundred boys would be starting out hopefully on their careers, new worthwhile lives of useful service rolling out in front of them. Mort wondered miserably why he hadn’t been picked. He’d tried to look respectable, and had looked all prospective masters squarely in the eye to impress them with his excellent nature and extremely likeable qualities. This didn’t seem to have the right effect. “Would you like a hot meat pie?” said his father. “No. ” “He’s selling them cheap. ” “No. Thank you. ” “Oh. ” Lezek hesitated. “I could ask the man if he wants an apprentice,” he said, helpfully. “Very reliable, the catering trade. ” “I don’t think he does,” said Mort. “No, probably not,” said Lezek. “Bit of a one-man business, I expect. He’s gone now, anyway. Tell you what, I’ll save you a bit of mine. ” “I don’t actually feel very hungry, Dad. ” “There’s hardly any gristle. ” “No. But thanks all the same. ” “Oh. ” Lezek deflated a little. He danced about a bit to stamp some life back into his feet, and whistled a few tuneless bars between his teeth. He felt he ought to say something, to offer some kind of advice, to point out that life had its ups and downs, to put his arm around his son’s shoulder and talk expansively about the problems of growing up, to indicate—in short—that the world is a funny old place where one should never, metaphorically speaking, be so proud as to turn down the offer of a perfectly good hot meat pie. They were alone now. The frost, the last one of the year, tightened its grip on the stones. High in the tower above them a cogged wheel went clonk , tripped a lever, released a ratchet and let a heavy lead weight drop down. There was a dreadful metallic wheezing noise and the trapdoors in the clock face slid open, releasing the clockwork men. Swinging their hammers jerkily, as if they were afflicted with robotic arthritis, they began to ring in the new day. “Well, that’s it,” said Lezek, hopefully. They’d have to find somewhere to sleep—Hogswatchnight was no time to be walking in the mountains. Perhaps there was a stable somewhere…. “It’s not midnight until the last stroke,” said Mort, distantly. Lezek shrugged. The sheer strength of Mort’s obstinacy was defeating him. “All right,” he said. “We’ll wait, then. ” And then they heard the clip-clop of hooves, which boomed rather more loudly around the chilly square than common acoustics should really allow. In fact clip-clop was an astonishingly inaccurate word for the kind of noise which rattled around Mort’s head; clip-clop suggested a rather jolly little pony, quite possibly wearing a straw hat with holes cut out for its ears. An edge to this sound made it very clear that straw hats weren’t an option. The horse entered the square by the Hub road, steam curling off its huge damp white flanks and sparks striking up from the cobbles beneath it. It trotted proudly, like a war charger. It was definitely not wearing a straw hat. The tall figure on its back was wrapped up against the cold. When the horse reached the center of the square the rider dismounted, slowly, and fumbled with something behind the saddle. Eventually he—or she—produced a nosebag, fastened it over the horse’s ears, and gave it a friendly pat on the neck. The air took on a thick, greasy feel, and the deep shadows around Mort became edged with blue and purple rainbows. The rider strode towards him, black cloak billowing and feet making little clicking sounds on the cobbles. They were the only noises—silence clamped down on the square like great drifts of cotton wool. The impressive effect was rather spoilt by a patch of ice. O H, BUGGER. It wasn’t exactly a voice. The words were there all right, but they arrived in Mort’s head without bothering to pass through his ears. He rushed forward to help the fallen figure, and found himself grabbing hold of a hand that was nothing more than polished bone, smooth and rather yellowed like an old billiard ball. The figure’s hood fell back, and a naked skull turned its empty eyesockets towards him. Not quite empty, though. Deep within them, as though they were windows looking across the gulfs of space, were two tiny blue stars. It occurred to Mort that he ought to feel horrified, so he was slightly shocked to find that he wasn’t. It was a skeleton sitting in front of him, rubbing its knees and grumbling, but it was a live one, curiously impressive but not, for some strange reason, very frightening. T HANK YOU, BOY , said the skull. W HAT IS YOUR NAME ? “Uh,” said Mort, “Mortimer…sir. They call me Mort. ” W HAT A COINCIDENCE , said the skull. H ELP ME UP, PLEASE. The figure rose unsteadily, brushing itself down. Now Mort could see there was a heavy belt around its waist, from which was slung a white-handled sword. “I hope you are not hurt, sir,” he said politely. The skull grinned. Of course, Mort thought, it hasn’t much of a choice. N O H ARM DONE , I AM SURE. The skull looked around and seemed to see Lezek, who appeared to be frozen to the spot, for the first time. Mort thought an explanation was called for. “My father,” he said, trying to move protectively in front of Exhibit A without causing any offense. “Excuse me, sir, but are you Death?” C ORRECT. F ULL MARKS FOR OBSERVATION, THAT BOY. Mort swallowed. “My father is a good man,” he said. He thought for a while, and added, “Quite good. I’d rather you left him alone, if it’s all the same to you. I don’t know what you have done to him, but I’d like you to stop it. No offense meant. ” Death stepped back, his skull on one side. I HAVE MERELY PUT US OUTSIDE TIME FOR A MOMENT , he said. H E WILL SEE AND HEAR NOTHING THAT DISTURBS HIM. N O, BOY, IT WAS YOU I CAME FOR. “Me?” Y OU ARE HERE SEEKING EMPLOYMENT ? Light dawned on Mort. “You are looking for an apprentice ?” he said. The eyesockets turned towards him, their actinic pinpoints flaring. O F COURSE. Death waved a bony hand. There was a wash of purple light, a sort of visible “pop,” and Lezek unfroze. Above his head the clockwork automatons got on with the job of proclaiming midnight, as Time was allowed to come creeping back. Lezek blinked. “Didn’t see you there for a minute,” he said. “Sorry—mind must have been elsewhere. ” I WAS OFFERING YOUR BOY A POSITION , Said Death. I TRUST THAT MEETS WITH YOUR APPROVAL ? “What was your job again?” said Lezek, talking to a black-robed skeleton without showing even a flicker of surprise. I USHER SOULS INTO THE NEXT WORLD , Said Death. “Ah,” said Lezek, “of course, sorry, should have guessed from the clothes. Very necessary work, very steady. Established business?” I HAVE BEEN GOING FOR SOME TIME, YES , said Death. “Good. Good. Never really thought of it as a job for Mort, you know, but it’s good work, good work, always very reliable. What’s your name?” D EATH. “Dad—” said Mort urgently. “Can’t say I recognize the firm,” said Lezek. “Where are you based exactly?” F ROM THE UTTERMOST DEPTHS OF THE SEA TO THE HEIGHTS WHERE EVEN THE EAGLE MAY NOT GO , said Death. “That’s fair enough,” nodded Lezek. “Well, I—” “Dad—” said Mort, pulling at his father’s coat. Death laid a hand on Mort’s shoulder. |
W HAT YOUR FATHER SEES AND HEARS IS NOT WHAT YOU SEE AND HEAR , he said. D O NOT WORRY HIM. D O YOU THINK HE WOULD WANT TO SEE ME—IN THE FLESH, AS IT WERE ? “But you’re Death,” said Mort. “You go around killing people!” I? K ILL ? said Death, obviously offended. C ERTAINLY NOT. P EOPLE GET KILLED, BUT THAT’S THEIR BUSINESS. I JUST TAKE OVER FROM THEN ON. A FTER ALL, IT’D BE A BLOODY STUPID WORLD IF PEOPLE GOT KILLED WITHOUT DYING, WOULDN’T IT ? “Well, yes—” said Mort, doubtfully. Mort had never heard the word “intrigued. ” It was not in regular use in the family vocabulary. But a spark in his soul told him that here was something weird and fascinating and not entirely horrible, and that if he let this moment go he’d spend the rest of his life regretting it. And he remembered the humiliations of the day, and the long walk back home…. “Er,” he began, “I don’t have to die to get the job, do I?” B EING DEAD IS NOT COMPULSORY. “And…the bones…?” N OT IF YOU DON’T WANT TO. Mort breathed out again. It had been starting to prey on his mind. “If Father says it’s all right,” he said. They looked at Lezek, who was scratching his beard. “How do you feel about this, Mort?” he said, with the brittle brightness of a fever victim. “It’s not everyone’s idea of an occupation. It’s not what I had in mind, I admit. But they do say that undertaking is an honored profession. It’s your choice. ” “Undertaking?” said Mort. Death nodded, and raised his finger to his lips in a conspiratorial gesture. “It’s interesting,” said Mort slowly. “I think I’d like to try it. ” “Where did you say your business was?” said Lezek. “Is it far?” N O FURTHER THAN THE THICKNESS OF A SHADOW , Said Death. W HERE THE FIRST PRIMAL CELL WAS, THERE WAS I ALSO. W HERE MAN IS, THERE AM I. W HEN THE LAST LIFE CRAWLS UNDER FREEZING STARS, THERE WILL I BE. “Ah,” said Lezek, “you get about a bit, then. ” He looked puzzled, like a man struggling to remember something important, and then obviously gave up. Death patted him on the shoulder in a friendly fashion and turned to Mort. H AVE YOU ANY POSSESSIONS, BOY ? “Yes,” said Mort, and then remembered. “Only I think I left them in the shop. Dad, we left the sack in the clothes shop!” “It’ll be shut,” said Lezek. “Shops don’t open on Hogswatch Day. You’ll have to go back the day after tomorrow—well, tomorrow now. ” I T IS OF LITTLE ACCOUNT , said Death. W E WILL LEAVE NOW. N O DOUBT I WILL HAVE BUSINESS HERE SOON ENOUGH. “I hope you’ll be able to drop in and see us soon,” said Lezek. He seemed to be struggling with his thoughts. “I’m not sure that will be a good idea,” said Mort. “Well, goodbye, lad,” said Lezek. “You’re to do what you’re told, you understand? And—excuse me, sir, do you have a son?” Death looked rather taken aback. No, he said, I HAVE NO SONS. “I’ll just have a last word with my boy, if you’ve no objection. ” T HEN I WILL GO AND SEE TO THE HORSE , said Death, with more than normal tact. Lezek put his arm around his son’s shoulders, with some difficulty in view of their difference in height, and gently propelled him across the square. “Mort, you know your uncle Hemesh told me about this prenticing business?” he whispered. “Yes?” “Well, he told me something else,” the old man confided. “He said it’s not unknown for an apprentice to inherit his master’s business. What do you think of that, then?” “Uh. I’m not sure,” said Mort. “It’s worth thinking about,” said Lezek. “I am thinking about it, Father. ” “Many a young lad has started out that way,” Hemesh said. “He makes himself useful, earns his master’s confidence, and, well, if there’s any daughters in the house…did Mr. er, Mr. say anything about daughters?” “Mr. who?” said Mort. “Mr…your new master. ” “Oh. Him. No. No, I don’t think so,” said Mort slowly. “I don’t think he’s the marrying type. ” “Many a keen young man owes his advancement to his nuptials,” said Lezek. “He does?” “Mort, I don’t think you’re really listening. ” “What?” Lezek came to a halt on the frosty cobbles and spun the boy around to face him. “You’re really going to have to do better than this,” he said. “Don’t you understand, boy? If you’re going to amount to anything in this world then you’ve got to listen. I’m your father telling you these things. ” Mort looked down at his father’s face. He wanted to say a lot of things: he wanted to say how much he loved him, how worried he was; he wanted to ask what his father really thought he’d just seen and heard. He wanted to say that he felt as though he stepped on a molehill and found that it was really a volcano. He wanted to ask what “nuptials” meant. What he actually said was, “Yes. Thank you. I’d better be going. I’ll try and write you a letter. ” “There’s bound to be someone passing who can read it to us,” said Lezek. “Goodbye, Mort. ” He blew his nose. “Goodbye, Dad. I’ll come back to visit,” said Mort. Death coughed tactfully, although it sounded like the pistol-crack of an ancient beam full of death-watch beetle. W E HAD BETTER BE GOING , he said. H OP UP, MORT. As Mort scrambled behind the ornate silver saddle Death leaned down and shook Lezek’s hand. T HANK YOU , he said. “He’s a good lad at heart,” said Lezek. “A bit dreamy, that’s all. I suppose we were all young once. ” Death considered this. No, he said, I DON’T THINK SO. He gathered up the reins and turned the horse towards the Rim road. From his perch behind the black-robed figure Mort waved desperately. Lezek waved back. Then, as the horse and its two riders disappeared from view, he lowered his hand and looked at it. The handshake…it had felt strange. But, somehow, he couldn’t remember exactly why. Mort listened to the clatter of stone under the horse’s hooves. Then there was the soft thud of packed earth as they reached the road, and then there was nothing at all. He looked down and saw the landscape spread out below him, the night etched with moonlight silver. If he fell off, the only thing he’d hit was air. He redoubled his grip on the saddle. Then Death said, A RE YOU HUNGRY, BOY ? “Yes, sir. ” The words came straight from his stomach without the intervention of his brain. Death nodded, and reined in the horse. It stood on the air, the great circular panorama of the Disc glittering below it. Here and there a city was an orange glow; in the warm seas nearer the Rim thee was a hint of phosphorescence. In some of the deep valleys the trapped daylight of the Disc, which is slow and slightly heavy * , was evaporating like silver steam. But it was outshone by the glow that rose towards the stars from the Rim itself. Vast streamers of light shimmered and glittered across the night. Great golden walls surrounded the world. “It’s beautiful,” said Mort softly. “What is it?” T HE SUN IS UNDER THE D ISC , said Death. “Is it like this every night?” E VERY NIGHT , said Death. N ATURE’S LIKE THAT. “Doesn’t anyone know?” M E. Y OU. T HE GODS. G OOD, IS IT ? “Gosh!” Death leaned over the saddle and looked down at the kingdoms of the world. I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU , he said, B UT I COULD MURDER A CURRY. Although it was well after midnight the twin city of Ankh-Morpork was roaring with life. Mort had thought Sheepridge looked busy, but compared to the turmoil of the street around him the town was, well, a morgue. Poets have tried to describe Ankh-Morpork. They have failed. Perhaps it’s the sheer zestful vitality of the place, or maybe it’s just that a city with a million inhabitants and no sewers is rather robust for poets, who prefer daffodils and no wonder. So let’s just say that Ankh-Morpork is as full of life as an old cheese on a hot day, as loud as a curse in a cathedral, as bright as an oil slick, as colorful as a bruise and as full of activity, industry, bustle and sheer exuberant busyness as a dead dog on a termite mound. There were temples, their doors wide open, filling the streets with the sounds of gongs, cymbals and, in the case of some of the more conservative fundamentalist religions, the brief screams of the victims. There were shops whose strange wares spilled out on to the pavement. |
There seemed to be rather a lot of friendly young ladies who couldn’t afford many clothes. There were flares, and jugglers, and assorted sellers of instant transcendence. And Death stalked through it all. Mort had half expected him to pass through the crowds like smoke, but it wasn’t like that at all. The simple truth was that wherever Death walked, people just drifted out of the way. It didn’t work like that for Mort. The crowds that gently parted for his new master closed again just in time to get in his way. His toes got trodden on, his ribs were bruised, people kept trying to sell him unpleasant spices and suggestively-shaped vegetables, and a rather elderly lady said, against all the evidence, that he looked a well set-up young lad who would like a nice time. He thanked her very much, and said that he hoped he was having a nice time already. Death reached the street corner, the light from the flares raising brilliant highlights on the polished dome of his skull, and sniffed the air. A drunk staggered up, and without quite realizing why made a slight detour in his erratic passage for no visible reason. T HIS IS THE CITY, BOY , said Death. W HAT DO YOU THINK ? “It’s very big,” said Mort, uncertainly. “I mean, why does everyone want to live all squeezed together like this?” Death shrugged. I LIKE IT , he said. I T’S FULL OF LIFE. “Sir?” Y ES ? “What’s a curry?” The blue fires flared deep in the eyes of Death. H AVE YOU EVER BITTEN A RED-HOT ICE CUBE ? “No, sir,” said Mort. C URRY’S LIKE THAT. “Sir?” Y ES ? Mort swallowed hard. “Excuse me, sir, but my dad said, if I don’t understand, I was to ask questions, sir?” V ERY COMMENDABLE , said Death. He set off down a side street, the crowds parting in front of him like random molecules. “Well, sir, I can’t help noticing, the point is, well, the plain fact of it, sir, is—” O UT WITH IT, BOY. “How can you eat things, sir?” Death pulled up short, so that Mort walked into him. When the boy started to speak he waved him into silence. He appeared to be listening to something. T HERE ARE TIMES, YOU KNOW , he said, half to himself, W HEN I GET REALLY UPSET. He turned on one heel and set off down an alleyway at high speed, his cloak flying out behind him. The alley wound between dark walls and sleeping buildings, not so much a thoroughfare as a meandering gap. Death stopped by a decrepit water butt and plunged his arm in at full length, bringing out a small sack with a brick tied to it. He drew his sword, a line of flickering blue fire in the darkness, and sliced through the string. I GET VERY ANGRY INDEED , he said. He upended the sack and Mort watched the pathetic scraps of sodden fur slide out, to lie in their spreading puddle on the cobbles. Death reached out with his white fingers and stroked them gently. After a while something like gray smoke curled up from the kittens and formed three small cat-shaped clouds in the air. They billowed occasionally, unsure of their shape, and blinked at Mort with puzzled gray eyes. When he tried to touch one his hand went straight through it, and tingled. Y OU DON’T SEE PEOPLE AT THEIR BEST IN THIS JOB , said Death. He blew on a kitten, sending it gently tumbling. Its miaow of complaint sounded as though it had come from a long way away via a tin tube. “They’re souls, aren’t they?” said Mort. “What do people look like?” P EOPLE SHAPED , said Death. I T’S BASICALLY ALL DOWN TO THE CHARACTERISTIC MORPHOGENETIC FIELD. He sighed like the swish of a shroud, picked the kittens out of the air, and carefully stowed them away somewhere in the dark recesses of his robe. He stood up. C URRY TIME , he said. It was crowded in the Curry Gardens on the corner of God Street and Blood Alley, but only with the cream of society—at least, with those people who are found floating on the top and who, therefore, it’s wisest to call the cream. Fragrant bushes planted among the tables nearly concealed the basic smell of the city itself, which has been likened to the nasal equivalent of a foghorn. Mort ate ravenously, but curbed his curiosity and didn’t watch to see how Death could possibly eat anything. The food was there to start with and wasn’t there later, so presumably something must have happened in between. Mort got the feeling that Death wasn’t really used to all this but was doing it to put him at his ease, like an elderly bachelor uncle who has been landed with his nephew for a holiday and is terrified of getting it wrong. The other diners didn’t take much notice, even when Death leaned back and lit a rather fine pipe. Someone with smoke curling out of their eye sockets takes some ignoring, but everyone managed it. “Is it magic?” said Mort. W HAT DO YOU THINK ? said Death. A M I REALLY HERE, BOY ? “Yes,” said Mort slowly. “I…I’ve watched people. They look at you but they don’t see you, I think. You do something to their minds. ” Death shook his head. T HEY DO IT ALL THEMSELVES , he said. T HERE’S NO MAGIC. P EOPLE CAN’T SEE ME, THEY SIMPLY WON’T ALLOW THEMSELVES TO DO IT. U NTIL IT’S TIME, OF COURSE. W IZARDS CAN SEE ME, AND CATS. B UT YOUR AVERAGE HUMAN…NO, NEVER. He blew a smoke ring at the sky, and added, S TRANGE BUT TRUE. Mort watched the smoke ring wobble into the sky and drift away towards the river. “I can see you,” he said. T HAT’S DIFFERENT. The Klatchian waiter arrived with the bill, and placed it in front of Death. The man was squat and brown, with a hairstyle like a coconut gone nova, and his round face creased into a puzzled frown when Death nodded politely to him. He shook his head like someone trying to dislodge soap from his ears, and walked away. Death reached into the depths of his robe and brought out a large leather bag full of assorted copper coinage, most of it blue and green with age. He inspected the bill carefully. Then he counted out a dozen coins. C OME , he said, standing up. W E MUST GO. Mort trotted along behind him as he stalked out of the garden and into the street, which was still fairly busy even though there were the first suggestions of dawn on the horizon. “What are we going to do now?” B UY YOU SOME NEW CLOTHES. “These were new today—yesterday, I mean. ” R EALLY ? “Father said the shop was famous for its budget clothing,” said Mort, running to keep up. I T CERTAINLY ADDS A NEW TERROR TO POVERTY. They turned into a wider street leading into a more affluent part of the city (the torches were closer together and the middens further apart). There were no stalls and alley corner traders here, but proper buildings with signs hanging outside. They weren’t mere shops, they were emporia; they had purveyors in them, and chairs, and spittoons. Most of them were open even at this time of night, because the average Ankhian trader can’t sleep for thinking of the money he’s not making. “Doesn’t anyone ever go to bed around here?” said Mort. T HIS IS A CITY , said Death, and pushed open the door of a clothing store. When they came out twenty minutes later Mort was wearing a neatly-fitting black robe with faint silver embroidery, and the shopkeeper was looking at a handful of antique copper coins and wondering precisely how he came to have them. “How do you get all those coins?” asked Mort. I N PAIRS. An all-night barber sheared Mort’s hair into the latest fashion among the city’s young bloods while Death relaxed in the next chair, humming to himself. Much to his surprise, he felt in a good humor. In fact after a while he pushed his hood back and glanced up at the barber’s apprentice, who tied a towel around his neck in that unseeing, hypnotized way that Mort was coming to recognize, and said, A SPLASH OF TOILET WATER AND A POLISH, MY GOOD MAN. An elderly wizard having a beard-trim on the other side stiffened when he heard those somber, leaden tones and swung around. He blanched and muttered a few protective incantations after Death turned, very slowly for maximum effect, and treated him to a grin. A few minutes later, feeling rather self-conscious and chilly around the ears, Mort was heading back towards the stables where Death had lodged his horse. |
He tried an experimental swagger; he felt his new suit and haircut rather demanded it. It didn’t quite work. Mort awoke. He lay looking at the ceiling while his memory did a fast-rewind and the events of the previous day crystallized in his mind like little ice cubes. He couldn’t have met Death. He couldn’t have eaten a meal with a skeleton with glowing blue eyes. It had to be a weird dream. He couldn’t have ridden pillion on a great white horse that had cantered up into the sky and then went… …where? The answer flowed into his mind with all the inevitability of a tax demand. Here. His searching hands reached up to his cropped hair, and down to sheets of some smooth slippery material. It was much finer than the wool he was used to at home, which was coarse and always smelled of sheep; it felt like warm, dry ice. He swung out of the bed hastily and stared around the room. First of all it was large, larger than the entire house back home, and dry, dry as old tombs under ancient deserts. The air tasted as though it had been cooked for hours and then allowed to cool. The carpet under his feet was deep enough to hide a tribe of pygmies and crackled electrically as he padded through it. And everything had been designed in shades of purple and black. He looked down at his own body, which was wearing a long white nightshirt. His clothes had been neatly folded on a chair by the bed; the chair, he couldn’t help noticing, was delicately carved with a skull-and-bones motif. Mort sat down on the edge of the bed and began to dress, his mind racing. He eased open the heavy oak door, and felt oddly disappointed when it failed to creak ominously. There was a bare wooden corridor outside, with big yellow candles set in holders on the far wall. Mort crept out and sidled along the boards until he reached a staircase. He negotiated that successfully without anything ghastly happening, arriving in what looked like an entrance hall full of doors. There were a lot of funereal drapes here, and a grandfather clock with a tick like the heartbeat of a mountain. There was an umbrella stand beside it. It had a scythe in it. Mort looked around at the doors. They looked important. Their arches were carved in the now-familiar bones motif. He went to try the nearest one, and a voice behind him said: “You mustn’t go in there, boy. ” It took him a moment to realize that this wasn’t a voice in his head, but real human words that had been formed by a mouth and transferred to his ears by a convenient system of air compression, as nature intended. Nature had gone to a lot of trouble for six words with a slightly petulant tone to them. He turned around. There was a girl there, about his own height and perhaps a few years older than him. She had silver hair, and eyes with a pearly sheen to them, and the kind of interesting but impractical long, dress that tends to be worn by tragic heroines who clasp single roses to their bosom while gazing soulfully at the moon. Mort had never heard the phrase “Pre-Raphaelite,” which was a pity because it would have been almost the right description. However, such girls tend to be on the translucent, consumptive side, whereas this one had a slight suggestion of too many chocolates. She stared at him with her head on one side, and one foot tapping irritably on the floor. Then she reached out quickly and pinched him sharply on the arm. “Ow!” “Hmm. So you’re really real,” she said. “What’s your name, boy?” “Mortimer. They call me Mort,” he said, rubbing his elbow. “What did you do that for?” “I shall call you Boy,” she said. “And I don’t really have to explain myself, you understand, but if you must know I thought you were dead. You look dead. ” Mort said nothing. “Lost your tongue?” Mort was, in fact, counting to ten. “I’m not dead,” he said eventually. “At least, I don’t think so. It’s a little hard to tell. Who are you?” “You may call me Miss Ysabell,” she said haughtily. “Father told me you must have something to eat. Follow me. ” She swept away towards one of the other doors. Mort trailed behind her at just the right distance to have it swing back and hit his other elbow. There was a kitchen on the other side of the door—long, low and warm, with copper pans hanging from the ceiling and a vast black iron stove occupying the whole of one long wall. An old man was standing in front of it, frying eggs and bacon and whistling between his teeth. The smell attracted Mort’s taste buds from across the room, hinting that if they got together they could really enjoy themselves. He found himself moving forward without even consulting his legs. “Albert,” snapped Ysabell, “another one for breakfast. ” The man turned his head slowly, and nodded at her without saying a word. She turned back to Mort. “I must say,” she said, “that with the whole Disc to choose from, I should think Father could have done rather better than you. I suppose you’ll just have to do. ” She swept out of the room, slamming the door behind her. “Have to do what?” said Mort, to no one in particular. The room was silent, except for the sizzle of the frying pan and the crumbling of coals in the molten heart of the stove. Mort saw that it had the words “The Little Moloch (Ptntd)” embossed on its oven door. The cook didn’t seem to notice him, so Mort pulled up a chair and sat down at the white scrubbed table. “Mushrooms?” said the old man, without looking around. “Hmm? What?” “I said, do you want mushrooms?” “Oh. Sorry. No, thank you,” said Mort. “Right you are, young sir. ” He turned around and set out for the table. Even after he got used to it, Mort always held his breath when he watched Albert walking. Death’s manservant was one of those stick-thin, raw-nosed old men who always look as though they are wearing gloves with the fingers cut out—even when they’re not—and his walking involved a complicated sequence of movements. Albert leaned forward and his left arm started to swing, slowly at first but soon evolving into a wild jerking movement that finally and suddenly, at about the time when a watcher would have expected the arm to fly off at the elbow, transferred itself down the length of his body to his legs and propelled him forward like a high-speed stilt walker. The frying pan followed a series of intricate curves in the air and was brought to a halt just over Mort’s plate. Albert did indeed have exactly the right type of half-moon spectacles to peer over the top of. “There could be some porridge to follow,” he said, and winked, apparently to include Mort in the world porridge conspiracy. “Excuse me,” said Mort, “but where am I, exactly?” “Don’t you know? This is the house of Death, lad. He brought you here last night. ” “I—sort of remember. Only”…. “Hmm?” “Well. The bacon and eggs,” said Mort, vaguely. “It doesn’t seem, well, appropriate. ” “I’ve got some black pudding somewhere,” said Albert. “No, I mean…” Mort hesitated. “It’s just that I can’t see him sitting down to a couple of rashers and a fried slice. ” Albert grinned. “Oh, he doesn’t, lad. Not as a regular thing, no. Very easy to cater for, the master. I just cook for me and—” he paused—“the young lady, of course. ” Mort nodded. “Your daughter,” he said. “Mine? Ha,” said Albert. “You’re wrong there. She’s his. ” Mort stared down at his fried eggs. They stared back from their lake of fat. Albert had heard of nutritional values, and didn’t hold with them. “Are we talking about the same person?” he said at last. “Tall, wears black, he’s a bit…skinny…. ” “Adopted,” said Albert, kindly. “It’s rather a long story—” A bell jangled by his head. “—which will have to wait. He wants to see you in his study. I should run along if I were you. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Understandable, really. Up the steps and first door on the left. You can’t miss it—” “It’s got skulls and bones around the door?” said Mort, pushing back his chair. “They all have, most of them,” sighed Albert. “It’s only his fancy. He doesn’t mean anything by it. |
” Leaving his breakfast to congeal, Mort hurried up the steps, along the corridor and paused in front of the first door. He raised his hand to knock. E NTER. The handle turned of its own accord. The door swung inward. Death was seated behind a desk, peering intently into a vast leather book almost bigger than the desk itself. He looked up as Mort came in, keeping one calcareous finger marking his place, and grinned. There wasn’t much of an alternative. A H , he said, and then paused. Then he scratched his chin, with a noise like a fingernail being pulled across a comb. W HO ARE YOU, BOY ? “Mort, sir,” said Mort. “Your apprentice. You remember?” Death stared at him for some time. Then the pinpoint blue eyes turned back to the book. O H YES , he said, M ORT. W ELL, BOY, DO YOU SINCERELY WISH TO LEARN THE UTTERMOST SECRETS OF TIME AND SPACE ? “Yes, sir. I think so, sir. ” G OOD. T HE STABLES ARE AROUND THE BACK. T HE SHOVEL HANGS JUST INSIDE THE DOOR. He looked down. He looked up. Mort hadn’t moved. I S IT BY ANY CHANCE POSSIBLE THAT YOU FAIL TO UNDERSTAND ME ? “Not fully, sir,” said Mort. D UNG, BOY. D UNG. A LBERT HAS A COMPOST HEAP IN THE GARDEN. I IMAGINE THERE’S A WHEELBARROW SOMEWHERE ON THE PREMISES. G ET ON WITH IT. Mort nodded mournfully. “Yes, sir. I see, sir. Sir?” Y ES ? “Sir, I don’t see what this has to do with the secrets of time and space. ” Death did not look up from his book. T HAT , he said, IS BECAUSE YOU ARE HERE TO LEARN. It is a fact that although the Death of the Discworld is, in his own words, an ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION , he long ago gave up using the traditional skeletal horses, because of the bother of having to stop all the time to wire bits back on. Now his horses were always flesh-and-blood beasts, from the finest stock. And, Mort learned, very well fed. Some jobs offer increments. This one offered—well, quite the reverse, but at least it was in the warm and fairly easy to get the hang of. After a while he got into the rhythm of it, and started playing the private little quantity-surveying game that everyone plays in these circumstances. Let’s see, he thought, I’ve done nearly a quarter, let’s call it a third, so when I’ve done that corner by the hayrack it’ll be more than half, call it five-eighths, which means three more wheelbarrow loads…. It doesn’t prove anything very much except that the awesome splendor of the universe is much easier to deal with if you think of it as a series of small chunks. The horse watched him from its stall, occasionally trying to eat his hair in a friendly sort of way. After a while he became aware that someone else was watching him. The girl Ysabell was leaning on the half-door, her chin in her hands. “Are you a servant?” she said. Mort straightened up. “No,” he said, “I’m an apprentice. ” “That’s silly. Albert said you can’t be an apprentice. ” Mort concentrated on hefting a shovelful into the wheelbarrow. Two more shovelfuls, call it three if it’s well pressed down, and that means four more barrows, all right, call it five, before I’ve done halfway to the… “He says,” said Ysabell in a louder voice, “that apprentices become masters, and you can’t have more than one Death. So you’re just a servant and you have to do what I say. ” …and then eight more barrows means it’s all done all the way to the door, which is nearly two-thirds of the whole thing, which means…. “Did you hear what I said, boy?” Mort nodded. And then it’ll be fourteen more barrows, only call it fifteen because I haven’t swept up properly in the corner, and…. “Have you lost your tongue?” “Mort,” said Mort mildly. She looked at him furiously. “What?” “My name is Mort,” said Mort. “Or Mortimer. Most people call me Mort. Did you want to talk to me about something?” She was speechless for a moment, staring from his face to the shovel and back again. “Only I’ve been told to get on with this,” said Mort. She exploded. “Why are you here? Why did Father bring you here?” “He hired me at the hiring fair,” said Mort. “All the boys got hired. And me. ” “And you wanted to be hired?” she snapped. “He’s Death, you know. The Grim Reaper. He’s very important. He’s not something you become , he’s something you are. ” Mort gestured vaguely at the wheelbarrow. “I expect it’ll turn out for the best,” he said. “My father always says things generally do. ” He picked up the shovel and turned away, and grinned at the horse’s backside as he heard Ysabell snort and walk away. Mort worked steadily through the sixteenths, eighths, quarters and thirds, wheeling the barrow out through the yard to the heap by the apple tree. Death’s garden was big, neat and well-tended. It was also very, very black. The grass was black. The flowers were black. Black apples gleamed among the black leaves of a black apple tree. Even the air looked inky. After a while Mort thought he could see—no, he couldn’t possibly imagine he could see…different colors of black. That’s to say, not simply very dark tones of red and green and whatever, but real shades of black. A whole spectrum of colors, all different and all—well, black. He tipped out the last load, put the barrow away, and went back to the house. E NTER. Death was standing behind a lectern, poring over a map. He looked at Mort as if he wasn’t entirely there. Y OU HAVEN’T HEARD OF THE B AY OF M ANTE, HAVE YOU ? he said. “No, sir,” said Mort. F AMOUS SHIPWRECK THERE. “Was there?” T HERE WILL BE , said Death, IF I CAN FIND THE DAMN PLACE. Mort walked around the lectern and peered at the map. “You’re going to sink the ship?” he said. Death looked horrified. C ERTAINLY NOT. T HERE WILL BE A COMBINATION OF BAD SEAMANSHIP, SHALLOW WATER AND A CONTRARY WIND. “That’s horrible,” said Mort. “Will there be many drowned?” T HAT’S UP TO FATE , said Death, turning to the bookcase behind him and pulling out a heavy gazetteer. T HERE’S NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT IT. W HAT IS THAT SMELL ? “Me,” said Mort, simply. A H. T HE STABLES. Death paused, his hand on the spine of the book. A ND WHY DO YOU THINK I DIRECTED YOU TO THE STABLES ? T HINK CAREFULLY, NOW. Mort hesitated. He had been thinking carefully, in between counting wheelbarrows. He’d wondered if it had been to coordinate his hand and eye, or teach him the habit of obedience, or bring home to him the importance, on the human scale, of small tasks, or make him realize that even great men must start at the bottom. None of these explanations seemed exactly right. “I think…” he began. Y ES ? “Well, I think it was because you were up to your knees in horseshit, to tell you the truth. ” Death looked at him for a long time. Mort shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. A BSOLUTELY CORRECT , snapped Death. C LARITY OF THOUGHT. R EALISTIC APPROACH. V ERY IMPORTANT IN A JOB LIKE OURS. “Yes, sir. Sir?” H MM ? Death was struggling with the index. “People die all the time, sir, don’t they? Millions. You must be very busy. But—” Death gave Mort the look he was coming to be familiar with. It started off as blank surprise, flickered briefly towards annoyance, called in for a drink at recognition and settled finally on vague forbearance. B UT ? “I’d have thought you’d have been, well, out and about a bit more. You know. Stalking the streets. My granny’s almanack’s got a picture of you with a scythe and stuff. ” I SEE. I AM AFRAID IT IS HARD TO EXPLAIN UNLESS YOU KNOW ABOUT POINT INCARNATION AND NODE FOCUSING. I DON’T EXPECT YOU DO ? “I don’t think so. ” G ENERALLY I’ M ONLY EXPECTED TO MAKE AN ACTUAL APPEARANCE ON SPECIAL OCCASIONS. “Like a king, I suppose,” said Mort. “I mean, a king is reigning even when he’s doing something else or asleep, even. Is that it, sir?” I T’LL DO , said Death, rolling up the maps. A ND NOW, BOY, IF YOU’VE FINISHED THE STABLE YOU CAN GO AND SEE IF A LBERT HAS ANY JOBS HE WANTS DOING. I F YOU LIKE, YOU CAN COME OUT ON THE ROUND WITH ME THIS EVENING. Mort nodded. Death went back to his big leather book, took up a pen, stared at it for a moment, and then looked up at Mort with his skull on one side. H AVE YOU MET MY DAUGHTER ? he said. “Er. |
Yes, sir,” said Mort, his hand on the doorknob. S HE IS A VERY PLEASANT GIRL , said Death, B UT I THINK SHE QUITE LIKES HAVING SOMEONE OF HER OWN AGE AROUND TO TALK TO. “Sir?” A ND, OF COURSE, ONE DAY ALL THIS WILL BELONG TO HER. Something like a small blue supernova flared for a moment in the depths of his eyesockets. It dawned on Mort that, with some embarrassment and complete lack of expertise, Death was trying to wink. In a landscape that owed nothing to time and space, which appeared on no map, which existed only in those far reaches of the multiplexed cosmos known to the few astrophysicists who have taken really bad acid, Mort spent the afternoon helping Albert plant out broccoli. It was black, tinted with purple. “He tries, see,” said Albert, flourishing the dibber. “It’s just that when it comes to color, he hasn’t got much imagination. ” “I’m not sure I understand all this,” said Mort. “Did you say he made all this?” Beyond the garden wall the ground dropped towards a deep valley and then rose into dark moorland that marched all the way to distant mountains, jagged as cats’ teeth. “Yeah,” said Albert. “Mind what you’re doing with that watering can. ” “What was here before?” “I dunno,” said Albert, starting a fresh row. “Firmament, I suppose. That’s the fancy name for raw nothing. It’s not a very good job of work, to tell the truth. I mean, the garden’s okay, but the mountains are downright shoddy. They’re all fuzzy when you get up close. I went and had a look once. ” Mort squinted hard at the trees nearest him. They seemed commendably solid. “What’d he do it all for?” he said. Albert grunted. “Do you know what happens to lads who ask too many questions?” Mort thought for a moment. “No,” he said eventually, “what?” There was silence. Then Albert straightened up and said, “Damned if I know. Probably they get answers, and serve ’em right. ” “He said I could go out with him tonight,” said Mort. “You’re a lucky boy then, aren’t you,” said Albert vaguely, heading back for the cottage. “Did he really make all this?” said Mort, tagging along after him. “Yes. ” “Why?” “I suppose he wanted somewhere where he could feel at home. ” “Are you dead, Albert?” “Me? Do I look dead?” The old man snorted when Mort started to give him a slow, critical look. “And you can stop that. I’m as alive as you are. Probably more. ” “Sorry. ” “Right. ” Albert pushed open the back door, and turned to regard Mort as kindly as he could manage. “It’s best not to ask all these questions,” he said, “it upsets people. Now, how about a nice fry-up?” The bell rang while they were playing dominoes. Mort sat to attention. “He’ll want the horse made ready,” said Albert. “Come on. ” They went out to the stable in the gathering dusk, and Mort watched the old man saddle up Death’s horse. “His name’s Binky,” said Albert, fastening the girth. “It just goes to show, you never can tell. ” Binky tried to eat his scarf in an affectionate way. Mort remembered the woodcut in his grandmother’s almanack, between the page on planting times and the phases of the moon section, showing Dethe thee Great Levyller Comes To Alle Menne. He’d stared at it hundreds of times when learning his letters. It wouldn’t have been half so impressive if it had been generally known that the flame-breathing horse the specter rode was called Binky. “I would have thought something like Fang or Sabre or Ebony,” Albert continued, “but the master will have his little fancies, you know. Looking forward to it, are you?” “I think so,” said Mort uncertainly. “I’ve never seen Death actually at work. ” “Not many have,” said Albert. “Not twice, at any rate. ” Mort took a deep breath. “About this daughter of his—” he began. A H. G OOD EVENING , A LBERT, BOY. “Mort,” said Mort automatically. Death strode into the stable, stooping a little to clear the ceiling. Albert nodded, not in any subservient way, Mort noticed, but simply out of form. Mort had met one or two servants, on the rare occasions he’d been taken into town, and Albert wasn’t like any of them. He seemed to act as though the house really belonged to him and its owner was just a passing guest, something to be tolerated like peeling paintwork or spiders in the lavatory. Death put up with it too, as though he and Albert had said everything that needed to be said a long time ago and were simply content, now, to get on with their jobs with the minimum of inconvenience all round. To Mort it was rather like going for a walk after a really bad thunderstorm—everything was quite fresh, nothing was particularly unpleasant, but there was the sense of vast energies just expended. Finding out about Albert tagged itself on to the end of his list of things to do. H OLD THIS , said Death, and pushed a scythe into his hand while he swung himself up on to Binky. The scythe looked normal enough, except for the blade: it was so thin that Mort could see through it, a pale blue shimmer in the air that could slice flame and chop sound. He held it very carefully. R IGHT, BOY , said Death. C OME ON UP. A LBERT. D ON’T WAIT UP. The horse trotted out of the courtyard and into the sky. There should have been a flash or rush of stars. The air should have spiralled and turned into speeding sparks such as normally happens in the common, everyday trans-dimensional hyper-jumps. But this was Death, who has mastered the art of going everywhere without ostentation and could slide between dimensions as easily as he could slip through a locked door, and they moved at an easy gallop through cloud canyons, past great billowing mountains of cumulus, until the wisps parted in front of them and the Disc lay below, basking in sunlight. T HAT’S BECAUSE TIME IS ADJUSTABLE , said Death, when Mort pointed this out. I T’S NOT REALLY IMPORTANT. “I always thought it was. ” P EOPLE THINK IT’S IMPORTANT ONLY BECAUSE THEY INVENTED IT , said Death somberly. Mort considered this rather trite, but decided not to argue. “What are we going to do now?” he said. T HERE’S A PROMISING WAR IN K LATCHISTAN , said Death. S EVERAL PLAGUE OUTBREAKS. O NE RATHER IMPORTANT ASSASSINATION, IF YOU’D PREFER. “What, a murder?” A YE, A KING. “Oh, kings,” said Mort dismissively. He knew about kings. Once a year a band of strolling players, or at any rate ambling ones, came to Sheepridge and the plays, they performed were invariably about kings. Kings were always killing one another, or being killed. The plots were quite complicated, involving mistaken identity, poisons, battles, long-lost sons, ghosts, witches and, usually, lots of daggers. Since it was clear that being a king was no picnic it was amazing that half the cast were apparently trying to become one. Mort’s idea of palace life was a little hazy, but he imagined that no one got much sleep. “I’d quite like to see a real king,” he said. “They wear crowns all the time, my granny said. Even when they go to the lavatory. ” Death considered this carefully. T HERE’S NO TECHNICAL REASON WHY NOT , he conceded. I N MY EXPERIENCE, HOWEVER, IT IS GENERALLY NOT THE CASE. The horse wheeled, and the vast flat checkerboard of the Sto plain sped underneath them at lightning speed. This was rich country, full of silt and rolling cabbage fields and neat little kingdoms whose boundaries wriggled like snakes as small, formal wars, marriage pacts, complex alliances and the occasional bit of sloppy cartography changed the political shape of the land. “This king,” said Mort, as a forest zipped beneath them, “is he good or bad?” I NEVER CONCERN MYSELF WITH SUCH THINGS , Said Death. H E’S NO WORSE THAN ANY OTHER KING , I IMAGINE. “Does he have people put to death?” said Mort, and remembering who he was talking to added, “Saving y’honor’s presence, of course. ” S OMETIMES. T HERE ARE SOME THINGS YOU HAVE TO DO, WHEN YOU’RE A KING. A city slid below them, clustered around a castle built on a rock outcrop that poked up out of the plain like a geological pimple. |
It was one huge rock from the distant Ramtops, Death said, left there by the retreating ice in the legendary days when the Ice Giants waged war on the gods and rode their glaciers across the land in an attempt to freeze the whole world. They’d given up in the end, however, and driven their great glittering flocks back to their hidden lands among the razor-backed mountains near the Hub. No one on the plains knew why they had done this; it was generally considered by the younger generation in the city of Sto Lat, the city around the rock, that it was because the place was dead boring. Binky trotted down over nothingness and touched down on the flagstones of the castle’s topmost tower. Death dismounted and told Mort to sort out the nosebag. “Won’t people notice there’s a horse up here?” he said, as they strolled to a stairwell. Death shook his head. W OULD YOU BELIEVE THERE COULD BE A HORSE AT THE TOP OF THIS TOWER ? he said. “No. You couldn’t get one up these stairs,” said Mort. W ELL, THEN ? “Oh. I see. People don’t want to see what can’t possibly exist. ” W ELL DONE. Now they were walking along a wide corridor hung with tapestries. Death reached into his robe and pulled out an hourglass, peering closely at it in the dim light. It was a particularly fine one, its glass cut into intricate facets and imprisoned in an ornate framework of wood and brass. The words “King Olerve the Bastard” were engraved deeply into it. The sand inside sparkled oddly. There wasn’t a lot left. Death hummed to himself and stowed the glass away in whatever mysterious recess it had occupied. They turned a corner and hit a wall of sound. There was a hall full of people there, under a cloud of smoke and chatter that rose all the way up into the banner-haunted shadows in the roof. Up in a gallery a trio of minstrels were doing their best to be heard and not succeeding. The appearance of Death didn’t cause much of a stir. A footman by the door turned to him, opened his mouth and then frowned in a distracted way and thought of something else. A few courtiers glanced in their direction, their eyes instantly unfocusing as common sense overruled the other five. W E’VE GOT A FEW MINUTES , said Death, taking a drink from a passing tray. L ET’S MINGLE. “They can’t see me either!” said Mort. “But I’m real!” R EALITY IS NOT ALWAYS WHAT IT SEEMS , said Death. A NYWAY, IF THEY DON’T WANT TO SEE ME, THEY CERTAINLY DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU. T HESE ARE ARISTOCRATS, BOY. T HEY’RE GOOD AT NOT SEEING THINGS. W HY IS THERE A CHERRY ON A STICK IN THIS DRINK ? “Mort,” said Mort automatically. I T’S NOT AS IF IT DOES ANYTHING FOR THE FLAVOR. W HY DOES ANYONE TAKE A PERFECTLY GOOD DRINK AND THEN PUT IN A CHERRY ON A POLE ? “What’s going to happen next?” said Mort. An elderly earl bumped into his elbow, looked everywhere but directly at him, shrugged and walked away. T AKE THESE THINGS, NOW , said Death, fingering a passing canape. I MEAN, MUSHROOMS YES, CHICKEN YES, CREAM YES , I’ VE NOTHING AGAINST ANY OF THEM, BUT WHY IN THE NAME OF SANITY MINCE THEM ALL UP AND PUT THEM IN LITTLE PASTRY CASES ? “Pardon?” said Mort. T HAT’S MORTALS FOR YOU , Death continued. T HEY’VE ONLY GOT A FEW YEARS IN THIS WORLD AND THEY SPEND THEM ALL IN MAKING THINGS COMPLICATED FOR THEMSELVES. F ASCINATING. H AVE A GHERKIN. “Where’s the king?” said Mort, craning to look over the heads of the court. C HAP WITH THE GOLDEN BEARD , said Death. He tapped a flunky on the shoulder, and as the man turned and looked around in puzzlement deftly piloted another drink from his tray. Mort cast around until he saw the figure standing in a little group in the center of the crowd, leaning over slightly the better to hear what a rather short courtier was saying to him. He was a tall, heavily-built man with the kind of stolid, patient face that one would confidently buy a used horse from. “He doesn’t look a bad king,” said Mort. “Why would anyone want to kill him?” S EE THE MAN NEXT TO HIM ? W ITH THE LITTLE MOUSTACHE AND THE GRIN LIKE A LIZARD ? Death pointed with his scythe. “Yes?” H IS COUSIN, THE D UKE OF S TO H ELIT. N OT THE NICEST OF PEOPLE , said Death. A HANDY MAN WITH A BOTTLE OF POISON. F IFTH IN LINE TO THE THRONE LAST YEAR, NOW SECOND IN LINE. B IT OF A SOCIAL CLIMBER, YOU MIGHT SAY. He fumbled inside his robe and produced an hourglass in which black sand coursed between a spiked iron latticework. He gave it an experimental shake. A ND DUE TO LIVE ANOTHER THIRTY, THIRTY-FIVE YEARS , he said, with a sigh. “And he goes around killing people?” said Mort. He shook his head. “There’s no justice. ” Death sighed. No, he said, handing his drink to a page who was surprised to find he was suddenly holding an empty glass, T HERE’S JUST ME. He drew his sword, which had the same ice blue, shadow-thin blade as the scythe of office, and stepped forward. “I thought you used the scythe,” whispered Mort. K INGS GET THE SWORD , said Death. I T’S A ROYAL WHATS-NAME, PREROGATIVE. His free hand thrust its bony digits beneath his robe again and brought out King Olerve’s glass. In the top half the last few grains of sand were huddling together. P AY CAREFUL ATTENTION , said Death, YOU MAY BE ASKED QUESTIONS AFTERWARDS. “Wait,” said Mort, wretchedly. “It’s not fair. Can’t you stop it?” F AIR ? said Death. W HO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT FAIR ? “Well, if the other man is such a—” L ISTEN , said Death, F AIR DOESN’T COME INTO IT. Y OU CAN’T TAKE SIDES. G OOD GRIEF. W HEN IT’S TIME, IT’S TIME. T HAT’S ALL THERE IS TO IT, BOY. “Mort,” moaned Mort, staring at the crowd. And then he saw her. A random movement in the people opened up a channel between Mort and a slim, red-haired girl seated among a group of older women behind the king. She wasn’t exactly beautiful, being over-endowed in the freckle department and, frankly, rather on the skinny side. But the sight of her caused a shock that hot-wired Mort’s hindbrain and drove it all the way to the pit of his stomach, laughing nastily. I T’S TIME , said Death, giving Mort a nudge with a sharp elbow. F OLLOW ME. Death walked toward the king, weighing his sword in his hand. Mort blinked, and started to follow. The girl’s eyes met his for a second and immediately looked away—then swiveled back, dragging her head around, her mouth starting to open in an “o” of horror. Mort’s backbone melted. He started to run towards the king. “Look out!” he screamed. “You’re in great danger!” And the world turned into treacle. It began to fill up with blue and purple shadows, like a heatstroke dream, and sound faded away until the roar of the court became distant and scritchy, like the music in someone else’s headphones. Mort saw Death standing companionably by the king, his eyes turned up towards— —the minstrel gallery. Mort saw the bowman, saw the bow, saw the bolt now winging through the air at the speed of a sick snail. Slow as it was, he couldn’t outrun it. It seemed like hours before he could bring his leaden legs under control, but finally he managed to get both feet to touch the floor at the same time and kicked away with all the apparent acceleration of continental drift. As he twisted slowly through the air Death said, without rancor, I T WON’T WORK, YOU KNOW. I T’S ONLY NATURAL THAT YOU SHOULD WANT TO TRY, BUT IT WON’T WORK. Dream-like, Mort drifted through a silent world…. The bolt struck. Death brought his sword around in a double-handed swing that passed gently through the king’s neck without leaving a mark. To Mort, spiraling gently through the twilight world, it looked as though a ghostly shape had dropped away. It couldn’t be the king, because he was manifestly still standing there, looking directly at Death with an expression of extreme surprise. There was a shadowy something around his feet, and a long way away people were reacting with shouts and screams. A GOOD CLEAN JOB , said Death. R OYALTY ARE ALWAYS A PROBLEM. T HEY TEND TO WANT TO HANG ON. Y OUR AVERAGE PEASANT, NOW, HE CAN’T WAIT. “Who the hell are you?” said the king. |
“What are you doing here? Eh? Guards! I deman—” The insistent message from his eyes finally battered through to his brain. Mort was impressed. King Olerve had held on to his throne for many years and, even when dead, knew how to behave. “Oh,” he said, “I see. I didn’t expect to see you so soon. ” Y OUR MAJESTY , said Death, bowing, FEW DO. The king looked around. It was quiet and dim in this shadow world, but outside there seemed to be a lot of excitement. “That’s me down there, is it?” I AM AFRAID SO, SIRE. “Clean job. Crossbow, was it?” Y ES. AND NOW, SIRE, IF YOU WOULD — “Who did it?” said the king. Death hesitated. A HIRED ASSASSIN FROM A NKH -M ORPORK , he said. “Hmm. Clever. I congratulate Sto Helit. And here’s me filling myself with antidotes. No antidote to cold steel, eh? Eh?” I NDEED NOT, SIRE. “The old rope ladder and fast horse by the drawbridge trick, eh?” S O IT WOULD APPEAR, SIRE , said Death, taking the king’s shade gently by the arm. I F IT’S ANY CONSOLATION, THOUGH, THE HORSE NEEDS TO BE FAST. “Eh?” Death allowed his fixed grin to widen a little. I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT WITH ITS RIDER TOMORROW IN A NKH , said Death. Y OU SEE, HE ALLOWED THE DUKE TO PROVIDE HIM WITH A PACKED LUNCH. The king, whose eminent suitability for his job meant that he was not automatically quick on the uptake, considered this for a moment and then gave a short laugh. He noticed Mort for the first time. “Who’s this?” he said, “He dead too?” M Y APPRENTICE , said Death. W HO WILL BE GETTING A GOOD TALKING-TO BEFORE HE’S MUCH OLDER, THE SCALLYWAG. “Mort,” said Mort automatically. The sound of their talking washed around him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the scene around them. He felt real. Death looked solid. The king looked surprisingly fit and well for someone who was dead. But the rest of the world was a mass of sliding shadows. Figures were bent over the slumped body, moving through Mort as if they were no more substantial than a mist. The girl was kneeling down, weeping. “That’s my daughter,” said the king. “I ought to feel sad. Why don’t I?” E MOTIONS GET LEFT BEHIND. I T’S ALL A MATTER OF GLANDS. “Ah. That would be it, I suppose. She can’t see us, can she?” No. “I suppose there’s no chance that I could—?” N ONE , said Death. “Only she’s going to be queen, and if I could only let her—” S ORRY. The girl looked up and through Mort. He watched the duke walk up behind her and lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. A faint smile hovered around the man’s lips. It was the sort of smile that lies on sandbanks waiting for incautious swimmers. I can’t make you hear me, Mort said. Don’t trust him! She peered at Mort, screwing up her eyes. He reached out, and watched his hand pass straight through hers. C OME ALONG, BOY. N O LALLYGAGGING. Mort felt Death’s hand tighten on his shoulder, not in an unfriendly fashion. He turned away reluctantly, following Death and the king. They walked out through the wall. He was halfway after them before he realized that walking through walls was impossible. The suicidal logic of this nearly killed him. He felt the chill of the stone around his limbs before a voice in his ear said: L OOK AT IT THIS WAY. T HE WALL CAN’T BE THERE. O THERWISE YOU WOULDN’T BE WALKING THROUGH IT. W OULD YOU, BOY ? “Mort,” said Mort. W HAT ? “My name is Mort. Or Mortimer,” said Mort angrily, pushing forward. The chill fell behind him. T HERE. T HAT WASN’T SO HARD, WAS IT ? Mort looked up and down the length of the corridor, and slapped the wall experimentally. He must have walked through it, but it felt solid enough now. Little specks of mica glittered at him. “How do you do that stuff?” he said. “How do I do it? Is it magic?” M AGIC IS THE ONE THING IT ISN’T, BOY. W HEN YOU CAN DO IT BY YOURSELF, THERE WILL BE NOTHING MORE THAT I CAN TEACH YOU. The king, who was considerably more diffuse now, said, “It’s impressive, I’ll grant you. By the way, I seem to be fading. ” I T’S THE MORPHOGENETIC FIELD WEAKENING , said Death. The king’s voice was no louder than a whisper. “Is that what it is?” I T HAPPENS TO EVERYONE. T RY TO ENJOY IT. “How?” Now the voice was no more than a shape in the air. J UST BE YOURSELF. At that moment the king collapsed, growing smaller and smaller in the air as the field finally collapsed into a tiny, brilliant pinpoint. It happened so quickly that Mort almost missed it. From ghost to mote in half a second, with a faint sigh. Death gently caught the glittering thing and stowed it away somewhere under his robe. “What’s happened to him?” said Mort. O NLY HE KNOWS , said Death. C OME. “My granny says that dying is like going to sleep,” Mort added, a shade hopefully. I WOULDN’T KNOW. I HAVE DONE NEITHER. Mort took a last look along the corridor. The big doors had been flung back and the court was spilling out. Two older women were endeavoring to comfort the princess, but she was striding ahead of them so that they bounced along behind her like a couple of fussy balloons. They disappeared up another corridor. A LREADY A QUEEN , said Death, approvingly. Death liked style. They were on the roof before he spoke again. Y OU TRIED TO WARN HIM , he said, removing Binky’s nosebag. “Yes, sir. Sorry. ” Y OU CANNOT INTERFERE WITH FATE. W HO ARE YOU TO JUDGE WHO SHOULD LIVE AND WHO SHOULD DIE ? Death watched Mort’s expression carefully. O NLY THE GODS ARE ALLOWED TO DO THAT , he added. T O TINKER WITH THE FATE OF EVEN ONE INDIVIDUAL COULD DESTROY THE WHOLE WORLD. D O YOU UNDERSTAND ? Mort nodded miserably. “Are you going to send me home?” he said. Death reached down and swung him up behind the saddle. B ECAUSE YOU SHOWED COMPASSION ? N O. I MIGHT HAVE DONE IF YOU HAD SHOWN PLEASURE. B UT YOU MUST LEARN THE COMPASSION PROPER TO YOUR TRADE. “What’s that?” A SHARP EDGE. Days passed, although Mort wasn’t certain how many. The gloomy sun of Death’s world rolled regularly across the sky, but the visits to mortal space seemed to adhere to no particular system. Nor did Death visit only kings and important battles; most of the personal visits were to quite ordinary people. Meals were served up by Albert, who smiled to himself a lot and didn’t say anything much. Ysabell kept to her room most of the time, or rode her own pony on the black moors above the cottage. The sight of her with her hair streaming in the wind would have been more impressive if she was a better horse-woman, or if the pony had been rather larger, or if her hair was the sort that streams naturally. Some hair has got it, and some hasn’t. Hers hadn’t. When he wasn’t out on what Death referred to as THE DUTY Mort assisted Albert, or found jobs in the garden or stable, or browsed through Death’s extensive library, reading with the speed and omnivorousness common to those who discover the magic of the written word for the first time. Most of the books in the library were biographies, of course. They were unusual in one respect. They were writing themselves. People who had already died, obviously, filled their books from cover to cover, and those who hadn’t been born yet had to put up with blank pages. Those in between…Mort took note, marking the place and counting the extra lines, and estimated that some books were adding paragraphs at the rate of four or five every day. He didn’t recognize the handwriting. And finally he plucked up his courage. A WHAT ? said Death in astonishment, sitting behind his ornate desk and turning his scythe-shaped paperknife over and over in his hands. “An afternoon off,” repeated Mort. The room suddenly seemed to be oppressively big, with himself very exposed in the middle of a carpet about the size of a field. B UT WHY ? said Death. I T CAN’T BE TO ATTEND YOUR GRANDMOTHER’S FUNERAL , he added. I WOULD KNOW. “I just want to, you know, get out and meet people,” said Mort, trying to outstare that unflinching blue gaze. B UT YOU MEET PEOPLE EVERY DAY , protested Death. “Yes, I know, only, well, not for very long,” said Mort. “I mean, it’d be nice to meet someone with a life expectancy of more than a few minutes. Sir,” he added. |
Death drummed his fingers on the desk, making a sound not unlike a mouse tap-dancing, and gave Mort another few seconds of stare. He noticed that the boy seemed rather less elbows than he remembered, stood a little more upright and, bluntly, could use a word like “expectancy. ” It was all that library. A LLRIGHT , he said grudgingly. B UT IT SEEMS TO ME YOU HAVE EVERYTHING YOU NEED RIGHT HERE. T HE DUTY IS NOT ONEROUS, IS IT ? “No, sir. ” A ND YOU HAVE GOOD FOOD AND A WARM BED AND RECREATION AND PEOPLE YOUR OWN AGE. “Pardon, sir?” said Mort. M Y DAUGHTER , said Death. You H AVE MET HER , I BELIEVE. “Oh. Yes, sir. ” S HE HAS A VERY WARM PERSONALITY WHEN YOU GET TO KNOW HER. “I am sure she has, sir. ” N EVERTHELESS, YOU WISH —Death launched the words with a spin of distaste— AN AFTERNOON OFF ? “Yes, sir. If you please, sir. ” V ERY WELL. S O BE IT. Y OU MAY HAVE UNTIL SUNSET. Death opened his great ledger, picked up a pen, and began to write. Occasionally he’d reach out and flick the beads of an abacus. After a minute he looked up. Y OU’RE STILL HERE , he said. A ND IN YOUR OWN TIME, TOO , he added sourly. “Um,” said Mort, “will people be able to see me, sir?” I IMAGINE so, I’ M SURE , said Death. I S THERE ANYTHING ELSE I MIGHT BE ABLE TO ASSIST YOU WITH BEFORE YOU LEAVE FOR THIS DEBAUCH ? “Well, sir, there is one thing, sir, I don’t know how to get to the mortal world, sir,” said Mort desperately. Death sighed loudly, and pulled open a desk drawer. J UST WALK THERE. Mort nodded miserably, and took the long walk to the study door. As he pulled it open Death coughed. B OY ! he called, and tossed something across the room. Mort caught it automatically as the door creaked open. The doorway vanished. The deep carpet underfoot became muddy cobbles. Broad daylight poured over him like quicksilver. “Mort,” said Mort, to the universe at large. “What?” said a stallholder beside him. Mort stared around. He was in a crowded marketplace, packed with people and animals. Every kind of thing was being sold from needles to (via a few itinerant prophets) visions of salvation. It was impossible to hold any conversation quieter than a shout. Mort tapped the stallholder in the small of the back. “Can you see me?” he demanded. The stallholder squinted critically at him. “I reckon so,” he said, “or someone very much like you. ” “Thank you,” said Mort, immensely relieved. “Don’t mention it. I see lots of people every day, no charge. Want to buy any bootlaces?” “I don’t think so,” said Mort. “What place is this?” “You don’t know?” A couple of people at the next stall were looking at Mort thoughtfully. His mind went into overdrive. “My master travels a lot,” he said, truthfully. “We arrived last night, and I was asleep on the cart. Now I’ve got the afternoon off. ” “Ah,” said the stallholder. He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Looking for a good time, are you? I could fix you up. ” “I’d quite enjoy knowing where I am,” Mort conceded. The man was taken aback. “This is Ankh-Morpork,” he said. “Anyone ought to be able to see that. Smell it, too. ” Mort sniffed. There was a certain something about the air in the city. You got the feeling that it was air that had seen life. You couldn’t help noting with every breath that thousands of other people were very close to you and nearly all of them had armpits. The stallholder regarded Mort critically, noting the pale face, well-cut clothes and strange presence, a sort of coiled spring effect. “Look, I’ll be frank,” he said. “I could point you in the direction of a great brothel. ” “I’ve already had lunch,” said Mort, vaguely. “But you can tell me if we’re anywhere near, I think it’s called Sto Lat?” “About twenty miles Hubwards, but there’s nothing there for a young man of your kidney,” said the trader hurriedly. “I know, you’re out by yourself, you want new experiences, you want excitement, romance—” Mort, meanwhile, had opened the bag Death had given him. It was full of small gold coins, about the size of sequins. An image formed again in his mind, of a pale young face under a head of red hair who had somehow known he was there. The unfocused feelings that had haunted his mind for the last few days suddenly sharpened to a point. “I want,” he said firmly, “a very fast horse. ” Five minutes later, Mort was lost. This part of Ankh-Morpork was known as The Shades, an inner-city area sorely in need either of governmental help or, for preference, a flamethrower. It couldn’t be called squalid because that would be stretching the word to breaking point. It was beyond squalor and out the other side, where by a sort of Einsteinian reversal it achieved a magnificent horribleness that it wore like an architectural award. It was noisy and sultry and smelled like a cowshed floor. It didn’t so much have a neighborhood as an ecology, like a great land-based coral reef. There were the humans, all right, humanoid equivalents of lobsters, squid, shrimps and so on. And sharks. Mort wandered hopelessly along the winding streets. Anyone hovering at rooftop height would have noticed a certain pattern in the crowds behind him, suggesting a number of men converging nonchalantly on a target, and would rightly have concluded that Mort and his gold had about the same life expectancy as a three-legged hedgehog on a six-lane motorway. It is probably already apparent that The Shades was not the sort of place to have inhabitants. It had denizens. Periodically Mort would try to engage one in conversation, to find the way to a good horse dealer. The denizen would usually mutter something and hurry away, since anyone wishing to live in The Shades for longer than maybe three hours developed very specialized senses indeed and would no more hang around near Mort than a peasant would stand near a tall tree in thundery weather. And so Mort came at last to the river Ankh, greatest of rivers. Even before it entered the city, it was slow and heavy with the silt of the plains, and by the time it got to The Shades even an agnostic could have walked across it. It was hard to drown in the Ankh, but easy to suffocate. Mort looked at the surface doubtfully. It seemed to be moving. There were bubbles in it. It had to be water. He sighed, and turned away. Three men had appeared behind him, as though extruded from the stonework. They had the heavy, stolid look of those thugs whose appearance in any narrative means that it’s time for the hero to be menaced a bit, although not too much, because it’s also obvious that they’re going to be horribly surprised. They were leering. They were good at it. One of them had drawn a knife, which he waved in little circles in the air. He advanced slowly towards Mort, while the other two hung back to provide immoral support. “Give us the money,” he rasped. Mort’s hand went to the bag on his belt. “Hang on a minute,” he said. “What happens then?” “What?” “I mean, is it my money or my life?” said Mort. “That’s the sort of thing robbers are supposed to demand. Your money or your life. I read that in a book once,” he added. “Possibly, possibly,” conceded the robber. He felt he was losing the initiative, but rallied magnificently. “On the other hand, it could be your money and your life. Pulling off the double, you might say. ” The man looked sideways at his colleagues, who sniggered on cue. “In that case—” said Mort, and hefted the bag in one hand preparatory to chucking it as far out into the Ankh as he could, even though there was a reasonable chance it would bounce. “Hey, what are you doing,” said the robber. He started to run forward, but halted when Mort gave the bag a threatening jerk. “Well,” said Mort, “I look at it like this. If you’re going to kill me anyway, I might as well get rid of the money. It’s entirely up to you. ” To illustrate his point he took one coin out of the bag and flicked it out across the water, which accepted it with an unfortunate sucking noise. The thieves shuddered. The leading thief looked at the bag. He looked at his knife. He looked at Mort’s face. He looked at his colleagues. |
“Excuse me,” he said, and they went into a huddle. Mort measured the distance to the end of the alley. He wouldn’t make it. Anyway, these three looked as though chasing people was another thing they were good at. It was only logic that left them feeling a little stretched. Their leader turned back to Mort. He gave a final glance at the other two. They both nodded decisively. “I think we kill you and take a chance on the money,” he said. “We don’t want this sort of thing to spread. ” The other two drew their knives. Mort swallowed. “This could be unwise,” he said. “Why?” “Well, I won’t like it, for one. ” “You’re not supposed to like it, you’re supposed to—die,” said the thief, advancing. “I don’t think I’m due to die,” said Mort, backing away. “I’m sure I would have been told. ” “Yeah,” said the thief, who was getting fed up with this. “Yeah, well, you have been, haven’t you? Great steaming elephant turds!” Mort had just stepped backwards again. Through a wall. The leading thief glared at the solid stone that had swallowed Mort, and then threw down his knife. “Well,----me,” he said. “A----ing wizard. I hate ----ing wizards!” “You shouldn’t----them, then,” muttered one of his henchmen, effortlessly pronouncing a row of dashes. The third member of the trio, who was a little slow of thinking, said, “Here, he walked through the wall!” “And we bin following him for ages, too,” muttered the second one. “Fine one you are, Pilgarlic. I said I thought he was a wizard, only wizards’d walk round here by themselves. Dint I say he looked like a wizard? I said—” “You’re saying a good deal too much,” growled the leader. “ I saw him, he walked right through the wall there —” “Oh, yeah?” “Yeah!” “ Right through it, dint you see? ” “Think you’re sharp, do you?” “Sharp enough, come to that!” The leader scooped his knife out of the dirt in one snaky movement. “Sharp as this?” The third thief lurched over to the wall and kicked it hard a few times, while behind him there were the sounds of scuffle and some damp bubbling noises. “Yep, it’s a wall okay,” he said. “That’s a wall if ever I saw one. How d’you think they do it, lads?” “Lads?” He tripped over the prone bodies. “Oh,” he said. Slow as his mind was, it was quick enough to realize something very important. He was in a back alley in The Shades, and he was alone. He ran for it, and got quite a long way. Death walked slowly across tiles in the lifetimer room, inspecting the serried rows of busy hourglasses. Albert followed dutifully behind with the great ledger open in his arms. The sound roared around them, a vast gray waterfall of noise. It came from the shelves where, stretching away into the infinite distance, row upon row of hourglasses poured away the sands of mortal time. It was a heavy sound, a dull sound, a sound that poured like sullen custard over the bright roly-poly pudding of the soul. V ERY WELL , said Death at last. I MAKE IT THREE. A QUIET NIGHT. “That’d be Goodie Hamstring, the Abbot Lobsang again, and this Princess Keli,” said Albert. Death looked at the three hourglasses in his hand. I WAS THINKING OF SENDING THE LAD OUT , he Said. Albert consulted his ledger. “Well, Goodie wouldn’t be any trouble and the Abbot is what you might call experienced,” he said. “Shame about the princess. Only fifteen. Could be tricky. ” Y ES. I T IS A PITY. “Master?” Death stood with the third glass in his hand, staring thoughtfully at the play of light across its surface. He sighed. O NE SO YOUNG … “Are you feeling all right, master?” said Albert, his voice full of concern. T IME LIKE AN EVER-ROLLING STREAM BEARS ALL ITS … “Master!” W HAT ? said Death, snapping out of it. “You’ve been overdoing it, master, that’s what it is—” W HAT ARE YOU BLATHERING ABOUT, MAN ? “You had a bit of a funny turn there, master. ” N ONSENSE. I HAVE NEVER FELT BETTER. N OW, WHAT WERE WE TALKING ABOUT ? Albert shrugged, and peered down at the entries in the book. “Goodie’s a witch,” he said. “She might get a bit annoyed if you send Mort. ” All practitioners of magic earned the right, once their own personal sands had run out, of being claimed by Death himself rather than his minor functionaries. Death didn’t appear to hear Albert. He was staring at Princess Keli’s hourglass again. W HAT IS THAT SENSE INSIDE YOUR HEAD OF WISTFUL REGRET THAT THINGS ARE THE WAY THEY APPARENTLY ARE ? “Sadness, master. I think. Now—” I AM SADNESS. Albert stood with his mouth open. Finally he got a grip on himself long enough to blurt out, “Master, we were talking about Mort!” M ORT WHO ? “Your apprentice, master,” said Albert patiently. “Tall young lad. ” O F COURSE. W ELL, WE’LL SEND HIM. “Is he ready to go solo, master?” said Albert doubtfully. Death thought about it. H E CAN DO IT , he said at last. H E’S KEEN, HE’S QUICK TO LEARN AND, REALLY , he added, P EOPLE CAN’T EXPECT TO HAVE ME RUNNING AROUND AFTER THEM ALL THE TIME. Mort stared blankly at the velvet wall hangings a few inches from his eyes. I’ve walked through a wall, he thought. And that’s impossible. He gingerly moved the hangings aside to see if a door was lurking somewhere, but there was nothing but crumbling plaster which had cracked away in places to reveal some dampish but emphatically solid brickwork. He prodded it experimentally. It was quite clear that he wasn’t going back out that way. “Well,” he said to the wall. “What now?” A voice behind him said, “Um. Excuse please?” He turned around slowly. Grouped around a table in the middle of the room was a Klatchian family of father, mother and half a dozen children of dwindling size. Eight pairs of round eyes were fixed on Mort. A ninth pair belonging to an aged grandparent of indeterminate sex weren’t, because their owner had taken advantage of the interruption to get some elbow room at the communal rice bowl, taking the view that a boiled fish in the hand was worth any amount of unexplained manifestations, and the silence was punctuated by the sound of determined mastication. In one corner of the crowded room was a little shrine to Offler, the six-armed Crocodile God of Klatch. It was grinning just like Death, except of course Death didn’t have a flock of holy birds that brought him news of his worshippers and also kept his teeth clean. Klatchians prize hospitality above all other virtues. As Mort stared the woman took another plate off the shelf behind her and silently began to fill it from the big bowl, snatching a choice cut of catfish from the ancient’s hands after a brief struggle. Her kohl-rimmed eyes remained steadily on Mort, however. It was the father who had spoken. Mort bowed nervously. “Sorry,” he said. “Er, I seem to have walked through this wall. ” It was rather lame, he had to admit. “Please?” said the man. The woman, her bangles jangling, carefully arranged a few slices of pepper across the plate and sprinkled it with a dark green sauce that Mort was afraid he recognized. He’d tried it a few weeks before, and although it was a complicated recipe one taste had been enough to know that it was made out of fish entrails marinated for several years in a vat of shark bile. Death had said that it was an acquired taste. Mort had decided not to make the effort. He tried to sidle around the edge of the room towards the bead-hung doorway, all the heads turning to watch him. He tried a grin. The woman said: “Why does the demon show his teeth, husband of my life?” The man said: “It could be hunger, moon of my desire. Pile on more fish!” And the ancestor grumbled: “I was eating that, wretched child. Woe unto the world when there is no respect for age!” Now the fact is that while the words entered Mort’s ear in their spoken Klatchian, with all the curlicues and subtle diphthongs of a language so ancient and sophisticated that it had fifteen words meaning “assassination” before the rest of the world had caught on to the idea of bashing one another over the head with rocks, they arrived in his brain as clear and understandable as his mother tongue. |
“I’m no demon! I’m a human!” he said, and stopped in shock as his words emerged in perfect Klatch. “You’re a thief?” said the father. “A murderer? To creep in thus, are you a tax-gatherer? ” His hand slipped under the table and came up holding a meat cleaver honed to paper thinness. His wife screamed and dropped the plate and clutched the youngest children to her. Mort watched the blade weave through the air, and gave in. “I bring you greetings from the uttermost circles of hell,” he hazarded. The change was remarkable. The cleaver was lowered and the family broke into broad smiles. “There is much luck to us if a demon visits,” beamed the father. “What is your wish, O foul spawn of Offler’s loins?” “Sorry?” said Mort. “A demon brings blessing and good fortune on the man that helps it,” said the man. “How may we be of assistance, O evil dogsbreath of the nether pit?” “Well, I’m not very hungry,” said Mort, “but if you know where I can get a fast horse, I could be in Sto Lat before sunset. ” The man beamed and bowed. “I know the very place, noxious extrusion of the bowels, if you would be so good as to follow me. ” Mort hurried out after him. The ancient ancestor watched them go with a critical expression, its jowls rhythmically chewing. “That was what they call a demon around here?” it said. “Offler rot this country of dampness, even their demons are third-rate, not a patch on the demons we had in the Old Country. ” The wife placed a small bowl of rice in the folded middle pair of hands of the Offler statue (it would be gone in the morning) and stood back. “Husband did say that last month at the Curry Gardens he served a creature who was not there,” she said. “He was impressed. ” Ten minutes later the man returned and, in solemn silence, placed a small heap of gold coins on the table. They represented enough wealth to purchase quite a large part of the city. “He had a bag of them,” he said. The family stared at the money for some time. The wife sighed. “Riches bring many problems,” she said. “What are we to do?” “We return to Klatch,” said the husband firmly, “where our children can grow up in a proper country, true to the glorious traditions of our ancient race and men do not need to work as waiters for wicked masters but can stand tall and proud. And we must leave right now, fragrant blossom of the date palm. ” “Why so soon, O hardworking son of the desert?” “Because,” said the man, “I have just sold the Patrician’s champion racehorse. ” The horse wasn’t as fine or as fast as Binky, but it swept the miles away under its hooves and easily outdistanced a few mounted guards who, for some reason, appeared anxious to talk to Mort. Soon the shanty suburbs of Morpork were left behind and the road ran out into rich black earth country of the Sto plain, constructed over eons by the periodic flooding of the great slow Ankh that brought to the region prosperity, security and chronic arthritis. It was also extremely boring. As the light distilled from silver to gold Mort galloped across a flat, chilly landscape, checkered with cabbage fields from edge to edge. There are many things to be said about cabbages. One may talk at length about their high vitamin content, their vital iron contribution, the valuable roughage and commendable food value. In the mass, however, they lack a certain something; despite their claim to immense nutritional and moral superiority over, say, daffodils, they have never been a sight to inspire the poet’s muse. Unless he was hungry, of course. It was only twenty miles to Sto Lat, but in terms of meaningless human experience it seemed like two thousand. There were guards on the gates of Sto Lat, although compared to the ones that patrolled Ankh they had a sheepish, amateurish look. Mort trotted past and one of them, feeling a bit of a fool, asked him who went there. “I’m afraid I can’t stop,” said Mort. The guard was new to the job, and quite keen. Guarding wasn’t what he’d been led to expect. Standing around all day in chain mail with an axe on a long pole wasn’t what he’d volunteered for; he’d expected excitement and challenge and a crossbow and a uniform that didn’t go rusty in the rain. He stepped forward, ready to defend the city against people who didn’t respect commands given by duly authorized civic employees. Mort considered the pike blade hovering a few inches from his face. There was getting to be too much of this. “On the other hand,” he said calmly, “how would you like it if I made you a present of this rather fine horse?” It wasn’t hard to find the entrance to the castle. There were guards there, too, and they had crossbows and a considerably more unsympathetic outlook on life and, in any case, Mort had run out of horses. He loitered a bit until they started paying him a generous amount of attention, and then wandered disconsolately away into the streets of the little city, feeling stupid. After all this, after miles of brassicas and a backside that now felt like a block of wood, he didn’t even know why he was there. So she’d seen him even when he was invisible? Did it mean anything? Of course it didn’t. Only he kept seeing her face, and the flicker of hope in her eyes. He wanted to tell her that everything was going to be all right. He wanted to tell her about himself and everything he wanted to be. He wanted to find out which was her room in the castle and watch it all night until the light went out. And so on. A little later a blacksmith, whose business was in one of the narrow streets that looked out on to the castle walls, glanced up from his work to see a tall, gangling young man, rather red in the face, who kept trying to walk through the walls. Rather later than that a young man with a few superficial bruises on his head called in at one of the city’s taverns and asked for directions to the nearest wizard. And it was later still that Mort turned up outside a peeling plaster house which announced itself on a blackened brass plaque to be the abode of Igneous Cutwell, DM (Unseen), Marster of the Infinit, Illuminartus, Wyzard to Princes, Gardian of the Sacred Portalls, If Out leave Maile with Mrs. Nugent Next Door. Suitably impressed despite his pounding heart, Mort lifted the heavy knocker, which was in the shape of a repulsive gargoyle with a heavy iron ring in its mouth, and knocked twice. There was a brief commotion from within, the series of hasty domestic sounds that might, in a less exalted house, have been made by, say, someone shoveling the lunch plates into the sink and tidying the laundry out of sight. Eventually the door swung open, slowly and mysteriously. “You’d fbetter pretend to be impreffed,” said the doorknocker conversationally, but hampered somewhat by the ring. “He does it with pulleys and a bit of ftring. No good at opening-fpells, fee?” Mort looked at the grinning metal face. I work for a skeleton who can walk through walls, he told himself. Who am I to be surprised at anything? “Thank you,” he said. “You’re welcome. Wipe your feet on the doormat, it’s the bootfcraper’s day off. ” The big low room inside was dark and shadowy and smelled mainly of incense but slightly of boiled cabbage and elderly laundry and the kind of person who throws all his socks at the wall and wears the ones that don’t stick. There was a large crystal ball with a crack in it, an astrolabe with several bits missing, a rather scuffed octogram on the floor, and a stuffed alligator hanging from the ceiling. A stuffed alligator is absolutely standard equipment in any properly-run magical establishment. This one looked as though it hadn’t enjoyed it much. A bead curtain on the far wall was flung aside with a dramatic gesture and a hooded figure stood revealed. “Beneficent constellations shine on the hour of our meeting!” it boomed. “Which ones?” said Mort. There was a sudden worried silence. “Pardon?” “Which constellations would these be?” said Mort. “Beneficent ones,” said the figure, uncertainly. It rallied. |
“Why do you trouble Igneous Cutwell, Holder of the Eight Keys, Traveler in the Dungeon Dimensions, Supreme Mage of—” “Excuse me,” said Mort, “are you really?” “Really what?” “Master of the thingy, Lord High Wossname of the Sacred Dungeons?” Cutwell pushed back his hood with an annoyed flourish. Instead of the gray-bearded mystic Mort had expected he saw a round, rather plump face, pink and white like a pork pie, which it somewhat resembled in other respects. For example, like most pork pies, it didn’t have a beard and, like most pork pies, it looked basically good-humored. “In a figurative sense,” he said. “What does that mean?” “Well, it means no,” said Cutwell. “But you said—” “That was advertising,” said the wizard. “It’s a kind of magic I’ve been working on. What was it you were wanting, anyway?” He leered suggestively. “A love philter, yes? Something to encourage the young ladies?” “Is it possible to walk through walls?” said Mort desperately. Cutwell paused with his hand already halfway to a large bottle full of sticky liquid. “Using magic?” “Um,” said Mort, “I don’t think so. ” “Then pick very thin walls,” said Cutwell. “Better still, use the door. The one over there would be favorite, if you’ve just come here to waste my time. ” Mort hesitated, and then put the bag of gold coins on the table. The wizard glanced at them, made a little whinnying noise in the back of his throat, and reached out. Mort’s hand shot across and grabbed his wrist. “I’ve walked through walls,” he said, slowly and deliberately. “Of course you have, of course you have,” mumbled Cutwell, not taking his eyes off the bag. He flicked the cork out of the bottle of blue liquid and took an absent-minded swig. “Only before I did it I didn’t know that I could, and when I was doing it I didn’t know I was, and now I’ve done it I can’t remember how it was done. And I want to do it again. ” “Why?” “Because,” said Mort, “if I could walk through walls I could do anything. ” “Very deep,” agreed Cutwell. “Philosophical. And the name of the young lady on the other side of this wall?” “She’s—” Mort swallowed. “I don’t know her name. Even if there is a girl,” he added haughtily, “and I’m not saying there is. ” “Right,” said Cutwell. He took another swig, and shuddered. “Fine. How to walk through walls. I’ll do some research. It might be expensive, though. ” Mort carefully picked up the bag and pulled out one small gold coin. “A down payment,” he said, putting it on the table. Cutwell picked up the coin as if he expected it to go bang or evaporate, and examined it carefully. “I’ve never seen this sort of coin before,” he said accusingly. “What’s all this curly writing?” “It’s gold, though, isn’t it?” said Mort. “I mean, you don’t have to accept it—” “Sure, sure, it’s gold,” said Cutwell hurriedly. “It’s gold all right. I just wondered where it had come from, that’s all. ” “You wouldn’t believe me,” said Mort. “What time’s sunset around here?” “We normally manage to fit it in between night and day,” said Cutwell, still staring at the coin and taking little sips from the blue bottle. “About now. ” Mort glanced out of the window. The street outside already had a twilight look to it. “I’ll be back,” he muttered, and made for the door. He heard the wizard call out something, but Mort was heading down the street at a dead run. He started to panic. Death would be waiting for him forty miles away. There would be a row. There would be a terrible— A H, BOY. A familiar figure stepped out from the flare around a jellied eel stall, holding a plate of winkles. T HE VINEGAR IS PARTICULARLY PIQUANT. H ELP YOURSELF , I HAVE AN EXTRA PIN. But, of course, just because he was forty miles away didn’t mean he wasn’t here as well…. And in his untidy room Cutwell turned the gold coin over and over in his fingers, muttering “walls” to himself, and draining the bottle. He appeared to notice what he was doing only when there was no more to drink, at which point his eyes focused on the bottle and, through a rising pink mist, read the label which said “Granny Weatherwax’s Ramrub Invigoratore and Passion’s Philter, Onne Spoonful Onlie before bed and that Smalle. ” “By myself?” said Mort. C ERTAINLY. I HAVE EVERY FAITH IN YOU. “Gosh!” The suggestion put everything else out of Mort’s mind, and he was rather surprised to find that he didn’t feel particularly squeamish. He’d seen quite a few deaths in the last week or so, and all the horror went out of it when you knew you’d be speaking to the victim afterwards. Most of them were relieved, one or two of them were angry, but they were all glad of a few helpful words. T HINK YOU CAN DO IT ? “Well, sir. Yes. I think. ” T HAT’S THE SPIRIT. I’ VE LEFT B INKY BY THE HORSETROUGH ROUND THE CORNER. T AKE HIM STRAIGHT HOME WHEN YOU’VE FINISHED. “You’re staying here, sir?” Death looked up and down the street. His eyesockets flared. I THOUGHT I MIGHT STROLL AROUND A BIT, he said mysteriously. I DON’T SEEM TO FEEL QUITE RIGHT. I COULD DO WITH THE FRESH AIR. He seemed to remember something, reached into the mysterious shadows of his cloak, and pulled out three hourglasses. A LL STRAIGHTFORWARD , he said. E NJOY YOURSELF. He turned and strode off down the street, humming. “Um. Thank you,” said Mort. He held the hourglasses up to the light, noting the one that was on its very last few grains of sand. “Does this mean I’m in charge?” he called, but Death had turned the corner. Binky greeted him with a faint whinny of recognition. Mort mounted up, his heart pounding with apprehension and responsibility. His fingers worked automatically, taking the scythe out of its sheath and adjusting and locking the blade (which flashed steely blue in the night, slicing the starlight like salami). He mounted carefully, wincing at the stab from his saddlesores, but Binky was like riding a pillow. As an afterthought, drunk with delegated authority, he pulled Death’s riding cloak out of its saddlebag and fastened it by its silver brooch. He took another look at the first hourglass, and nudged Binky with his knees. The horse sniffed the chilly air, and began to trot. Behind them Cutwell burst out of his doorway, accelerating down the frosty street with his robes flying out behind him. Now the horse was cantering, widening the distance between its hooves and the cobbles. With a swish of its tail it cleared the housetops and floated up into the chilly sky. Cutwell ignored it. He had more pressing things on his mind. He took a flying leap and landed full length in the freezing waters of the horsetrough, lying back gratefully among the bobbing ice splinters. After a while the water began to steam. Mort kept low for the sheer exhilaration of the speed. The sleeping countryside roared soundlessly underneath. Binky moved at an easy gallop, his great muscles sliding under his skin as easily as alligators off a sandbank, his mane whipping in Mort’s face. The night swirled away from the speeding edge of the scythe, cut into two curling halves. They sped under the moonlight as silent as a shadow, visible only to cats and people who dabbled in things men were not meant to wot of. Mort couldn’t remember afterwards, but very probably he laughed. Soon the frosty plains gave way to the broken lands around the mountains, and then the marching ranks of the Ramtops themselves raced across the world towards them. Binky put his head down and opened his stride, aiming for a pass between two mountains as sharp as goblins’ teeth in the silver light. Somewhere a wolf howled. Mort took another look at the hourglass. Its frame was carved with oak leaves and mandrake roots, and the sand inside, even by moonlight, was pale gold. By turning the glass this way and that, he could just make out the name “Ammeline Hamstring” etched in the faintest of lines. Binky slowed to a canter. Mort looked down at the roof of a forest, dusted with snow that was either early or very, very late; it could have been either, because the Ramtops hoarded their weather and doled it out with no real reference to the time of year. |
A gap opened up beneath them. Binky slowed again, wheeled around and descended towards a clearing that was white with drifted snow. It was circular, with a tiny cottage in the exact middle. If the ground around it hadn’t been covered in snow, Mort would have noticed that there were no tree stumps to be seen; the trees hadn’t been cut down in the circle, they’d simply been discouraged from growing there. Or had moved away. Candlelight spilled from one downstairs window, making a pale orange pool on the snow. Binky touched down smoothly and trotted across the freezing crust without sinking. He left no hoofprints, of course. Mort dismounted and walked towards the door, muttering to himself and making experimental sweeps with the scythe. The cottage roof had been built with wide eaves, to shed snow and cover the logpile. No dweller in the high Ramtops would dream of starting a winter without a logpile on three sides of the house. But there wasn’t a logpile here, even though spring was still a long way off. There was, however, a bundle of hay in a net by the door. It had a note attached, written in big, slightly shaky capitals: FOR THEE HORS. It would have worried Mort if he’d let it. Someone was expecting him. He’d learned in recent days, though, that rather than drown in uncertainty it was best to surf right over the top of it. Anyway, Binky wasn’t worried by moral scruples and bit straight in. It did leave the problem of whether to knock. Somehow, it didn’t seem appropriate. Supposing no one answered, or told him to go away? So he lifted the thumb latch and pushed at the door. It swung inwards quite easily, without a creak. There was a low-ceilinged kitchen, its beams at trepanning height for Mort. The light from the solitary candle glinted off crockery on a long dresser and flagstones that had been scrubbed and polished into iridescence. The fire in the cave-like inglenook didn’t add much light, because it was no more than a heap of white ash under the remains of a log. Mort knew, without being told, that it was the last log. An elderly lady was sitting at the kitchen table, writing furiously with her hooked nose only a few inches from the paper. A gray cat curled on the table beside her blinked calmly at Mort. The scythe bumped off a beam. The woman looked up. “Be with you in a minute,” she said. She frowned at the paper. “I haven’t put in the bit about being of sound mind and body yet, lot of foolishness anyway, no one sound in mind and body would be dead. Would you like a drink?” “Pardon?” said Mort. He recalled himself, and repeated “PARDON?” “If you drink, that is. It’s raspberry port. On the dresser. You might as well finish the bottle. ” Mort eyed the dresser suspiciously. He felt he’d rather lost the initiative. He pulled out the hourglass and glared at it. There was a little heap of sand left. “There’s still a few minutes yet,” said the witch, without looking up. “How, I mean, HOW DO YOU KNOW ?” She ignored him, and dried the ink in front of the candle, sealed the letter with a drip of wax, and tucked it under the candlestick. Then she picked up the cat. “Granny Beedle will be around directly tomorrow to tidy up and you’re to go with her, understand? And see she lets Gammer Nutley have the pink marble washstand, she’s had her eye on it for years. ” The cat yawped knowingly. “I haven’t, that is, I HAVEN’T GOT ALL NIGHT, YOU KNOW ,” said Mort reproachfully. “You have, I haven’t, and there’s no need to shout,” said the witch. She slid off her stall and then Mort saw how bent she was, like a bow. With some difficulty she unhooked a tall pointed hat from its nail on the wall, skewered it into place on her white hair with a battery of hatpins, and grasped two walking sticks. She tottered across the floor towards Mort, and looked up at him with eyes as small and bright as blackcurrants. “Will I need my shawl? Shall I need a shawl, d’you think? No, I suppose not. I imagine it’s quite warm where I’m going. ” She peered closely at Mort, and frowned. “You’re rather younger than I imagined,” she said. Mort said nothing. Then Goodie Hamstring said, quietly, “You know, I don’t think you’re who I was expecting at all. ” Mort cleared his throat. “Who were you expecting, precisely?” he said. “Death,” said the witch, simply. “It’s part of the arrangement, you see. One gets to know the time of one’s death in advance, and one is guaranteed—personal attention. ” “I’m it,” said Mort. “It?” “The personal attention. He sent me. I work for him. No-one else would have me. ” Mort paused. This was all wrong. He’d be sent home again in disgrace. His first bit of responsibility, and he’d ruined it. He could already hear people laughing at him. The wail started in the depths of his embarrassment and blared out like a foghorn. “Only this is my first real job and it’s all gone wrong!” The scythe fell to the floor with a clatter, slicing a piece off the table leg and cutting a flagstone in half. Goodie watched him for some time, with her head on one side. Then she said, “I see. What is your name, young man?” “Mort,” sniffed Mort. “Short for Mortimer. ” “Well, Mort, I expect you’ve got an hourglass somewhere about your person. ” Mort nodded vaguely. He reached down to his belt and produced the glass. The witch inspected it critically. “Still a minute or so,” she said. “We don’t have much time to lose. Just give me a moment to lock up. ” “But you don’t understand!” Mort wailed. “I’ll mess it all up! I’ve never done this before!” She patted his hand. “Neither have I,” she said. “We can learn together. Now pick up the scythe and try to act your age, there’s a good boy. ” Against his protestations she shooed him out into the snow and followed behind him, pulling the door shut and locking it with a heavy iron key which she hung on a nail by the door. The frost had tightened its grip on the forest, squeezing it until the roots creaked. The moon was setting, but the sky was full of hard white stars that made the winter seem colder still. Goodie Hamstring shivered. “There’s an old log over there,” she said conversationally. “There’s quite a good view across the valley. In the summertime, of course. I should like to sit down. ” Mort helped her through the drifts and brushed as much snow as possible off the wood. They sat down with the hourglass between them. Whatever the view might have been in the summer, it now consisted of black rocks against a sky from which little flakes of snow were now tumbling. “I can’t believe all this,” said Mort. “I mean you sound as if you want to die. ” “There’s some things I shall miss,” she said. “But it gets thin, you know. Life, I’m referring to. You can’t trust your own body any more, and it’s time to move on. I reckon it’s about time I tried something else. Did he tell you magical folk can see him all the time?” “No,” said Mort, inaccurately. “Well, we can. ” “He doesn’t like wizards and witches much,” Mort volunteered. “Nobody likes a smartass,” she said with some satisfaction. “We give him trouble, you see. Priests don’t, so he likes priests. ” “He’s never said,” said Mort. “Ah. They’re always telling folk how much better it’s going to be when they’re dead. We tell them it could be pretty good right here if only they’d put their minds to it. ” Mort hesitated. He wanted to say: you’re wrong, he’s not like that at all, he doesn’t care if people are good or bad so long as they’re punctual. And kind to cats, he added. But he thought better of it. It occurred to him that people needed to believe things. The wolf howled again, so near that Mort looked around apprehensively. Another one across the valley answered it. The chorus was picked up by a couple of others in the depths of the forest. Mort had never heard anything so mournful. He glanced sideways at the still figure of Goodie Hamstring and then, with mounting panic, at the hourglass. He sprang to his feet, snatched up the scythe, and brought it around in a two-handed swing. The witch stood up, leaving her body behind. “Well done,” she said. “I thought you’d missed it, for a minute, there. |
” Mort leaned against a tree, panting heavily, and watched Goodie walk around the log to look at herself. “Hmm,” she said critically. “Time has got a lot to answer for. ” She raised her hand and laughed to see the stars through it. Then she changed. Mort had seen this happen before, when the soul realized it was no longer bound by the body’s morphic field, but never under such control. Her hair unwound itself from its tight bun, changing color and lengthening. Her body straightened up. Wrinkles dwindled and vanished. Her gray woolen dress moved like the surface of the sea and ended up tracing entirely different and disturbing contours. She looked down, giggled, and changed the dress into something leaf-green and clingy. “What do you think, Mort?” she said. Her voice had sounded cracked and quavery before. Now it suggested musk and maple syrup and other things that set Mort’s adam’s apple bobbing like a rubber ball on an elastic band. “…” he managed, and gripped the scythe until his knuckles went white. She walked towards him like a snake in a four-wheel drift. “I didn’t hear you,” she purred. “V-v-very nice,” he said. “Is that who you were?” “It’s who I’ve always been. ” “Oh. ” Mort stared at his feet. “I’m supposed to take you away,” he said. “I know,” she said, “but I’m going to stay. ” “You can’t do that! I mean—” he fumbled for words—“you see, if you stay you sort of spread out and get thinner, until—” “I shall enjoy it,” she said firmly. She leaned forward and gave him a kiss as insubstantial as a mayfly’s sigh, fading as she did so until only the kiss was left, just like a Cheshire cat only much more erotic. “Have a care, Mort,” said her voice in his head. “You may want to hold on to your job, but will you ever be able to let go?” Mort stood idiotically holding his cheek. The trees around the clearing trembled for a moment, there was the sound of laughter on the breeze, and then the freezing silence closed in again. Duty called out to him through the pink mists in his head. He grabbed the second glass and stared at it. The sand was nearly all gone. The glass itself was patterned with lotus petals. When Mort flicked it with his finger it went “Ommm. ” He ran across the crackling snow to Binky and hurled himself into the saddle. The horse threw up his head, reared, and launched itself towards the stars. Great silent streamers of blue and green flame hung from the roof of the world. Curtains of octarine glow danced slowly and majestically over the Disc as the fire of the Aurora Coriolis, the vast discharge of magic from the Disc’s standing field, earthed itself in the green ice mountains of the. Hub. The central spire of Cori Celesti, home of the gods, was a ten-mile-high column of cold coruscating fire. It was a sight seen by few people, and Mort wasn’t one of them, because he lay low over Binky’s neck and clung on for his life as they pounded through the night sky ahead of a comet trail of steam. There were other mountains clustered around Cori. By comparison they were no more than termite mounds, although in reality each one was a majestic assortment of cols, ridges, faces, cliffs, screes and glaciers that any normal mountain range would be happy to associate with. Among the highest of them, at the end of a funnel-shaped valley, dwelt the Listeners. They were one of the oldest of the Disc’s religious sects, although even the gods themselves were divided as to whether Listening was really a proper religion, and all that prevented their temple being wiped out by a few well-aimed avalanches was the fact that even the gods were curious as to what it was that the Listeners might Hear. If there’s one thing that really annoys a god, it’s not knowing something. It’ll take Mort several minutes to arrive. A row of dots would fill in the time nicely, but the reader will already be noticing the strange shape of the temple—curled like a great white ammonite at the end of the valley—and will probably want an explanation. The fact is that the Listeners are trying to work out precisely what it was that the Creator said when He made the universe. The theory is quite straightforward. Clearly, nothing that the Creator makes could ever be destroyed, which means that the echoes of those first syllables must still be around somewhere, bouncing and rebounding off all the matter in the cosmos but still audible to a really good listener. Eons ago the Listeners had found that ice and chance had carved this one valley into the perfect acoustic opposite of an echo valley, and had built their multi-chambered temple in the exact position that the one comfy chair always occupies in the home of a rabid hi-fi fanatic. Complex baffles caught and amplified the sound that was funneled up the chilly valley, steering it ever inwards to the central chamber where, at any hour of the day or night, three monks always sat. Listening. There were certain problems caused by the fact that they didn’t hear only the subtle echoes of the first words, but every other sound made on the Disc. In order to recognize the sound of the Words, they had to learn to recognize all the other noises. This called for a certain talent, and a novice was only accepted for training if he could distinguish by sound alone, at a distance of a thousand yards, which side a dropped coin landed. He wasn’t actually accepted into the order until he could tell what color it was. And although the Holy Listeners were so remote, many people took the extremely long and dangerous path to their temple, traveling through frozen, troll-haunted lands, fording swift icy rivers, climbing forbidding mountains, trekking across inhospitable tundra, in order to climb the narrow stairway that led into the hidden valley and seek with an open heart the secrets of being. And the monks would cry unto them, “Keep the bloody noise down!” Binky came through the mountain tops like a white blur, touching down in the snowy emptiness of a courtyard made spectral by the disco light from the sky. Mort leapt from his back and ran through the silent cloisters to the room where the 88th abbot lay dying, surrounded by his devout followers. Mort’s footsteps boomed as he hurried across the intricate mosaic floor. The monks themselves wore woolen overshoes. He reached the bed and waited for a moment, leaning on the scythe, until he could get his breath back. The abbot, who was small and totally bald and had more wrinkles than a sackful of prunes, opened his eyes. “You’re late,” he whispered, and died. Mort swallowed, fought for breath, and brought the scythe around in a slow arc. Nevertheless, it was accurate enough; the abbot sat up, leaving His corpse behind. “Not a moment too soon,” he said, in a voice only Mort could hear. “You had me worried for a moment there. ” “Okay?” said Mort. “Only I’ve got to rush—” The abbot swung himself off the bed and walked towards Mort through the ranks of his bereaved followers. “Don’t rush off,” he said. “I always look forward to these talks. What’s happened to the usual fellow?” “Usual fellow?” said Mort, bewildered. “Tall chap. Black cloak. Doesn’t get enough to eat, by the look of him,” said the abbot. “ Usual fellow? You mean Death ?” said Mort. “That’s him,” said the abbot, cheerfully. Mort’s mouth hung open. “Die a lot, do you?” he managed. “A fair bit. A fair bit. Of course,” said the abbot, “once you get the hang of it, it’s only a matter of practice. ” “It is?” “We must be off,” said the abbot. Mort’s mouth snapped shut. “That’s what I’ve been trying to say,” he said. “So if you could just drop me off down in the valley,” the little monk continued placidly. He swept past Mort and headed for the courtyard. Mort stared at the floor for a moment, and then ran after him in a way which he knew to be extremely unprofessional and undignified. “Now look—” he began. “The other one had a horse called Binky, I remember,” said the abbot pleasantly. “Did you buy the round off him?” “The round?” said Mort, now completely lost. “Or whatever. |
Forgive me,” said the abbot, “I don’t really know how these things are organized, lad. ” “Mort,” said Mort, absently. “And I think you’re supposed to come back with me, sir. If you don’t mind,” he added, in what he hoped was a firm and authoritative manner. The monk turned and smiled pleasantly at him. “I wish I could,” he said. “Perhaps one day. Now, if you could give me a lift as far as the nearest village, I imagine I’m being conceived about now. ” “Conceived? But you’ve just died!” said Mort. “Yes, but, you see, I have what you might call a season ticket,” the abbot explained. Light dawned on Mort, but very slowly. “Oh,” he said, “I’ve read about this. Reincarnation, yes?” “That’s the word. Fifty-three times so far. Or fifty-four. ” Binky looked up as they approached and gave a short neigh of recognition when the abbot patted his nose. Mort mounted up and helped the abbot up behind him. “It must be very interesting,” he said, as Binky climbed away from the temple. On the absolute scale of small talk this comment must rate minus quite a lot, but Mort couldn’t think of anything better. “No, it mustn’t,” said the abbot. “You think it must be because you believe I can remember all my lives, but of course I can’t. Not while I’m alive, anyway. ” “I hadn’t thought of that,” Mort conceded. “Imagine toilet training fifty times. ” “Nothing to look back on, I imagine,” said Mort. “You’re right. If I had my time all over again I wouldn’t reincarnate. And just when I’m getting the hang of things, the lads come down from the temple looking for a boy conceived at the hour the old abbot died. Talk about unimaginative. Stop here a moment, please. ” Mort looked down. “We’re in mid-air,” he said doubtfully. “I won’t keep you a minute. ” The abbot slid down from Binky’s back, walked a few steps on thin air, and shouted. It seemed to go on for a long time. Then the abbot climbed back again. “You don’t know how long I’ve been looking forward to that,” he said. There was a village in a lower valley a few miles from the temple, which acted as a sort of service industry. From the air it was a random scattering of small but extremely well-soundproofed huts. “Anywhere will do,” the abbot said. Mort left him standing a few feet above the snow at a point where the huts appeared to be thickest. “Hope the next lifetime improves,” he said. The abbot shrugged. “One can always hope,” he said. “I get a nine-month break, anyway. The scenery isn’t much, but at least it’s in the warm. ” “Goodbye, then,” said Mort. “I’ve got to rush. ” “Au revoir,” said the abbot, sadly, and turned away. The fires of the Hub Lights were still casting their flickering illumination across the landscape. Mort sighed, and reached for the third glass. The container was silver, decorated with small crowns. There was hardly any sand left. Mort, feeling that the night had thrown everything at him and couldn’t get any worse, turned it around carefully to get a glimpse of the name…. Princess Keli awoke. There had been a sound like someone making no noise at all. Forget peas and mattresses—sheer natural selection had established over the years that the royal families that survived longest were those whose members could distinguish an assassin in the dark by the noise he was clever enough not to make, because, in court circles, there was always someone ready to cut the heir with a knife. She lay in bed, wondering what to do next. There was a dagger under her pillow. She started to slide one hand up the sheets, while peering around the room with half-closed eyes in search of unfamiliar shadows. She was well aware that if she indicated in any way that she was not asleep she would never wake up again. Some light came into the room from the big window at the far end, but the suits of armor, tapestries and assorted paraphernalia that littered the room could have provided cover for an army. The knife had dropped down behind the bedhead. She probably wouldn’t have used it properly anyway. Screaming for the guards, she decided, was not a good idea. If there was anyone in the room then the guards must have been overpowered, or at least stunned by a large sum of money. There was a warming pan on the flagstones by the fire. Would it make a weapon? There was a faint metallic sound. Perhaps screaming wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all…. The window imploded. For an instant Keli saw, framed against a hell of blue and purple flames, a hooded figure crouched on the back of the largest horse she had ever seen. There was someone standing by the bed, with a knife half raised. In slow motion, she watched fascinated as the arm went up and the horse galloped at glacier speed across the floor. Now the knife was above her, starting its descent, and the horse was rearing and the rider was standing in the stirrups and swinging some sort of weapon and its blade tore through the slow air with a noise like a finger on the rim of a wet glass— The light vanished. There was a soft thump on the floor, followed by a metallic clatter. Keli took a deep breath. A hand was briefly laid across her mouth and a worried voice said, “If you scream, I’ll regret it. Please? I’m in enough trouble as it is. ” Anyone who could get that amount of bewildered pleading into their voice was either genuine or such a good actor they wouldn’t have to bother with assassination for a living. She said, “Who are you?” “I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell you,” said the voice. “You are still alive, aren’t you?” She bit down the sarcastic reply just in time. Something about the tone of the question worried her. “Can’t you tell?” she said. “It’s not easy…. ” There was a pause. She strained to see in the darkness, to put a face around that voice. “I may have done you some terrible harm,” it added. “Haven’t you just saved my life?” “I don’t know what I have saved, actually. Is there some light around here?” “The maid sometimes leaves matches on the mantelpiece,” said Keli. She felt the presence beside her move away. There were a few hesitant footsteps, a couple of thumps, and finally a clang, although the word isn’t sufficient to describe the real ripe cacophony of falling metal that filled the room. It was even followed by the traditional little tinkle a couple of seconds after you thought it was all over. The voice said, rather indistinctly, “I’m under a suit of armor. Where should I be?” Keli slid quietly out of bed, felt her way towards the fireplace, located the bundle of matches by the faint light from the dying fire, struck one in a burst of sulfurous smoke, lit a candle, found the pile of dismembered armor, pulled its sword from its scabbard and then nearly swallowed her tongue. Someone had just blown hot and wetly in her ear. “That’s Binky,” said the heap. “He’s just trying to be friendly. I expect he’d like some hay, if you’ve got any. ” With royal self-control, Keli said, “This is the fourth floor. It’s a lady’s bedroom. You’d be amazed at how many horses we don’t get up here. ” “Oh. Could you help me up, please?” She put the sword down and pulled aside a breastplate. A thin white face stared back at her. “First, you’d better tell me why I shouldn’t send for the guards anyway” she said. “Even being in my bedroom could get you tortured to death. ” She glared at him. Finally he said, “Well—could you let my hand free, please? Thank you—firstly, the guards probably wouldn’t see me, secondly, you’ll never find out why I’m here and you look as though you’d hate not to know, and thirdly…. ” “Thirdly what?” she said. His mouth opened and shut. Mort wanted to say: thirdly, you’re so beautiful, or at least very attractive, or anyway far more attractive than any other girl I’ve ever met, although admittedly I haven’t met very many. From this it will be seen that Mort’s innate honesty will never make him a poet; if Mort ever compared a girl to a summer’s day, it would be followed by a thoughtful explanation of what day he had in mind and whether it was raining at the time. In the circumstances, it was just as well that he couldn’t find his voice. |
Keli held up the candle and looked at the window. It was whole. The stone frames were unbroken. Every pane, with its stained-glass representatives of the Sto Lat coat of arms, was complete. She looked back at Mort. “Never mind thirdly,” she said, “let’s get back to secondly. ” An hour later dawn reached the city. Daylight on the Disc flows rather than rushes, because light is slowed right down by the world’s standing magical field, and it rolled across the flat lands like a golden sea. The city on the mound stood out like a sandcastle in the tide for a moment, until the day swirled around it and crept onwards. Mort and Keli sat side by side on her bed. The hourglass lay between them. There was no sand left in the top bulb. From outside came the sounds of the castle waking up. “I still don’t understand this,” she said. “Does it mean I’m dead, or doesn’t it?” “It means you ought to be dead,” he said, “according to fate or whatever. I haven’t really studied the theory. ” “And you should have killed me?” “No! I mean, no, the assassin should have killed you. I did try to explain all that,” said Mort. “Why didn’t you let him?” Mort looked at her in horror. “Did you want to die?” “Of course I didn’t. But it looks as though what people want doesn’t come into it, does it? I’m trying to be sensible about this. ” Mort stared at his knees. Then he stood up. “I think I’d better be going,” he said coldly. He folded up the scythe and stuck it into its sheath behind the saddle. Then he looked at the window. “You came through that,” said Keli, helpfully. “Look, when I said—” “Does it open?” “No. There’s a balcony along the passage. But people will see you!” Mort ignored her, pulled open the door and led Binky out into the corridor. Keli ran after them. A maid stopped, curtsied, and frowned slightly as her brain wisely dismissed the sight of a very large horse walking along the carpet. The balcony overlooked one of the inner courtyards. Mort glanced over the parapet, and then mounted. “Watch out for the duke,” he said. “He’s behind all this. ” “My father always warned me about him,” said the princess. “I’ve got a foodtaster. ” “You should get a bodyguard as well,” said Mort. “I must go. I have important things to do. Farewell,” he added, in what he hoped was the right tone of injured pride. “Shall I see you again?” said Keli. “There’s lots I want to—” “That might not be a good idea, if you think about it,” said Mort haughtily. He clicked his tongue, and Binky leapt into the air, cleared the parapet and cantered up into the blue morning sky. “I wanted to say thank you!” Keli yelled after him. The maid, who couldn’t get over the feeling that something was wrong and had followed her, said, “Are you all right, ma’am?” Keli looked at her distractedly. “What?” she demanded. “I just wondered if—everything was all right?” Keli’s shoulders sagged. “No,” she said. “Everything’s all wrong. There’s a dead assassin in my bedroom. Could you please have something done about it? “And—” she held up a hand—“I don’t want you to say ‘Dead, ma’am?’ or ‘Assassin, ma’am?’ or scream or anything, I just want you to get something done about it. Quietly. I think I’ve got a headache. So just nod. ” The maid nodded, bobbed uncertainly, and backed away. Mort wasn’t sure how he got back. The sky simply changed from ice blue to sullen gray as Binky eased himself into the gap between dimensions. He didn’t land on the dark soil of Death’s estate, it was simply there, underfoot, as though an aircraft carrier had gently maneuvered itself under a jumpjet to save the pilot all the trouble of touching down. The great horse trotted into the stableyard and halted outside the double door, swishing his tail. Mort slid off and ran for the house. And stopped, and ran back, and filled the hayrack, and ran for the house, and stopped and muttered to himself and ran back and rubbed the horse down and checked the water bucket, and ran for the house, and ran back and fetched the horseblanket down from its hook on the wall and buckled it on. Binky gave him a dignified nuzzle. No one seemed to be about as Mort slipped in by the back door and made his way to the library, where even at this time of night the air seemed to be made of hot dry dust. It seemed to take years to locate Princess Keli’s biography, but he found it eventually. It was a depressingly slim volume on a shelf only reachable by the library ladder, a wheeled rickety structure that strongly resembled an early siege engine. With trembling fingers he opened it at the last page, and groaned. “The princess’s assassination at the age of fifteen,” he read, “was followed by the union of Sto Lat with Sto Helit and, indirectly, the collapse of the city states of the central plain and the rise of—” He read on, unable to stop. Occasionally he groaned again. Finally he put the book back, hesitated, and then shoved it behind a few other volumes. He could still feel it there as he climbed down the ladder, shrieking its incriminating existence to the world. There were few ocean-going ships on the Disc. No captain liked to venture out of sight of a coastline. It was a sorry fact that ships which looked from a distance as though they were going over the edge of the world weren’t in fact disappearing over the horizon, they were in fact dropping over the edge of the world. Every generation or so a few enthusiastic explorers doubted this and set out to prove it wrong. Strangely enough, none of them had ever come back to announce the result of their researches. The following analogy would, therefore, have been meaningless to Mort. He felt as if he’d been shipwrecked on the Titanic but in the nick of time had been rescued. By the Lusitania. He felt as though he’d thrown a snowball on the spur of the moment and watched the ensuing avalanche engulf three ski resorts. He felt history unraveling all around him. He felt he needed someone to talk to, quickly. That had to mean either Albert or Ysabell, because the thought of explaining everything to those tiny blue pinpoints was not one he cared to contemplate after a long night. On the rare occasions Ysabell deigned to look in his direction she made it clear that the only difference between Mort and a dead toad was the color. As for Albert…. All right, not the perfect confidant; but definitely the best in a field of one. Mort slid down the steps and threaded his way back through the bookshelves. A few hours’ sleep would be a good idea, too. Then he heard a gasp, the brief patter of running feet, and the slam of a door. When he peered around the nearest bookcase there was nothing there except a stool with a couple of books on it. He picked one up and glanced at the name, then read a few pages. There was a damp lace handkerchief lying next to it. Mort rose late, and hurried towards the kitchen expecting at any moment the deep tones of disapproval. Nothing happened. Albert was at the stone sink, gazing thoughtfully at his chip pan, probably wondering whether it was time to change the fat or let it bide for another year. He turned as Mort slid into a chair. “You had a busy time of it, then,” he said. “Gallivanting all over the place until all hours, I heard. I could do you an egg. Or there’s porridge. ” “Egg, please,” said Mort. He’d never plucked up the courage to try Albert’s porridge, which led a private life of its own in the depths of its saucepan and ate spoons. “The master wants to see you after,” Albert added, “but he said you wasn’t to rush. ” “Oh. ” Mort stared at the table. “Did he say anything else?” “He said he hadn’t had an evening off in a thousand years,” said Albert. “He was humming. I don’t like it. I’ve never seen him like this. ” “Oh. ” Mort took the plunge. “Albert, have you been here long?” Albert looked at him over the top of his spectacles. “Maybe,” he said. “It’s hard to keep track of outside time, boy. I bin here since just after the old king died. ” “Which king, Albert?” “Artorollo, I think he was called. Little fat man. Squeaky voice. I only saw him the once, though. |
” “Where was this?” “In Ankh, of course. ” “What?” said Mort. “They don’t have kings in Ankh-Morpork, everyone knows that!” “This was back a bit, I said,” said Albert. He poured himself a cup of tea from Death’s personal teapot and sat down, a dreamy look in his crusted eyes. Mort waited expectantly. “And they was kings in those days, real kings, not like the sort you get now. They was monarchs ,” continued Albert, carefully pouring some tea into his saucer and fanning it primly with the end of his muffler. “I mean, they was wise and fair, well, fairly wise. And they wouldn’t think twice about cutting your head off soon as look at you,” he added approvingly. “And all the queens were tall and pale and wore them balaclava helmet things—” “Wimples?” said Mort. “Yeah, them, and the princesses were beautiful as the day is long and so noble they, they could pee through a dozen mattresses—” “What?” Albert hesitated. “Something like that, anyway,” he conceded. “And there was balls and tournaments and executions. Great days. ” He smiled dreamily at his memories. “Not like the sort of days you get now,” he said, emerging from his reverie with bad grace. “Have you got any other names, Albert?” said Mort. But the brief spell had been broken and the old man wasn’t going to be drawn. “Oh, I know,” he snapped, “get Albert’s name and you’ll go and look him up in the library, won’t you? Prying and poking. I know you, skulking in there at all hours reading the lives of young wimmen—” The heralds of guilt must have flourished their tarnished trumpets in the depths of Mort’s eyes, because Albert cackled and prodded him with a bony finger. “You might at least put them back where you find ’em,” he said, “not leave piles of ’em around for old Albert to put back. Anyway, it’s not right, ogling the poor dead things. It probably turns you blind. ” “But I only—” Mort began, and remembered the damp lace handkerchief in his pocket, and shut up. He left Albert grumbling to himself and doing the washing up, and slipped into the library. Pale sunlight lanced down from the high windows, gently fading the covers on the patient, ancient volumes. Occasionally a speck of dust would catch the light as it floated through the golden shafts, and flare like a miniature supernova. Mort knew that if he listened hard enough he could hear the insect-like scotching of the books as they wrote themselves. Once upon a time Mort would have found it eerie. Now it was—reassuring. It demonstrated that the universe was running smoothly. His conscience, which had been looking for the opening, gleefully reminded him that, all right, it might be running smoothly but it certainly wasn’t heading in the right direction. He made his way through the maze of shelves to the mysterious pile of books, and found it was gone. Albert had been in the kitchen, and Mort had never seen Death himself enter the library. What was Ysabell looking for, then? He glanced up at the cliff of shelves above him, and his stomach went cold when he thought of what was starting to happen…. There was nothing for it. He’d have to tell someone. Keli, meanwhile, was also finding life difficult. This was because causality had an incredible amount of inertia. Mort’s misplaced thrust, driven by anger and desperation and nascent love, had sent it down a new track but it hadn’t noticed yet. He’d kicked the tail of the dinosaur, but it would be some time before the other end realized it was time to say “ouch. ” Bluntly, the universe knew Keli was dead and was therefore rather surprised to find that she hadn’t stopped walking and breathing yet. It showed it in little ways. The courtiers who gave her furtive odd looks during the morning would not have been able to say why the sight of her made them feel strangely uncomfortable. To their acute embarrassment and her annoyance they found themselves ignoring her, or talking in hushed voices. The Chamberlain found he’d instructed that the royal standard be flown at half mast and for the life of him couldn’t explain why. He was gently led off to his bed with a mild nervous affliction after ordering a thousand yards of black bunting for no apparent reason. The eerie, unreal feeling soon spread throughout the castle. The head coachman ordered the state bier to be brought out again and polished, and then stood in the stable yard and wept into his chamois leather because he couldn’t remember why. Servants walked softly along the corridors. The cook had to fight an overpowering urge to prepare simple banquets of cold meat. Dogs howled and then stopped, feeling rather stupid. The two black stallions who traditionally pulled the Sto Lat funeral cortege grew restive in their stalls and nearly kicked a groom to death. In his castle in Sto Helit, the duke waited in vain for a messenger who had in fact set out, but had stopped halfway down the street, unable to remember what it was he was supposed to be doing. Through all this Keli moved like a solid and increasingly more irritated ghost. Things came to a head at lunchtime. She swept into the great hall and found no place had been set in front of the royal chair. By speaking loudly and distinctly to the butler she managed to get that rectified, then saw dishes being passed in front of her before she could get a fork into them. She watched in sullen disbelief as the wine was brought in and poured first for the Lord of the Privy Closet. It was an unregal thing to do, but she stuck out a foot and tripped the wine waiter. He stumbled, muttered something under his breath, and stared down at the flagstones. She leaned the other way and shouted into the ear of the Yeoman of the Pantry: “Can you see me, man? Why are we reduced to eating cold pork and ham?” He turned aside from his hushed conversation with the Lady of the Small Hexagonal Room in the North Turret, gave her a long look in which shock made way for a sort of unfocused puzzlement, and said, “Why, yes…I can…er…. ” “Your Royal Highness,” prompted Keli. “But…yes…Highness,” he muttered. There was a heavy pause. Then, as if switched back on, he turned his back on her and resumed his conversation. Keli sat for a while, white with shock and anger, then pushed the chair back and stormed away to her chambers. A couple of servants sharing a quick rollup in the passage outside were knocked sideways by something they couldn’t quite see. Keli ran into her room and hauled on the rope that should have sent the duty maid running in from the sitting room at the end of the corridor. Nothing happened for some time, and then the door was pushed open slowly and a face peered in at her. She recognized the look this time, and was ready for it. She grabbed the maid by the shoulders and hauled her bodily into the room, slamming the door shut behind her. As the frightened woman stared everywhere but at Keli she hauled off and fetched her a stinging slap across the cheek. “Did you feel that? Did you feel it?” she shrieked. “But…you…” the maid whimpered, staggering backwards until she hit the bed and sitting down heavily on it. “Look at me! Look at me when I talk to you!” yelled Keli, advancing on her. “You can see me, can’t you? Tell me you can see me or I’ll have you executed!” The maid stared into her terrified eyes. “I can see you,” she said, “but…. ” “But what? But what?” “Surely you’re…I heard…I thought…. ” “What did you think?” snapped Keli. She wasn’t shouting any more. Her words came out like white-hot whips. The maid collapsed into a sobbing heap. Keli stood tapping her foot for a moment, and then shook the woman gently. “Is there a wizard in the city?” she said. “Look at me, at me. There’s a wizard, isn’t there? You girls are always skulking off to talk to wizards! Where does he live?” The woman turned a tear-stained face towards her, fighting against every instinct that told her the princess didn’t exist. “Uh…wizard, yes…Cutwell, in Wall Street…. ” Keli’s lips compressed into a thin smile. |
She wondered where her cloaks were kept, but cold reason told her it was going to be a damn sight easier to find them herself than try to make her presence felt to the maid. She waited, watching closely, as the woman stopped sobbing, looked around her in vague bewilderment, and hurried out of the room. She’s forgotten me already, she thought. She looked at her hands. She seemed solid enough. It had to be magic. She wandered into her robing room and experimentally opened a few cupboards until she found a black cloak and hood. She slipped them on and darted out into the corridor and down the servants’ stairs. She hadn’t been this way since she was little. This was the world of linen cupboards, bare floors and dumb-waiters. It smelled of slightly stale crusts. Keli moved through it like an earthbound spook. She was aware of the servants’ quarters, of course, in the same way that people are aware at some level in their minds of the drains or the guttering, and she would be quite prepared to concede that although servants all looked pretty much alike they must have some distinguishing features by which their nearest and dearest could, presumably, identify them. But she was not prepared for sights like Moghedron the wine butler, whom she had hitherto seen only as a stately presence, moving like a galleon under full sail, sitting in his pantry with his jacket undone and smoking a pipe. A couple of maids ran past her without a second glance, giggling. She hurried on, aware that in some strange way she was trespassing in her own castle. And that, she realized, was because it wasn’t her castle at all. The noisy world around her, with its steaming laundries and chilly stillrooms, was its own world. She couldn’t own it. Possibly it owned her. She took a chicken leg from the table in the biggest kitchen, a cavern lined with so many pots that by the light of its fires it looked like an armory for tortoises, and felt the unfamiliar thrill of theft. Theft! In her own kingdom! And the cook looked straight through her, eyes as glazed as jugged ham. Keli ran across the stable yards and out of the back gate, past a couple of sentries whose stern gaze quite failed to notice her. Out in the streets it wasn’t so creepy, but she still felt oddly naked. It was unnerving, being among people who were going about their own affairs and not bothering to look at one, when one’s entire experience of the world hitherto was that it revolved around one. Pedestrians bumped into one and rebounded away, wondering briefly what it was they had hit, and one several times had to scurry away out of the path of wagons. The chicken leg hadn’t gone far to fill the hole left by the absence of lunch, and she filched a couple of apples from a stall, making a mental note to have the chamberlain find out how much apples cost and send some money down to the stallholder. Disheveled, rather grubby and smelling slightly of horse dung, she came at last to Cutwell’s door. The knocker gave her some trouble. In her experience doors opened for you; there were special people to arrange it. She was so distraught she didn’t even notice that the knocker winked at her. She tried again, and thought she heard a distant crash. After some time the door opened a few inches and she caught a glimpse of a round flustered face topped with curly hair. Her right foot surprised her by intelligently inserting itself in the crack. “I demand to see the wizard,” she announced. “Pray admit me this instant. ” “He’s rather busy at present,” said the face. “Were you after a love potion?” “A what?” “I’ve—we’ve got a special on Cutwell’s Shield of Passion ointment,” said the face, and winked in a startling fashion. “Provides your wild oats while guaranteeing a crop failure, if you know what I mean. ” Keli bridled. “No,” she lied coldly, “I do not. ” “Ramrub? Maidens’ Longstop? Belladonna eyedrops?” “I demand—” “Sorry, we’re closed,” said the face, and shut the door. Keli withdrew her foot just in time. She muttered some words that would have amazed and shocked her tutors, and thumped on the woodwork. The tattoo of her hammering suddenly slowed as realization dawned. He’d seen her! He’d heard her! She beat on the door with renewed vigor, yelling with all the power in her lungs. A voice by her ear said, “It won’t work. He ’eef very fstubborn. ” She looked around slowly and met the impertinent gaze of the doorknocker. It waggled its metal eyebrows at her and spoke indistinctly through its wrought-iron ring. “I am Princess Keli, heir to the throne of Sto Lat,” she said haughtily, holding down the lid on her terror. “And I don’t talk to door furniture. ” “Fwell, I’m just a doorknocker and I can talk to fwhoever I please,” said the gargoyle pleasantly. “And I can ftell you the fmaster iff having a trying day and duff fnot fwant to be disturbed. But you could ftry to use the magic word,” it added. “Coming from an attractiff fwoman it works nine times out of eight. ” “Magic word? What’s the magic word?” The knocker perceptibly sneered. “Haff you been taught nothing, miss?” She drew herself up to her full height, which wasn’t really worth the effort. She felt she’d had a trying day too. Her father had personally executed a hundred enemies in battle. She should be able to manage a doorknocker. “I have been educated ,” she informed it with icy precision, “by some of the finest scholars in the land. ” The doorknocker did not appear to be impressed. “Iff they didn’t teach you the magic word,” it said calmly, “they couldn’t haff fbeen all that fine. ” Keli reached out, grabbed the heavy ring, and pounded it on the door. The knocker leered at her. “Ftreat me rough,” it lisped. “That’f the way I like it!” “You’re disgusting!” “Yeff. Ooo, that waff nife, do it again…. ” The door opened a crack. There was a shadowy glimpse of curly hair. “Madam, I said we’re cl—” Keli sagged. “ Please help me,” she said. “Please!” “See?” said the doorknocker triumphantly. “Sooner or later everyone remembers the magic word!” Keli had been to official functions in Ankh-Morpork and had met senior wizards from Unseen University, the Disc’s premier college of magic. Some of them had been tall, and most of them had been fat, and nearly all of them had been richly dressed, or at least thought they were richly dressed. In fact there are fashions in wizardry as in more mundane arts, and this tendency to look like elderly aldermen was only temporary. Previous generations had gone in for looking pale and interesting, or druidical and grubby, or mysterious and saturnine. But Keli was used to wizards as a sort of fur-trimmed small mountain with a wheezy voice, and Igneous Cutwell didn’t quite fit the mage image. He was young. Well, that couldn’t be helped; presumably even wizards had to start off young. He didn’t have a beard, and the only thing his rather grubby robe was trimmed with was frayed edges. “Would you like a drink or something?” he said, surreptitiously kicking a discarded vest under the table. Keli looked around for somewhere to sit that wasn’t occupied with laundry or used crockery, and shook her head. Cutwell noticed her expression. “It’s a bit alfresco, I’m afraid,” he added hurriedly, elbowing the remains of a garlic sausage on to the floor. “Mrs. Nugent usually comes in twice a week and does for me but she’s gone to see her sister who’s had one of her turns. Are you sure? It’s no trouble. I saw a spare cup here only yesterday. ” “I have a problem, Mr. Cutwell,” said Keli. “Hang on a moment. ” He reached up to a hook over the fireplace and took down a pointy hat that had seen better days, although from the look of it they hadn’t been very much better, and then said, “Right. Fire away. ” “What’s so important about the hat?” “Oh, it’s very essential. You’ve got to have the proper hat for wizarding. We wizards know about this sort of thing. ” “If you say so. Look, can you see me?” He peered at her. “Yes. Yes, I would definitely say I can see you. ” “And hear me? You can hear me, can you?” “Loud and clear. Yes. Every syllable tinkling into place. No problems. |
” “Then would you be surprised if I told you that no one else in this city can?” “Except me?” Keli snorted. “And your doorknocker. ” Cutwell pulled out a chair and sat down. He squirmed a little. A thoughtful expression passed over his face. He stood up, reached behind him and produced a flat reddish mass which might have once been half a pizza *. He stared at it sorrowfully. “I’ve been looking for that all morning, would you believe?” he said. “It was an All-On with extra peppers, too. ” He picked sadly at the squashed shape, and suddenly remembered Keli. “Gosh, sorry,” he said, “where’s my manners? Whatever will you think of me? Here. Have an anchovy. Please. ” “Have you been listening to me?” snapped Keli. “Do you feel invisible? In yourself, I mean?” said Cutwell, indistinctly. “Of course not. I just feel angry. So I want you to tell my fortune. ” “Well, I don’t know about that, it all sounds rather medical to me and—” “I can pay. ” “It’s illegal, you see,” said Cutwell wretchedly. “The old king expressly forbade fortune telling in Sto Lat. He didn’t like wizards much. ” “I can pay a lot! ” “Mrs. Nugent was telling me this new girl is likely to be worse. A right haughty one, she said. Not the sort to look kindly on practitioners of the subtle arts, I fear. ” Keli smiled. Members of the court who had seen that smile before would have hastened to drag Cutwell out of the way and into a place of safety, like the next continent, but he just sat there trying to pick bits of mushroom out of his robe. “I understand she’s got a foul temper on her,” said Keli. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t turn you out of the city anyway. ” “Oh dear,” said Cutwell, “do you really think so?” “Look,” said Keli, “you don’t have to tell my future, just my present. Even she couldn’t object to that. I’ll have a word with her if you like,” she added magnanimously. Cutwell brightened. “Oh, do you know her?” he said. “Yes. But sometimes, I think, not very well. ” Cutwell sighed and burrowed around in the debris on the table, dislodging cascades of elderly plates and the long-mummified remains of several meals. Eventually he unearthed a fat leather wallet, stuck to a cheese slice. “Well,” he said doubtfully, “these are Caroc cards. Distilled wisdom of the Ancients and all that. Or there’s the Ching Aling of the Hublandish. It’s all the rage in the smart set. I don’t do tealeaves. ” “I’ll try the Ching thing. ” “You throw these yarrow stalks in the air, then. ” She did. They looked at the ensuing pattern. “Hmm,” said Cutwell after a while. “Well, that’s one in the fireplace, one in the cocoa mug, one in the street, shame about the window, one on the table, and one, no, two behind the dresser. I expect Mrs. Nugent will be able to find the rest. ” “You didn’t say how hard. Shall I do it again?” “No-ooo, I don’t think so. ” Cutwell thumbed through the pages of a yellowed book that had previously been supporting the table leg. “The pattern seems to make sense. Yes, here we are, Octogram 8,887: Illegality, the Unatoning Goose. Which we cross reference here…hold on…hold on…yes. Got it. ” “Well?” “ Without verticality, wisely the cochineal emperor goes forth at teatime; at evening the mollusc is silent among the almond blossom. ” “Yes?” said Keli, respectfully. “What does that mean?” “Unless you’re a mollusc, probably not a lot,” said Cutwell. “I think perhaps it lost something in translation. ” “Are you sure you know how to do this?” “Let’s try the cards,” said Cutwell hurriedly, fanning them out. “Pick a card. Any card. ” “It’s Death,” said Keli. “Ah. Well. Of course, the Death card doesn’t actually mean death in all circumstances,” Cutwell said quickly. “You mean, it doesn’t mean death in those circumstances where the subject is getting over-excited and you’re too embarrassed to tell the truth, hmm?” “Look, take another card. ” “This one’s Death as well,” said Keli. “Did you put the other one back?” “No. Shall I take another card?” “May as well. ” “Well, there’s a coincidence!” “Death number three?” “Right. Is this a special pack for conjuring tricks?” Keli tried to sound composed, but even she could detect the faint tinkle of hysteria in her voice. Cutwell frowned at her and carefully put the cards back in the pack, shuffled it, and dealt them out on to the table. There was only one Death. “Oh dear,” he said, “I think this is going to be serious. May I see the palm of your hand, please?” He examined it for a long time. Alter a while he went to the dresser, took a jeweler’s eyeglass out of a drawer, wiped the porridge off it with the sleeve of his robe, and spent another few minutes examining her hand in minutest detail. Eventually he sat back, removed the glass, and stared at her. “You’re dead,” he said. Keli waited. She couldn’t think of any suitable reply. “I’m not” lacked a certain style, while “Is it serious?” seemed somehow too frivolous. “Did I say I thought this was going to be serious?” said Cutwell. “I think you did,” said Keli carefully, keeping her tone totally level. “I was right. ” “Oh. ” “It could be fatal. ” “How much more fatal,” said Keli, “than being dead?” “I didn’t mean for you. ” “Oh. ” “Something very fundamental seems to have gone wrong, you see. You’re dead in every sense but the, er, actual. I mean, the cards think you’re dead. Your lifeline thinks you’re dead. Everything and everyone thinks you’re dead. ” “ I don’t,” said Keli, but her voice was less than confident. “I’m afraid your opinion doesn’t count. ” “But people can see and hear me!” “The first thing you learn when you enroll at Unseen University, I’m afraid, is that people don’t pay much attention to that sort of thing. It’s what their minds tell them that’s important. ” “You mean people don’t see me because their minds tell them not to?” “’Fraid so. It’s called predestination, or something. ” Cutwell looked at her wretchedly. “I’m a wizard. We know about these things. “Actually it’s not the first thing you learn when you enroll,” he added, “I mean, you learn where the lavatories are and all that sort of thing before that. But after all that, it’s the first thing. ” “You can see me, though. ” “Ah. Well. Wizards are specially trained to see things that are there and not to see things that aren’t. You get these special exercises—” Keli drummed her fingers on the table, or tried to. It turned out to be difficult. She stared down in vague horror. Cutwell hurried forward and wiped the table with his sleeve. “Sorry,” he muttered, “I had treacle sandwiches for supper last night. ” “What can I do?” “Nothing. ” “ Nothing? ” “Well, you could certainly become a very successful burglar…sorry. That was tasteless of me. ” “ I thought so. ” Cutwell patted her ineptly on the hand, and Keli was too preoccupied even to notice such flagrant lèse majesté. “You see, everything’s fixed. History is all worked out, from start to finish. What the facts actually are is beside the point; history just rolls straight over the top of them. You can’t change anything because the changes are already part of it. You’re dead. It’s fated. You’ll just have to accept it. ” He gave an apologetic grin. “You’re a lot luckier than most dead people, if you look at it objectively,” he said. “You’re alive to enjoy it. ” “I don’t want to accept it. Why should I accept it? It’s not my fault!” “You don’t understand. History is moving on. You can’t get involved in it any more. There isn’t a part in it for you, don’t you see? Best to let things take their course. ” He patted her hand again. She looked at him. He withdrew his hand. “What am I supposed to do then?” she said. “Not eat, because the food wasn’t destined to be eaten by me? Go and live in a crypt somewhere?” “Bit of a poser, isn’t it?” agreed Cutwell. “That’s fate for you, I’m afraid. If the world can’t sense you, you don’t exist. I’m a wizard. We know—” “Don’t say it. ” Keli stood up. |
Five generations ago one of her ancestors had halted his band of nomadic cutthroats a few miles from the mound of Sto Lat and had regarded the sleeping city with a peculiarly determined expression that said: This’ll do. Just because you’re born in the saddle doesn’t mean you have to die in the bloody thing. Strangely enough, many of his distinctive features had, by a trick of heredity, been bequeathed to his descendant * , accounting for her rather idiosyncratic attractiveness. They were never more apparent than now. Even Cutwell was impressed. When it came to determination, you could have cracked rocks on her jaw. In exactly the same tone of voice that her ancestor had used when he addressed his weary, sweaty followers before the attack † , she said: “No. No, I’m not going to accept it. I’m not going to dwindle into some sort of ghost. You’re going to help me, wizard. ” Cutwell’s subconscious recognized that tone. It had harmonics in it that made even the woodworms in the floorboards stop what they were doing and stand to attention. It wasn’t voicing an opinion, it was saying: things will be thus. “Me, madam?” he quavered, “I don’t see what I can possibly—” He was jerked off his chair and out into the street, his robes billowing around him. Keli marched towards the palace with her shoulders set determinedly, dragging the wizard behind her like a reluctant puppy. It was with such a walk that mothers used to bear down on the local school when their little boy came home with a black eye; it was unstoppable; it was like the March of Time. “What is it you intend?” Cutwell stuttered, horribly aware that there was going to be nothing he could do to resist, whatever it was. “It’s your lucky day, wizard. ” “Oh. Good,” he said weakly. “You’ve just been appointed Royal Recognizer. ” “Oh. What does that entail, exactly?” “You’re going to remind everyone I’m alive. It’s very simple. There’s three square meals a day and your laundry done. Step lively, man. ” “Royal?” “You’re a wizard. I think there’s something you ought to know,” said the princess. T HERE IS ? said Death. (That was a cinematic trick adapted for print. Death wasn’t talking to the princess. He was actually in his study, talking to Mort. But it was quite effective, wasn’t it? It’s probably called a fast dissolve, or a crosscut/zoom. Or something. An industry where a senior technician is called a Best Boy might call it anything. ) A ND WHAT IS THAT ? he added, winding a bit of black silk around the wicked hook in a little vice he’d clamped to his desk. Mort hesitated. Mostly this was because of fear and embarrassment, but it was also because the sight of a hooded specter peacefully tying dry flies was enough to make anyone pause. Besides, Ysabell was sitting on the other side of the room, ostensibly doing some needlework but also watching him through a cloud of sullen disapproval. He could feel her red-rimmed eyes boring into the back of his neck. Death inserted a few crow hackles and whistled a busy little tune through his teeth, not having anything else to whistle through. He looked up. H MM ? “They—didn’t go as smoothly as I thought,” said Mort, standing nervously on the carpet in front of the desk. Y OU HAD TROUBLE ? said Death, snipping off a few scraps of feather. “Well, you see, the witch wouldn’t come away, and the monk, well, he started out all over again. ” T HERE’S NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT THERE, LAD — “—Mort—” —Y OU SHOULD HAVE WORKED OUT BY NOW THAT EVERYONE GETS WHAT THEY THINK IS COMING TO THEM. I T’S SO MUCH NEATER THAT WAY. “I know, sir. But that means bad people who think they’re going to some sort of paradise actually do get there. And good people who fear they’re going to some kind of horrible place really suffer. It doesn’t seem like justice. ” W HAT IS IT I’ VE SAID YOU MUST REMEMBER, WHEN YOU’RE OUT ON THE DUTY ? “Well, you—” HMM? Mort stuttered into silence. T HERE’S NO JUSTICE. T HERE’S JUST YOU. “Well, I—” Y OU MUST REMEMBER THAT. “Yes, but—” I EXPECT IT ALL WORKS OUT PROPERLY IN THE END. I HAVE NEVER MET THE CREATOR, BUT I’ M TOLD HE’S QUITE KINDLY DISPOSED TO PEOPLE. Death snapped the thread and started to unwind the vice. P UT SUCH THOUGHTS OUT OF YOUR MIND , he added. A T LEAST THE THIRD ONE SHOULDN’T HAVE GIVEN YOU ANY TROUBLE. This was the moment. Mort had thought about it for a long time. There was no sense in concealing it. He’d upset the whole future course of history. Such things tend to draw themselves to people’s attention. Best to get it off his chest. Own up like a man. Take his medicine. Cards on table. Beating about bush, none of. Mercy, throw himself on. The piercing blue eyes glittered at him. He looked back like a nocturnal rabbit trying to outstare the headlights of a sixteen-wheeled artic whose driver is a twelve-hour caffeine freak outrunning the tachometers of hell. He failed. “No, sir,” he said. G OOD. W ELL DONE. N OW THEN, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS ? Anglers reckon that a good dry fly should cunningly mimic the real thing. There are the right flies for morning. There are different flies for the evening rise. And so on. But the thing between Death’s triumphant digits was a fly from the dawn of time. It was the fly in the primordial soup. It had bred on mammoth turds. It wasn’t a fly that bangs on window panes, it was a fly that drills through walls. It was an insect that would crawl out from between the slats of the heaviest swat dripping venom and seeking revenge. Strange wings and dangling bits stuck out all over it. It seemed to have a lot of teeth. “What’s it called?” said Mort. I SHALL CALL IT —D EATH’S G LORY. Death gave the thing a final admiring glance and stuck it into the hood of his robe. I FEEL INCLINED TO SEE A LITTLE BIT OF LIFE THIS EVENING , he said. Y OU CAN TAKE THE DUTY, NOW THAT YOU’VE GOT THE HANG OF IT. A S IT WERE. “Yes. Sir,” said Mort, mournfully. He saw his life stretching out in front of him like a nasty black tunnel with no light at the end of it. Death drummed his finger on the desk, muttered to himself. A H YES , he said. A LBERT TELLS ME SOMEONE’S BEEN MEDDLING IN THE LIBRARY. “Pardon, sir?” T AKING BOOKS OUT, LEAVING THEM LYING AROUND. B OOKS ABOUT YOUNG WOMEN. H E SEEMS TO THINK IT IS AMUSING. As has already been revealed, the Holy Listeners have such well developed hearing that they can be deafened by a good sunset. Just for a few seconds it seemed to Mort that the skin on the back of his neck was developing similar strange powers, because he could see Ysabell freeze in mid-stitch. He also heard the little intake of breath that he’d heard before, among the shelves. He remembered the lace handkerchief. He said, “Yes, sir. It won’t happen again, sir. ” The skin on the back of his neck started to itch like fury. S PLENDID. N OW, YOU TWO CAN RUN ALONG. G ET ALBERT TO DO YOU A PICNIC LUNCH OR SOMETHING. G ET SOME FRESH AIR. I’ VE NOTICED THE WAY YOU TWO ALWAYS AVOID EACH OTHER. He gave Mort a conspiratorial nudge—it was like being poked with a stick—and added, A LBERT’S TOLD ME WHAT THAT MEANS. “Has he?” said Mort gloomily. He’d been wrong, there was a light at the end of the tunnel, and it was a flamethrower. Death gave him another of his supernova winks. Mort didn’t return it. Instead he turned and plodded towards the door, at a general speed and gait that made Great A’Tuin look like a spring lamb. He was halfway along the corridor before he heard the soft rush of footsteps behind him and a hand caught his arm. “Mort?” He turned and gazed at Ysabell through a fog of depression. “Why did you let him think it was you in the library?” “Don’t know. ” “It was…very…kind of you,” she said cautiously. “Was it? I can’t think what came over me. ” He felt in his pocket and produced the handkerchief. “This belongs to you, I think. ” “Thank you. ” She blew her nose noisily. Mort was already well down the corridor, his shoulders hunched like vulture’s wings. She ran after him. “I say,” she said. “What?” “I wanted to say thank you. ” “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “It’d just be best if you don’t take books away again. |
It upsets them, or something. ” He gave what he considered to be a mirthless laugh. “Ha!” “Ha what?” “Just ha!” He’d reached the end of the corridor. There was the door into the kitchen, where Albert would be leering knowingly, and Mort decided he couldn’t face that. He stopped. “But I only took the books for a bit of company,” she said behind him. He gave in. “We could have a walk in the garden,” he said in despair, and then managed to harden his heart a little and added, “Without obligation, that is. ” “You mean you’re not going to marry me?” she said. Mort was horrified. “Marry?” “Isn’t that what father brought you here for?” she said. “He doesn’t need an apprentice, after all. ” “You mean all those nudges and winks and little comments about some day my son all this will be yours?” said Mort. “I tried to ignore them. I don’t want to get married to anyone yet,” he added, suppressing a fleeting mental picture of the princess. “And certainly not to you, no offense meant. ” “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on the Disc,” she said sweetly. Mort was hurt by this. It was one thing not to want to marry someone, but quite another to be told they didn’t want to marry you. “At least I don’t look like I’ve been eating doughnuts in a wardrobe for years,” he said, as they stepped out on to Death’s black lawn. “At least I walk as if my legs only had one knee each,” she said. “My eyes aren’t two juugly poached eggs. ” Ysabell nodded. “On the other hand, my ears don’t look like something growing on a dead tree. What does juugly mean?” “You know, eggs like Albert does them. ” “With the white all sticky and runny and full of slimy bits?” “Yes. ” “A good word,” she conceded thoughtfully. “But my hair, I put it to you, doesn’t look like something you clean a privy with. ” “Certainly, but neither does mine look like a wet hedgehog. ” “Pray note that my chest does not appear to be a toast rack in a wet paper bag. ” Mort glanced sideways at the top of Ysabell’s dress, which contained enough puppy fat for two litters of Rottweilers, and forbore to comment. “ My eyebrows don’t look like a pair of mating caterpillars,” he hazarded. “True. But my legs, I suggest, could at least stop a pig in a passageway. ” “Sorry—?” “They’re not bandy,” she explained. “Ah. ” They strolled through the lily beds, temporarily lost for words. Eventually Ysabell confronted Mort and stuck out her hand. He shook it in thankful silence. “Enough?” she said. “Just about. ” “Good. Obviously we shouldn’t get married, if only for the sake of the children. ” Mort nodded. They sat down on a stone seat between some neatly clipped box hedges. Death had made a pond in this corner of the garden, fed by an icy spring that appeared to be vomited into the pool by a stone lion. Fat white carp lurked in the depths, or nosed on the surface among the velvety black water lilies. “We should have brought some breadcrumbs,” said Mort gallantly, opting for a totally noncontroversial subject. “He never comes out here, you know,” said Ysabell, watching the fish. “He made it to keep me amused. ” “It didn’t work?” “It’s not real,” she said. “Nothing’s real here. Not really real. He just likes to act like a human being. He’s trying really hard at the moment, have you noticed. I think you’re having an effect on him. Did you know he tried to learn the banjo once?” “I see him as more the organ type. ” “He couldn’t get the hang of it,” said Ysabell, ignoring him. “He can’t create, you see. ” “You said he created this pool. ” “It’s a copy of one he saw somewhere. Everything’s a copy. ” Mort shifted uneasily. Some small insect had crawled up his leg. “It’s rather sad,” he said, hoping that this was approximately the right tone to adopt. “Yes. ” She scooped a handful of gravel from the path and began to flick it absent-mindedly into the pool. “Are my eyebrows that bad?” she said. “Um,” said Mort, “afraid so. ” “Oh. ” Flick, flick. The carp were watching her disdainfully. “And my legs?” he said. “Yes. Sorry. ” Mort shuffled anxiously through his limited repertoire of small talk, and gave up. “Never mind,” he said gallantly. “At least you can use tweezers. ” “He’s very kind,” said Ysabell, ignoring him, “in a sort of absent-minded way. ” “He’s not exactly your real father, is he?” “My parents were killed crossing the Great Nef years ago. There was a storm, I think. He found me and brought me here. I don’t know why he did it. ” “Perhaps he felt sorry for you?” “He never feels anything. I don’t mean that nastily, you understand. It’s just that he’s got nothing to feel with, no whatd’youcallits, no glands. He probably thought sorry for me. ” She turned her pale round face towards Mort. “I won’t hear a word against him. He tries to do his best. It’s just that he’s always got so much to think about. ” “My father was a bit like that. Is, I mean. ” “I expect he’s got glands, though. ” “I imagine he has,” said Mort, shifting uneasily. “It’s not something I’ve ever really thought about, glands. ” They stared side by side at the trout. The trout stared back. “I’ve just upset the entire history of the future,” said Mort. “Yes?” “You see, when he tried to kill her I killed him, but the thing is, according to the history she should have died and the duke would be king, but the worst bit, the worst bit is that although he’s absolutely rotten to the core he’d unite the cities and eventually they’ll be a federation and the books say there’ll be a hundred years of peace and plenty. I mean, you’d think there’d be a reign of terror or something, but apparently history needs this kind of person sometimes and the princess would just be another monarch. I mean, not bad , quite good really, but just not right and now it’s not going to happen and history is flapping around loose and it’s all my fault. ” He subsided, anxiously awaiting her reply. “You were right, you know. ” “I was?” “We ought to have brought some breadcrumbs,” she said. “I suppose they find things to eat in the water. Beetles and so on. ” “Did you hear what I said?” “What about?” “Oh. Nothing. Nothing much, really. Sorry. ” Ysabell sighed and stood up. “I expect you’ll be wanting to get off,” she said. “I’m glad we got this marriage business sorted out. It was quite nice talking to you. ” “We could have a sort of hate-hate relationship,” said Mort. “I don’t normally get to talk with the people father works with. ” She appeared to be unable to draw herself away, as though she was waiting for Mort to say something else. “Well, you wouldn’t,” was all he could think of. “I expect you’ve got to go off to work now. ” “More or less. ” Mort hesitated, aware that in some indefinable way the conversation had drifted out of the shallows and was now floating over some deep bits he didn’t quite understand. There was a noise like— It made Mort recall the old yard at home, with a pang of homesickness. During the harsh Ramtop winters the family kept hardy mountain tharga beasts in the yard, chucking in straw as necessary. After the spring thaw the yard was several feet deep and had quite a solid crust on it. You could walk across it if you were careful. If you weren’t, and sank knee deep in the concentrated gyppo, then the sound your boot made as it came out, green and steaming, was as much the sound of the turning year as birdsong and beebuzz. It was that noise. Mort instinctively examined his shoes. Ysabell was crying, not in little ladylike sobs, but in great yawning gulps, like bubbles from an underwater volcano, fighting one another to be the first to the surface. They were sobs escaping under pressure, matured in humdrum misery. Mort said, “Er?” Her body was shaking like a waterbed in an earthquake zone. She fumbled urgently in her sleeves for the handkerchief, but it was no more use in the circumstances than a paper hat in a thunderstorm. She tried to say something, which became a stream of consonants punctuated by sobs. Mort said, “Um?” “I said, how old do you think I am?” “Fifteen?” he hazarded. “I’m sixteen,” she wailed. |
“And do you know how long I’ve been sixteen for ?” “I’m sorry, I don’t under—” “No, you wouldn’t. No one would. ” She blew her nose again, and despite her shaking hands nevertheless carefully tucked the rather damp hanky back up her sleeve. “ You’re allowed out,” she said. “You haven’t been here long enough to notice. Time stands still here, haven’t you noticed? Oh, something passes, but it’s not real time. He can’t create real time. ” “Oh. ” When she spoke again it was in the thin, careful and above all brave voice of someone who has pulled themselves together despite overwhelming odds but might let go again at any moment. “I’ve been sixteen for thirty-five years. ” “Oh?” “It was bad enough the first year. ” Mort looked back at his last few weeks, and nodded in sympathy. “Is that why you’ve been reading all those books?” he said. Ysabell looked down, and twiddled a sandaled toe in the gravel in an embarrassed fashion. “They’re very romantic,” she said. “There’s some really lovely stories. There was this girl who drank poison when her young man had died, and there was one who jumped off a cliff because her father insisted she should marry this old man, and another one drowned herself rather than submit to—” Mort listened in astonishment. To judge by Ysabell’s careful choice of reading matter, it was a matter of note for any Disc female to survive adolescence long enough to wear out a pair of stockings. “—and then she thought he was dead, and she killed herself and then he woke up and so he did kill himself, and then there was this girl—” Common sense suggested that at least a few women reached their third decade without killing themselves for love, but common sense didn’t seem to get even a walk-on part in these dramas. * Mort was already aware that love made you feel hot and cold and cruel and weak, but he hadn’t realized that it could make you stupid. “—swam the river every night, but one night there was this storm, and when he didn’t arrive she—” Mort felt instinctively that some young couples met, say, at a village dance, and hit it off, and went out together for a year or two, had a few rows, made up, got married and didn’t kill themselves at all. He became aware that the litany of star-crossed love had wound down. “Oh,” he said, weakly. “Doesn’t anyone just, you know, just get along any more?” “To love is to suffer,” said Ysabell. “There’s got to be lots of dark passion. ” “Has there?” “Absolutely. And anguish. ” Ysabell appeared to recall something. “Did you say something about something flapping around loose?” she said, in the tight voice of someone pulling themselves together. Mort considered. “No,” he said. “I’m afraid I wasn’t paying much attention. ” “It doesn’t matter at all. ” They strolled back to the house in silence. When Mort went back to the study he found that Death had gone, leaving four hourglasses on the desk. The big leather book was lying on a lectern, securely locked shut. There was a note tucked under the glasses. Mort had imagined that Death’s handwriting would either be gothic or else tombstone angular, but Death had in fact studied a classic work on graphology before selecting a style and had adopted a hand that indicated a balanced, well-adjusted personality. It said: Gone fyshing. Theyre ys ane execution in Pseudopolis, a naturral in Krull, a faytal fall in the Carrick Mtns, ane ague in Ell-Kinte. Thee rest of thee day’s your own. Mort thought that history was thrashing around like a steel hawser with the tension off, twanging backwards and forwards across reality in great destructive sweeps. History isn’t like that. History unravels gently, like an old sweater. It has been patched and darned many times, reknitted to suit different people, shoved in a box under the sink of censorship to be cut up for the dusters of propaganda, yet it always—eventually—manages to spring back into its old familiar shape. History has a habit of changing the people who think they are changing it. History always has a few tricks up its frayed sleeve. It’s been around a long time. This is what was happening: The misplaced stroke of Mort’s scythe had cut history into two separate realities. In the city of Sto Lat Princess Keli still ruled, with a certain amount of difficulty and with the full time aid of the Royal Recognizer, who was put on the court payroll and charged with the duty of remembering that she existed. In the lands outside, though—beyond the plain, in the Ramtops, around the Circle Sea and all the way to the Rim—the traditional reality still held sway and she was quite definitely dead, the duke was king and the world was proceeding sedately according to plan, whatever that was. The point is that both realities were true. The sort of historical event horizon was currently about twenty miles away from the city, and wasn’t yet very noticeable. That’s because the—well, call it the difference in historical pressures—wasn’t yet very great. But it was growing. Out in the damp cabbage fields there was a shimmer in the air and a faint sizzle, like frying grasshoppers. People don’t alter history any more than birds alter the sky, they just make brief patterns in it. Inch by inch, implacable as a glacier and far colder, the real reality was grinding back towards Sto Lat. Mort was the first person to notice. It had been a long afternoon. The mountaineer had held on to his icy handhold until the last moment and the executee had called Mort a lackey of the monarchist state. Only the old lady of 103, who had gone to her reward surrounded by her sorrowing relatives, had smiled at him and said he was looking a little pale. The Disc sun was close to the horizon by the time Binky cantered wearily through the skies over Sto Lat, and Mort looked down and saw the borderland of reality. It curved away below him, a crescent of faint silver mist. He didn’t know what it was, but he had a nasty foreboding that it had something to do with him. He reined in the horse and allowed him to trot gently towards the ground, touching down a few yards behind the wall of iridescent air. It was moving at something less than walking pace, hissing gently as it drifted ghost-like across the stark damp cabbage fields and frozen drainage ditches. It was a cold night, the type of night when frost and fog fight for domination and every sound is muffled. Binky’s breath made fountains of cloud in the still air. He whinnied gently, almost apologetically, and pawed at the ground. Mort slid out of the saddle and crept up to the interface. It crackled softly. Weird shapes coruscated across it, flowing and shifting and disappearing. After some searching he found a stick and poked it cautiously into the wall. It made strange ripples that wobbled slowly out of sight. Mort looked up as a shape drifted overhead. It was a black owl, patrolling the ditches for anything small and squeaky. It hit the wall with a splash of sparkling mist, leaving an owl-shaped ripple that grew and spread until it joined the boiling kaleidoscope. Then it vanished. Mort could see through the transparent interface, and certainly no owl reappeared on the other side. Just as he was puzzling over this there was another soundless splash a few feet away and the bird burst into view again, totally unconcerned, and skimmed away across the fields. Mort pulled himself together, and stepped through the barrier which was no barrier at all. It tingled. A moment later Binky burst through after him, eyes rolling in desperation and tendrils of interface catching on his hooves. He reared up, shaking his mane like a dog to remove clinging fibers of mist, and looked at Mort beseechingly. Mort caught his bridle, patted him on the nose, and fumbled in his pocket for a rather grubby sugar lump. He was aware that he was in the presence of something important, but he wasn’t yet quite sure what it was. There was a road running between an avenue of damp and gloomy willow trees. Mort remounted and steered Binky across the field into the dripping darkness under the branches. |
In the distance he could see the lights of Sto Helit, which really wasn’t much more than a small town, and a faint glow on the edge of sight must be Sto Lat. He looked at it longingly. The barrier worried him. He could see it creeping across the field behind the trees. Mort was on the point of urging Binky back into the air when he saw the light immediately ahead of him, warm and beckoning. It was spilling from the windows of a large building set back from the road. It was probably a cheerful sort of light in any case, but in these surroundings and compared with Mort’s mood it was positively ecstatic. As he rode nearer he saw shadows moving against it, and made out a few snatches of song. It was an inn, and inside there were people having a good time, or what passed for a good time if you were a peasant who spent most of your time closely concerned with cabbages. Compared to brassicas, practically anything is fun. There were human beings in there, doing uncomplicated human things like getting drunk and forgetting the words of songs. Mort had never really felt homesick, possibly because his mind had been too occupied with other things. But he felt it now for the first time—a sort of longing, not for a place, but for a state of mind, for being just an ordinary human being with straightforward things to worry about, like money and sickness and other people…. “I shall have a drink,” he thought, “and perhaps I shall feel better. ” There was an open-fronted stable at one side of the main building, and he led Binky into the warm, horse-smelling darkness that already accommodated three other horses. As Mort unfastened the nosebag he wondered if Death’s horse felt the same way about other horses which had rather less supernatural lifestyles. He certainly looked impressive compared to the others, which regarded him watchfully. Binky was a real horse—the blisters of the shovel handle on Mort’s hands were a testimony to that—and compared to the others he looked more real than ever. More solid. More horsey. Slightly larger than life. In fact, Mort was on the verge of making an important deduction, and it is unfortunate that he was distracted, as he walked across the yard to the inn’s low door, by the sight of the inn sign. Its artist hadn’t been particularly gifted, but there was no mistaking the line of Keli’s jaw or her mass of fiery hair in the portrait of The Quene’s Hed. He sighed, and pushed open the door. As one man, the assembled company stopped talking and stared at him with the honest rural stare that suggests that for two pins they’ll hit you around the head with a shovel and bury your body under a compost heap at full moon. It might be worth taking another look at Mort, because he’s changed a lot in the last few chapters. For example, while he still has plenty of knees and elbows about his person, they seem to have migrated to their normal places and he no longer moves as though his joints were loosely fastened together with elastic bands. He used to look as if he knew nothing at all; now he looks as though he knew too much. Something about his eyes suggests that he has seen things that ordinary people never see, or at least never see more than once. Something about all the rest of him suggests to the watchers that causing an inconvenience for this boy might just be as wise as kicking a wasp nest. In short, Mort no longer looks like something the cat brought in and then brought up. The landlord relaxed his grip on the stout blackthorn peacemaker he kept under the bar and composed his features into something resembling a cheerful welcoming grin, although not very much. “Evening, your lordship,” he said. “What’s your pleasure this cold and frosty night?” “What?” said Mort, blinking in the light. “What he means is, what d’you want to drink?” said a small ferret-faced man sitting by the fire, who was giving Mort the kind of look a butcher gives a field full of lambs. “Um. I don’t know,” said Mort. “Do you sell stardrip?” “Never heard of it, lordship. ” Mort looked around at the faces watching him, illuminated by the firelight. They were the sort of people generally called the salt of the earth. In other words, they were hard, square and bad for your health, but Mort was too preoccupied to notice. “What do people like to drink here, then?” The landlord looked sideways at his customers, a clever trick given that they were directly in front of him. “Why, lordship, we drink scumble, for preference. ” “Scumble?” said Mort, failing to notice the muffled sniggers. “Aye, lordship. Made from apples. Well, mainly apples. ” This seemed healthy enough to Mort. “Oh, right,” he said. “A pint of scumble, then. ” He reached into his pocket and withdrew the bag of gold that Death had given him. It was still quite full. In the sudden hush of the inn the faint clink of the coins sounded like the legendary Brass Gongs of Leshp, which can be heard far out to sea on stormy nights as the currents stir them in their drowned towers three hundred fathoms below. “And please serve these gentlemen with whatever they want,” he added. He was so overwhelmed by the chorus of thanks that he didn’t take much notice of the fact that his new friends were served their drinks in tiny, thimble-sized glasses, while his alone turned up in a large wooden mug. A lot of stories are told about scumble, and how it is made out on the damp marshes according to ancient recipes handed down rather unsteadily from father to son. It’s not true about the rats, or the snake heads, or the lead shot. The one about the dead sheep is a complete fabrication. We can lay to rest all the variations of the one about the trouser button. But the one about not letting it come into contact with metal is absolutely true, because when the landlord flagrantly shortchanged Mort and plonked the small heap of copper in a puddle of the stuff it immediately began to froth. Mort sniffed his drink, and then took a sip. It tasted something like apples, something like autumn mornings, and quite a lot like the bottom of a logpile. Not wishing to appear disrespectful, however, he took a swig. The crowd watched him, counting under its breath. Mort felt something was being demanded of him. “Nice,” he said, “very refreshing. ” He took another sip. “Bit of an acquired taste,” he added, “but well worth the effort, I’m sure. ” There were one or two mutters of discontent from the back of the crowd. “He’s been watering the scumble, that’s what ’tis. ” “Nay, thou knows what happens if you lets a drop of water touch scumble. ” The landlord tried to ignore this. “You like it?” he said to Mort, in pretty much the same tone of voice people used when they said to St. George, “You killed a what ?” “It’s quite tangy,” said Mort. “And sort of nutty. ” “Excuse me,” said the landlord, and gently took the mug out of Mort’s hand. He sniffed at it, then wiped his eyes. “Uuunnyag,” he said. “It’s the right stuff all right. ” He looked at the boy with something verging on admiration. It wasn’t that he’d drunk a third of a pint of scumble in itself, it was that he was still vertical and apparently alive. He handed the pot back again: it was as if Mort was being given a trophy after some incredible contest. When the boy took another mouthful several of the watchers winced. The landlord wondered what Mort’s teeth were made of, and decided it must be the same stuff as his stomach. “You’re not a wizard by any chance?” he inquired, just in case. “Sorry, no. Should I be?” Didn’t think so, thought the landlord, he doesn’t walk like a wizard and anyway he isn’t smoking anything. He looked at the scumble pot again. There was something wrong about this. There was something wrong about the boy. He didn’t look right. He looked— —more solid than he should do. That was ridiculous, of course. The bar was solid, the floor was solid, the customers were as solid as you could wish for. |
Yet Mort, standing there looking rather embarrassed and casually sipping a liquid you could clean spoons with, seemed to emit a particularly potent sort of solidness, an extra dimension of realness. His hair was more hairy, his clothes more clothy, his boots the epitome of bootness. It made your head ache just to look at him. However, Mort then demonstrated that he was human after all. The mug dropped from his stricken fingers and clattered on the flagstones, where the dregs of scumble started to eat its way through them. He pointed at the far wall, his mouth opening and shutting wordlessly. The regulars turned back to their conversations and games of shovel-up, reassured that things were as they should be; Mort was acting perfectly normal now. The landlord, relieved that the brew had been vindicated, reached across the bar top and patted him companionably on the shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said. “It often takes people like this, you’ll just have a headache for a few weeks, don’t worry about it, a drop of scumble’ll see you all right again. ” It is a fact that the best remedy for a scumble hangover is a hair of the dog, although it should more accurately be called a tooth of the shark or possibly a tread of the bulldozer. But Mort merely went on pointing and said, in a trembling voice, “Can’t you see it? It’s coming through the wall! It’s coming right through the wall!” “A lot of things come through the wall after your first drink of scumble. Green hairy things, usually. ” “It’s the mist! Can’t you hear it sizzling?” “A sizzling mist, is it?” The landlord looked at the wall, which was quite empty and unmysterious except for a few cobwebs. The urgency in Mort’s voice unsettled him. He would have preferred the normal scaly monsters. A man knew where he stood with them. “It’s coming right across the room! Can’t you feel it?” The customers looked at one another. Mort was making them uneasy. One or two of them admitted later that they did feel something, rather like an icy tingle, but it could have been indigestion. Mort backed away, and then gripped the bar. He shivered for a moment. “Look,” said the landlord, “a joke’s a joke, but—” “You had a green shirt on before!” The landlord looked down. There was an edge of terror in his voice. “Before what?” he quavered. To his astonishment, and before his hand could complete its surreptitious journey towards the blackthorn stick, Mort lunged across the bar and grabbed him by the apron. “You’ve got a green shirt, haven’t you?” he said. “I saw it, it had little yellow buttons!” “Well, yes. I’ve got two shirts. ” The landlord tried to draw himself up a little. “I’m a man of means,” he added. “I just didn’t wear it today. ” He didn’t want to know how Mort knew about the buttons. Mort let him go and spun round. “They’re all sitting in different places! Where’s the man who was sitting by the fire? It’s all changed!” He ran out through the door and there was a muffled cry from outside. He dashed back, wild-eyed, and confronted the horrified crowd. “Who changed the sign? Someone changed the sign!” The landlord nervously ran his tongue across his lips. “After the old king died, you mean?” he said. Mort’s look chilled him, the boy’s eyes were two black pools of terror. “It’s the name I mean!” “We’ve—it’s always been the same name,” said the man, looking desperately at his customers for support. “Isn’t that so, lads? The Duke’s Head. ” There was a murmured chorus of agreement. Mort stared at everyone, visibly shaking. Then he turned and ran outside again. The listeners heard hoofbeats in the yard, which grew fainter and then disappeared entirely, just as though a horse had left the face of the earth. There was no sound inside the inn. Men tried to avoid one another’s gaze. No one wanted to be the first to admit to seeing what he thought he had just seen. So it was left to the landlord to walk unsteadily across the room and reach out and run his fingers across the familiar, reassuring wooden surface of the door. It was solid, unbroken, everything a door should be. Everyone had seen Mort run through it three times. He just hadn’t opened it. Binky fought for height, rising nearly vertically with his hooves thrashing the air and his breath curling away behind him like a vapor trail. Mort hung on with knees and hands and mostly with willpower, his face buried in the horse’s mane. He didn’t look down until the air around him was freezing and thin as workhouse gravy. Overhead the Hub Lights flickered silently across the winter sky. Below— —an upturned saucer, miles across, silvery in the starlight. He could see lights through it. Clouds were drifting through it. No. He watched carefully. Clouds were certainly drifting into it, and there were clouds in it, but the clouds inside were wispier and moving in a slightly different direction and, in fact, didn’t seem to have much to do with the clouds outside. There was something else…oh yes, the Hub Lights. They gave the night outside the ghostly hemisphere a faint green tint, but there was no sign of it under the dome. It was like looking into a piece of another world, almost identical, that had been grafted on to the Disc. The weather was slightly different in there, and the Lights weren’t on display tonight. And the Disc was resenting it, and surrounding it, and pushing it back into non-existence. Mort couldn’t see it growing smaller from up here, but in his mind’s ear he could hear the locust sizzle of the thing as it ground across the land, changing things back to where they should be. Reality was healing itself. Mort knew, without even having to think about it, who was at the center of the dome. It was obvious even from here that it was centered firmly on Sto Lat. He tried not to think what would happen when the dome had shrunk to the size of the room, and then the size of a person, and then the size of an egg. He failed. Logic would have told Mort that here was his salvation. In a day or two the problem would solve itself; the books in the library would be right again; the world would have sprung back into shape like an elastic bandage. Logic would have told him that interfering with the process a second time around would only make things worse. Logic would have said all that, if only Logic hadn’t taken the night off too. Light travels quite slowly on the Disc, due to the braking effect of the huge magical field, and currently that part of the Rim carrying the island of Krull was directly under the little sun’s orbit and it was, therefore, still early evening. It was also quite warm, since the Rim picks up more heat and enjoys a gentle maritime climate. In fact Krull, with a large part of what for want of a better word must be called its coastline sticking out over the Edge, was a fortunate island. The only native Krullians who did not appreciate this were those who didn’t look where they were going or who walked in their sleep and, because of natural selection, there weren’t very many of them any more. All societies have their share of dropouts, but on Krull they never had a chance to drop back in again. Terpsic Mims was not a dropout. He was an angler. There is a difference; angling is more expensive. But Terpsic was happy. He was watching a feather on a cork bob gently on the gentle, reed-lined waters of the Hakrull river and his mind was very nearly a blank. The only thing that could have disturbed his mood was actually catching a fish, because catching fish was the one thing about angling that he really dreaded. They were cold and slimy and panicky and got on his nerves, and Terpsic’s nerves weren’t very good. So long as he caught nothing Terpsic Mims was one of the Disc’s happiest anglers, because the Hakrull river was five miles from his home and therefore five miles from Mrs. Gwladys Mims, with whom he had enjoyed six happy months of married life. That had been some twenty years previously. Terpsic did not pay undue heed when another angler took up station further along the bank. |
Of course, some fishermen might have objected to this breach of etiquette, but in Terpsic’s book anything that reduced his chance of actually catching any of the damned things was all right by him. Out of the corner of his eye he noted that the newcomer was fly-fishing, an interesting pastime which Terpsic had rejected because one spent altogether far too much time at home making the equipment. He had never seen fly-fishing like this before. There were wet flies, and there were dry flies, but this fly augured into the water with a saw-toothed whine and dragged the fish out backwards. Terpsic watched in horrified fascination as the indistinct figure behind the willow trees cast and cast again. The water boiled as the river’s entire piscine population fought to get out of the way of the buzzing terror and, unfortunately, a large and maddened pike took Terpsic’s hook out of sheer confusion. One moment he was standing on the bank, and the next he was in a green, clanging gloom, bubbling his breath away and watching his life flash before his eyes and, even in the moment of drowning, dreading the thought of watching the bit between the day of his wedding and the present. It occurred to him that Gwladys would soon be a widow, which cheered him up a little bit. In fact Terpsic had always tried to look on the bright side, and it struck him, as he sank gratefully into the silt, that from this point on his whole life could only improve…. And a hand grabbed his hair and dragged him to the surface, which was suddenly full of pain. Ghastly blue and black blotches swam in front of his eyes. His lungs were on fire. His throat was a pipe of agony. Hands—cold hands, freezing hands, hands that felt like a glove full of dice—towed him through the water and threw him down on to the bank where, after some game attempts to get on with drowning, he was eventually bullied back into what passed for his life. Terpsic didn’t often get angry, because Gwladys didn’t hold with it. But he felt cheated. He’d been born without being consulted, he’d been married because Gwladys and her father had seen to it, and the only major human achievement that was uniquely his had been rudely snatched away from him. A few seconds ago it had all been so simple. Now it was all complicated again. Not that he wanted to die, of course. The gods were very firm on the subject of suicide. He just hadn’t wanted to be rescued. Through red eyes in a mask of slime and duckweed he peered at the blurred form above him, and shouted, “Why did you have to save me?” The answer worried him. He thought about it as he squelched all the way home. It sat at the back of his mind while Gwladys complained about the state of his clothes. It squirreled around in his head as he sat and sneezed guiltily by the fire, because being ill was another thing Gwladys didn’t hold with. As he lay shivering in bed it settled in his dreams like an iceberg. In the midst of his fever he muttered, “What did he mean, ‘ FOR LATER ’?” Torches flared in the city of Sto Lat. Whole squads of men were charged with the task of constantly renewing them. The streets glowed. The sizzling flames pushed back shadows that had been blamelessly minding their own business every night for centuries. They illuminated ancient corners where the eyes of bewildered rats glittered in the depths of their holes. They forced burglars to stay indoors. They glowed on the night mists, forming a nimbus of yellow light that blotted out the cold high flames streaming from the Hub. But mainly they shone on the face of Princess Keli. It was everywhere. It plastered every flat surface. Binky cantered along the glowing streets between Princess Keli on doors, walls and gable ends. Mort gaped at posters of his beloved on every surface where workmen had been able to make paste stick. Even stranger, no one seemed to be paying them much attention. While Sto Lat’s night life was not as colorful and full of incident as that of Ankh-Morpork, in the same way that a wastepaper basket cannot compete with a municipal tip, the streets were nevertheless a-bustle with people and shrill with the cries of hucksters, gamblers, sellers of sweetmeats, pea-and-thimble men, ladies of assignation, pickpockets and the occasional honest trader who had wandered in by mistake and couldn’t now raise enough money to leave. As Mort rode through them snatches of conversation in half-a-dozen languages floated into his ears; with numb acceptance he realized he could understand every one of them. He eventually dismounted and led the horse along Wall Street, searching in vain for Cutwell’s house. He found it only because a lump on the nearest poster was making muffled swearing noises. He reached out gingerly and pulled aside a strip of paper. “Fanks very much,” said the gargoyle doorknocker. “You wouldn’t credit it, would you? One minute life as normal, nexft minute a mouthful of glue. ” “Where’s Cutwell?” “He’s gone off to the palace. ” The knocker leered at him and winked a cast-iron eye. “Some men came and took all his fstuff away. Then some ovver men started pasting pictures of his girlfriend all over the place. Barftuds,” it added. Mort colored. “His girlfriend?” The doorknocker, being of the demonic persuasion, sniggered at his tone. It sounded like fingernails being dragged over a file. “Yeff,” it said. “They feemed in a bit of a hurry, if you ask me. ” Mort was already up on Binky’s back. “I fay!” shouted the knocker at his retreating back. “I fay! Could you unftick me, boy?” Mort tugged on Binky’s reins so hard that the horse reared and danced crazily backwards across the cobbles, then reached out and grabbed the ring of the knocker. The gargoyle looked up into his face and suddenly felt like a very frightened doorknocker indeed. Mort’s eyes glowed like crucibles, his expression was a furnace, his voice held enough heat to melt iron. It didn’t know what he could do, but felt that it would prefer not to find out. “What did you call me?” Mort hissed. The doorknocker thought quickly. “Fir?” it said. “What did you ask me to do?” “Unftick me?” “I don’t intend to. ” “Fine,” said the doorknocker, “fine. That’s okay by me. I’ll just ftick around, then. ” It watched Mort canter off along the street and shuddered with relief, knocking itself gently in its nervousness. “A naaaarrow sqeeeak,” said one of the hinges. “Fut up!” Mort passed night watchmen, whose job now appeared to consist of ringing bells and shouting the name of the Princess, but a little uncertainly, as if they had difficulty remembering it. He ignored them, because he was listening to voices inside his head which went: She’s only met you once, you fool. Why should she bother about you? Yes, but I did save her life. That means it belongs to her. Not to you. Besides, he’s a wizard. So what? Wizards aren’t supposed to—to go out with girls, they’re celebrate…. Celebrate? They’re not supposed to youknow…. What, never any youknow at all? said the internal voice, and it sounded as if it was grinning. It’s supposed to be bad for the magic, thought Mort bitterly. Funny place to keep magic. Mort was shocked. Who are you? he demanded. I’m you, Mort. Your inner self. Well, I wish I’d get out of my head, it’s quite crowded enough with me in here. Fair enough, said the voice, I was only trying to help. But remember, if you ever need you, you’re always around. The voice faded away. Well, thought Mort bitterly, that must have been me. I’m the only one that calls me Mort. The shock of the realization quite obscured the fact that, while Mort had been locked into the monologue, he had ridden right through the gates of the palace. Of course, people rode through the gates of the palace every day, but most of them needed the things to be opened first. The guards on the other side were rigid with fear, because they thought they had seen a ghost. They would have been far more frightened if they had known that a ghost was almost exactly what they hadn’t seen. |
The guard outside the doors of the great hall had seen it happen too, but he had time to gather his wits, or such that remained, and raise his spear as Binky trotted across the courtyard. “Halt,” he croaked. “Halt. What goes where?” Mort saw him for the first time. “What?” he said, still lost in thought. The guard ran his tongue over his dry lips, and backed away. Mort slid off Binky’s back and walked forward. “I meant, what goes there?” the guard tried again, with a mixture of doggedness and suicidal stupidity that marked him for early promotion. Mort caught the spear gently and lifted it out of the way of the door. As he did so the torchlight illuminated his face. “Mort,” he said softly. It should have been enough for any normal soldier, but this guard was officer material. “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 humor 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. * 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 absentmindedly. “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 nightwatchman 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 saltpeter, too, because it was the tenth anniversary of the accession of the Patrician * 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 drank 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 offense, old chap. Do I know you?” said Lord Rodley, kicking vigorously on the back beat. I THINK IT UNLIKELY. T ELL 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. W HAT 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. P LEASE EXPLAIN THIS. D OES 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. ” F UN. “That’s right. Dada, dada, da—kick!” There was an audible pause. W HO IS THIS FUN ? “No, fun isn’t anybody, fun is what you have. ” W E ARE HAVING FUN ? “I thought I was,” said his lordship uncertainly. The voice by his ear was vaguely worrying him; it appeared to be arriving directly into his brain. W HAT IS THIS FUN ? “This is!” T O KICK VIGOROUSLY IS FUN ? “Well, part of the fun. Kick!” T O HEAR LOUD MUSIC IN HOT ROOMS IS FUN ? “Possibly. ” H OW IS THIS FUN MANIFEST ? “Well, it—look, either you’re having fun or you’re not, you don’t have to ask me, you just know, all right? How did you get in here, anyway?” he added. “Are you a friend of the Patrician?” L ET US SAY, HE PUTS BUSINESS MY WAY. I FELT I OUGHT TO LEARN SOMETHING OF HUMAN PLEASURES. “Sounds like you’ve got a long way to go. ” I KNOW. P LEASE EXCUSE MY LAMENTABLE IGNORANCE. I WISH ONLY TO LEARN. A LL THESE PEOPLE, PLEASE—THEY ARE HAVING FUN ? “Yes!” T HEN THIS IS FUN. “I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out. Mind the chair,” snapped Lord Rodley, who was now feeling very unfunny and unpleasantly sober. A voice behind him said quietly: T HIS IS FUN. T O DRINK EXCESSIVELY IS FUN. W E ARE HAVING FUN. HE IS HAVING FUN. THIS IS SOME FUN. W HAT FUN. Behind Death the Patrician’s small pet swamp dragon held on grimly to the bony hips and thought: guards or no guards, next time we pass an open window I’m going to run like buggery. Keli sat bolt upright in bed. “Don’t move another step,” she said. “Guards!” “We couldn’t stop him,” said the first guard, poking his head shame-facedly around the doorpost. “He just pushed in…” said the other guard, from the other side of the doorway. “And the wizard said it was all right, and we were told everyone must listen to him because…. ” “All right, all right. People could get murdered around here,” said Keli testily, and put the crossbow back on the bedside table without, unfortunately, operating the safety catch. There was a click, the thwack of sinew against metal, a zip of air, and a groan. The groan came from Cutwell. Mort spun round to him. “Are you all right?” he said. “Did it hit you?” “No,” said the wizard, weakly. “No, it didn’t. How do you feel?” “A bit tired. Why?” “Oh, nothing. Nothing. No draughts anywhere? No slight leaking feelings?” “No. Why?” “Oh, nothing, nothing. ” Cutwell turned and looked closely at the wall behind Mort. “Aren’t the dead allowed any peace?” said Keli bitterly. “I thought one thing you could be sure of when you were dead was a good night’s sleep. ” She looked as though she had been crying. With an insight that surprised him, Mort realized that she knew this and that it was making her even angrier than before. “That’s not really fair,” he said. “I’ve come to help. Isn’t that right, Cutwell?” “Hmm?” said Cutwell, who had found the crossbow bolt buried in the plaster and was looking at it with deep suspicion. “Oh, yes. He has. It won’t work, though. Excuse me, has anyone got any string?” “Help?” snapped Keli. “Help? If it wasn’t for you—” “You’d still be dead,” said Mort. She looked at him with her mouth open. “I wouldn’t know about it, though,” she said. “That’s the worst part. ” “I think you two had better go,” said Cutwell to the guards, who were trying to appear inconspicuous. “But I’ll have that spear, please. Thank you. ” “Look,” said Mort, “I’ve got a horse outside. You’d be amazed. I can take you anywhere. You don’t have to wait around here. ” “You don’t know much about monarchy, do you,” said Keli. “Um. No?” “She means better to be a dead queen in your own castle than a live commoner somewhere else,” said Cutwell, who had stuck the spear into the wall by the bolt and was trying to sight along it. “Wouldn’t work, anyway. The dome isn’t centered on the palace, it’s centered on her. ” “On who? ” said Keli. Her voice could have kept milk fresh for a month. “On her Highness,” said Cutwell automatically, squinting along the shaft. “Don’t you forget it. ” “I won’t forget it, but that’s not the point,” said the wizard. He pulled the bolt out of the plaster and tested the point with his finger. “But if you stay here you’ll die!” said Mort. “Then I shall have to show the Disc how a queen can die,” said Keli, looking as proud as was possible in a pink knitted bed jacket. Mort sat down on the end of the bed with his head in his hands. “I know how a queen can die,” he muttered. “They die just like other people. And some of us would rather not see it happen. ” “Excuse me, I just want to look at this crossbow,” said Cutwell conversationally, reaching across them. “Don’t mind me. ” “I shall go proudly to meet my destiny,” said Keli, but there was the barest flicker of uncertainty in her voice. “No you won’t. I mean, I know what I’m talking about. Take it from me. There’s nothing proud about it. You just die. ” “Yes, but it’s how you do it. I shall die nobly, like Queen Ezeriel. ” Mort’s forehead wrinkled. History was a closed book to him. “Who’s she?” “She lived in Klatch and she had a lot of lovers and she sat on a snake,” said Cutwell, who was winding up the crossbow. “She meant to! She was crossed in love!” “All I can remember was that she used to take baths in asses’ milk. Funny thing, history,” said Cutwell reflectively. |
“You become a queen, reign for thirty years, make laws, declare war on people and then the only thing you get remembered for is that you smelled like yogurt and were bitten in the—” “She’s a distant ancestor of mine,” snapped Keli. “I won’t listen to this sort of thing. ” “Will you both be quiet and listen to me!” shouted Mort. Silence descended like a shroud. Then Cutwell sighted carefully and shot Mort in the back. The night shed its early casualties and journeyed onwards. Even the wildest parties had ended, their guests lurching home to their beds, or someone’s bed at any rate. Shorn of these fellow travelers, mere daytime people who had strayed out of their temporal turf, the true survivors of the night got down to the serious commerce of the dark. This wasn’t so very different from Ankh-Morpork’s daytime business, except that the knives were more obvious and people didn’t smile so much. The Shades were silent, save only for the whistled signals of thieves and the velvety hush of dozens of people going about their private business in careful silence. And, in Ham Alley, Cripple Wa’s famous floating crap game was just getting under way. Several dozen cowled figures knelt or squatted around the little circle of packed earth where Wa’s three eight-sided dice bounced and spun their misleading lesson in statistical probability. “Three!” “Tuphal’s Eyes, by Io!” “He’s got you there, Hummok! This guy knows how to roll his bones!” I T’S A KNACK. Hummok M’guk, a small flat-faced man from one of the Hublandish tribes whose skill at dice was famed wherever two men gathered together to fleece a third, picked up the dice and glared at them. He silently cursed Wa, whose own skill at switching dice was equally notorious among the cognoscenti but had, apparently, failed him, wished a painful and untimely death on the shadowy player seated opposite and hurled the dice into the mud. “Twenty-one the hard way!” Wa scooped up the dice and handed them to the stranger. As he turned to Hummok one eye flickered ever so slightly. Hummok was impressed—he’d barely noticed the blur in Wa’s deceptively gnarled fingers, and he’d been watching for it. It was disconcerting the way the things rattled in the stranger’s hand and then flew out of it in a slow arc that ended with twenty-four little spots pointing at the stars. Some of the more streetwise in the crowd shuffled away from the stranger, because luck like that can be very unlucky in Cripple Wa’s floating crap game. Wa’s hand closed over the dice with a noise like the click of a trigger. “All the eights,” he breathed. “Such luck is uncanny, mister. ” The rest of the crowd evaporated like dew, leaving only those heavy-set, unsympathetic-looking men who, if Wa had ever paid tax, would have gone down on his return as Essential Plant and Business Equipment. “Maybe it’s not luck,” he added. “Maybe it’s wizarding?” I MOST STRONGLY RESENT THAT. “We had a wizard once who tried to get rich,” said Wa. “Can’t seem to remember what happened to him. Boys?” “We give him a good talking-to—” “—and left him in Pork Passage—” “—and in Honey Lane—” “—and a couple other places I can’t remember. ” The stranger stood up. The boys closed in around him. T HIS IS UNCALLED FOR. I SEEK ONLY TO LEARN. W HAT PLEASURE CAN HUMANS FIND IN A MERE REITERATION OF THE LAWS OF CHANCE ? “Chance doesn’t come into it. Let’s have a look at him, boys. ” The events that followed were recalled by no living soul except the one belonging to a feral cat, one of the city’s thousands, that was crossing the alley en route to a tryst. It stopped and watched with interest. The boys froze in mid-stab. Painful purple light flickered around them. The stranger pushed his hood back and picked up the dice, and then pushed them into Wa’s unresisting hand. The man was opening and shutting his mouth, his eyes unsuccessfully trying not to see what was in front of them. Grinning. T HROW. Wa managed to look down at his hand. “What are the stakes?” he whispered. I F YOU WIN, YOU WILL REFRAIN FROM THESE RIDICULOUS ATTEMPTS TO SUGGEST THAT CHANCE GOVERNS THE AFFAIRS OF MEN. “Yes. Yes. And…if I lose?” Y OU WILL WISH YOU HAD WON. Wa tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry. “I know I’ve had lots of people murdered—” T WENTY-THREE, TO BE PRECISE. “Is it too late to say I’m sorry?” S UCH THINGS DO NOT CONCERN ME. N OW THROW THE DICE. Wa shut his eyes and dropped the dice on to the ground, too nervous even to try the special flick-and-twist throw. He kept his eyes shut. A LL THE EIGHTS. THERE, THAT WASN’T TOO DIFFICULT, WAS IT ? Wa fainted. Death shrugged and walked away, pausing only to tickle the ears of an alley cat that happened to be passing. He hummed to himself. He didn’t quite know what had come over him, but he was enjoying it. “You couldn’t be sure it would work!” Cutwell spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Well, no,” he conceded, “but I thought, what have I got to lose?” He backed away. “What have you got to lose?” shouted Mort. He stamped forward and tugged the bolt out of one of the posts in the princess’s bed. “You’re not going to tell me this went through me?” he snapped. “I was particularly watching it,” said Cutwell. “I saw it too,” said Keli. “It was horrible. It came right out of where your heart is. ” “And I saw you walk through a stone pillar,” said Cutwell. “And I saw you ride straight through a window. ” “Yes, but that was on business,” declared Mort, waving his hands in the air. “That wasn’t everyday, that’s different. And—” He paused. “The way you’re looking at me,” he said. “They looked at me the same way in the inn this evening; What’s wrong?” “It was the way you waved your arm straight through the bedpost,” said Keli faintly. Mort stared at his hand, and then rapped it on the wood. “See?” he said. “Solid. Solid arm, solid wood. ” “You said people looked at you in an inn?” said Cutwell. “What did you do, then? Walk through the wall?” “No! I mean, no, I just drank this drink, I think it was called scrumble—” “Scumble?” “Yes. Tastes like rotten apples. You’d have thought it was some sort of poison the way they kept staring. ” “How much did you drink, then?” said Cutwell. “A pint, perhaps, I wasn’t really paying much attention—” “Did you know scumble is the strongest alcoholic drink between here and the Ramtops?” the wizard demanded. “No. No one said,” said Mort. “What’s it got to do with—” “No,” said Cutwell, slowly, “you didn’t know. Hmm. That’s a clue, isn’t it?” “Has it got anything to do with saving the princess?” “Probably not. I’d like to have a look at my books, though. ” “In that case it’s not important,” said Mort firmly. He turned to Keli, who was looking at him with the faint beginnings of admiration. “I think I can help,” he said. “I think I can lay my hands on some powerful magic. Magic will hold back the dome, won’t it, Cutwell?” “My magic won’t. It’d have to be pretty strong stuff, and I’m not sure about it even then. Reality is tougher than—” “I shall go,” said Mort. “Until tomorrow, farewell!” “It is tomorrow,” Keli pointed out. Mort deflated slightly. “All right, tonight then,” he said, slightly put out, and added, “I will begone!” “Begone what?” “It’s hero talk,” said Cutwell, kindly. “He can’t help it. ” Mort scowled at him, smiled bravely at Keli and walked out of the room. “He might have opened the door,” said Keli, after he had gone. “I think he was a bit embarrassed,” said Cutwell. “We all go through that stage. ” “What, of walking through things?” “In a manner of speaking. Walking into them, anyway. ” “I’m going to get some sleep,” Keli said. “Even the dead need some rest. Cutwell, stop fiddling with that crossbow, please. I’m sure it’s not wizardly to be alone in a lady’s boudoir. ” “Hmm? But I’m not alone, am I? You’re here. ” “That,” she said, “is the point, isn’t it?” “Oh. Yes. Sorry. Um. I’ll see you in the morning, then. ” “Goodnight, Cutwell. Shut the door behind you. ” The sun crept over the horizon, decided to make a run for it, and began to rise. |
But it would be some time before its slow light rolled across the sleeping Disc, herding the night ahead of it, and nocturnal shadows still ruled the city. They clustered now around The Mended Drum in Filigree Street, foremost of the city’s taverns. It was famed not for its beer, which looked like maiden’s water and tasted like battery acid, but for its clientele. It was said that if you sat long enough in the Drum, then sooner or later every major hero on the Disc would steal your horse. The atmosphere inside was still loud with talk and heavy with smoke although the landlord was doing all those things landlords do when they think it’s time to close, like turn some of the lights out, wind up the clock, put a cloth over the pumps and, just in case, check the whereabouts of their club with the nails hammered in it. Not that the customers were taking the slightest bit of notice, of course. To most of the Drum’s clientele even the nailed club would have been considered a mere hint. However, they were sufficiently observant to be vaguely worried by the tall dark figure standing by the bar and drinking his way through its entire contents. Lonely, dedicated drinkers always generate a mental field which insures complete privacy, but this particular one was radiating a kind of fatalistic gloom that was slowly emptying the bar. This didn’t worry the barman, because the lonely figure was engaged in a very expensive experiment. Every drinking place throughout the multiverse has them—those shelves of weirdly-shaped, sticky bottles that not only contain exotically-named liquid, which is often blue or green, but also odds and ends that bottles of real drink would never stoop to contain, such as whole fruits, bits of twig and, in extreme cases, small drowned lizards. No-one knows why barmen stock so many, since they all taste like treacle dissolved in turpentine. It has been speculated that they dream of a day when someone will walk in off the street unbidden and ask for a glass of Peach Corniche with A Hint Of Mint and overnight the place will become somewhere To Be Seen At. The stranger was working his way along the row. W HAT IS THAT GREEN ONE ? The landlord peered at the label. “It says it’s Melon Brandy,” he said doubtfully. “It says it’s bottled by some monks to an ancient recipe,” he added. I WILL TRY IT. The man looked sideways at the empty glasses on the counter, some of them still containing bits of fruit salad, cherries on a stick and small paper umbrellas. “Are you sure you haven’t had enough?” he said. It worried him vaguely that he couldn’t seem to make out the stranger’s face. The glass, with its drink crystallizing out on the sides, disappeared into the hood and came out again empty. N O. W HAT IS THE YELLOW ONE WITH THE WASPS IN IT ? “Spring Cordial, it says. Yes?” Y ES. A ND THEN THE BLUE ONE WITH THE GOLD FLECKS. “Er. Old Overcoat?” Y ES. AND THEN THE SECOND ROW. “Which one did you have in mind?” A LL OF THEM. The stranger remained bolt upright, the glasses with their burdens of syrup and assorted vegetation disappearing into the hood on a production line basis. This is it, the landlord thought, this is style, this is where I buy a red jacket and maybe put some monkey nuts and a few gherkins on the counter, get a few mirrors around the place, replace the sawdust. He picked up a beer-soaked cloth and gave the woodwork a few enthusiastic wipes, speading the drips from the cordial glasses into a rainbow smear that took the varnish off. The last of the usual customers put on his hat and staggered out, muttering to himself. “I DON’T SEE THE POINT , the stranger said. “Sorry?” W HAT IS SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN ? “How many drinks have you had?” F ORTY-SEVEN. “Just about anything, then,” said the barman and, because he knew his job and knew what was expected of him when people drank alone in the small hours, he started to polish a glass with the slops cloth and said, “Your lady thrown you out, has she?” P ARDON ? “Drowning your sorrows, are you?” I HAVE NO SORROWS. “No, of course not. Forget I mentioned it. ” He gave the glass a few more wipes. “Just thought it helps to have someone to talk to,” he said. The stranger was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he said: Y OU WANT TO TALK TO ME ? “Yes. Sure. I’m a good listener. ” N O ONE EVER WANTED TO TALK TO ME BEFORE. “That’s a shame. ” T HEY NEVER INVITE ME TO PARTIES, YOU KNOW. “Tch. ” T HEY ALL HATE ME. E VERYONE HATES ME. I DON’T HAVE A SINGLE FRIEND. “Everyone ought to have a friend,” said the barman sagely. I THINK — “Yes?” I THINK …I THINK I COULD BE FRIENDS WITH THE GREEN BOTTLE. The landlord slid the octagon-bottle along the counter. Death took it and tilted it over the glass. The liquid tinkled on the rim. Y OU DRUNK I’M THINK, DON’T YOU ? “I serve anyone who can stand upright best out of three,” said the landlord. Y OURRRE ABSOROOTLY RIGHT. B UT I— The stranger paused, one declamatory finger in the air. W AS WHAT I SAYING ? “You said I thought you were drunk. ” A H. Y ES, BUT I CAN BE SHOBER ANY TIME I LIKE. T HIS ISH AN EXPERIMENT. A ND NOW I WOULD LIKES TO EXPERIMENT WITH THE ORANGE BRANDY AGAIN. The landlord sighed, and glanced at the clock. There was no doubt that he was making a lot of money, especially since the stranger didn’t seem inclined to worry about overcharging or short change. But it was getting late; in fact it was getting so late that it was getting early. There was also something about the solitary customer that unsettled him. People in The Mended Drum often drank as though there was no tomorrow, but this was the first time he’d actually felt they might be right. I MEAN, WHAT HAVE I GOT TO LOOK FORWARD TO ? W HERE’S THE SENSE IN IT ALL ? W HAT IS IT REALLY ALL ABOUT ? “Can’t say, my friend. I expect you’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep. ” S LEEP ? S LEEP ? I NEVER SLEEP. I’ M WOSSNAME, PROVERBIAL FOR IT. “Everyone needs their sleep. Even me,” he hinted. T HEY ALL HATE ME, YOU KNOW. “Yes, you said. But it’s a quarter to three. ” The stranger turned unsteadily and looked around the silent room. T HERE’S NO ONE IN THE PLACE BUT YOU AND I, he said. The landlord lifted up the flap and came around the bar, helping the stranger down from his stool. I HAVEN’T GOT A SINGLE FRIEND. E VEN CATS FIND ME AMUSING. A hand shot out and grabbed a bottle of Amanita Liquor before the man managed to propel its owner to the door, wondering how someone so thin could be so heavy. I DON’T HAVE TO BE DRUNK , I SAID. W HY DO PEOPLE LIKE TO BE DRUNK ? I S IT FUN ? “Helps them forget about life, old chap. Now just you lean there while I get the door open—” F ORGET ABOUT LIFE. H A. H A. “You come back any time you like, y’hear?” Y OU’D REALLY LIKE TO SEE ME AGAIN ? The landlord looked back at the small heap of coins on the bar. That was worth a little weirdness. At least this one was a quiet one, and seemed to be harmless. “Oh, yes,” he said, propelling the stranger into the street and retrieving the bottle in one smooth movement. “Drop in anytime. ” T HAT’S THE NICEHEST THING — The door slammed on the rest of the sentence. Ysabell sat up in bed. The knocking came again, soft and urgent. She pulled the covers up to her chin. “Who is it?” she whispered. “It’s me, Mort,” came the hiss under the door. “Let me in, please!” “Wait!” Ysabell scrambled frantically on the bedside table for the matches, knocking over a bottle of toilet water and dislodging a box of chocolates that was now mostly discarded wrappers. Once she’d got the candle alight she adjusted its position for maximum effect, tweaked the line of her nightdress into something more revealing, and said: “It’s not locked. ” Mort staggered into the room, smelling of horses and frost and scumble. “I hope,” said Ysabell archly, “that you have not forced your way in here in order to take advantage of your position in this household. ” Mort looked around him. Ysabell was heavily into frills. Even the dressing table seemed to be wearing a petticoat. The whole room wasn’t so much furnished as lingeried. |
“Look, I haven’t got time to mess around,” he said. “Bring that candle into the library. And for heaven’s sake put on something sensible, you’re overflowing. ” Ysabell looked down, and then her head snapped up. “Well!” Mort poked his head back round the door. “It’s a matter of life and death,” he added, and disappeared. Ysabell watched the door creak shut after him, revealing the blue dressing gown with the tassels that Death had thought up for her as a present last Hogswatch and which she hadn’t the heart to throw away, despite the fact that it was a size too small and had a rabbit on the pocket. Finally she swung her legs out of bed, slipped into the shameful dressing gown, and padded out into the corridor. Mort was waiting for her. “Won’t father hear us?” she said. “He’s not back. Come on. ” “How can you tell?” “The place feels different when he’s here. It’s—it’s like the difference between a coat when it’s being worn and when it’s hanging on a hook. Haven’t you noticed?” “What are we doing that’s so important?” Mort pushed open the library door. A gust of warm, dry air drifted out, and the door hinges issued a protesting creak. “We’re going to save someone’s life,” he said. “A princess, actually. ” Ysabell was instantly fascinated. “A real princess? I mean can she feel a pea through a dozen mattresses?” “Can she—?” Mort felt a minor worry disappear. “Oh. Yes. I thought Albert had got it wrong. ” “Are you in love with her?” Mort came to a standstill between the shelves, aware of the busy little scritchings inside the book covers. “It’s hard to be sure,” he said. “Do I look it?” “You look a bit flustered. How does she feel about you?” “Don’t know. ” “Ah,” said Ysabell knowingly, in the tones of an expert. “Unrequited love is the worst kind. It’s probably not a good idea to go taking poison or killing yourself, though,” she added thoughtfully. “What are we doing here? Do you want to find her book to see if she marries you?” “I’ve read it, and she’s dead,” said Mort. “But only technically. I mean, not really dead. ” “Good, otherwise that would be necromancy. What are we looking for?” “Albert’s biography. ” “What for? I don’t think he’s got one. ” “Everyone’s got one. ” “Well, he doesn’t like people asking personal questions. I looked for it once and I couldn’t find it. Albert by itself isn’t much to go on. Why is he so interesting?” Ysabell lit a couple of candles from the one in her hand and filled the library with dancing shadows. “I need a powerful wizard and I think he’s one. ” “What, Albert?” “Yes. Only we’re looking for Alberto Malich. He’s more than two thousand years old, I think. ” “What, Albert?” “Yes. Albert. ” “He never wears a wizard’s hat,” said Ysabell doubtfully. “He lost it. Anyway, the hat isn’t compulsory. Where do we start looking?” “Well, if you’re sure…the Stack, I suppose. That’s where father puts all the biographies that are more than five hundred years old. It’s this way. ” She led the way past the whispering shelves to a door set in a cul-de-sac. It opened with some effort and the groan of the hinges reverberated around the library; Mort fancied for a moment that all the books paused momentarily in their work just to listen. Steps led down into the velvet gloom. There were cobwebs and dust, and air that smelled as though it had been locked in a pyramid for a thousand years. “People don’t come down here very often,” said Ysabell. “I’ll lead the way. ” Mort felt something was owed. “I must say,” he said, “you’re a real brick. ” “You mean pink, square and dumpy? You really know how to talk to a girl, my boy. ” “Mort,” said Mort automatically. The Stack was as dark and silent as a cave deep underground. The shelves were barely far enough apart for one person to walk between them, and towered up well beyond the dome of candlelight. They were particularly eerie because they were silent. There were no more lives to write; the books slept. But Mort felt that they slept like cats, with one eye open. They were aware. “I came down here once,” said Ysabell, whispering. “If you go far enough along the shelves the books run out and there’s clay tablets and lumps of stone and animal skins and everyone’s called Ug and Zog. ” The silence was almost tangible. Mort could feel the books watching them as they tramped through the hot, silent passages. Everyone who had ever lived was here somewhere, right back to the first people that the gods had baked out of mud or whatever. They didn’t exactly resent him, they were just wondering about why he was here. “Did you get past Ug and Zog?” he hissed. “There’s a lot of people would be very interested to know what’s there. ” “I got frightened. It’s a long way and I didn’t have enough candles. ” “Pity. ” Ysabell stopped so sharply that Mort cannoned into the back of her. “This would be about the right area,” she said. “What now?” Mort peered at the faded names on the spines. “They don’t seem to be in any order!” he moaned. They looked up. They wandered down a couple of side alleys. They pulled a few books off the lowest shelves at random, raising pillows of dust. “This is silly,” said Mort at last. “There’s millions of lives here. The chances of finding his are worse than—” Ysabell laid her hand against his mouth. “Listen!” Mort mumbled a bit through her fingers and then got the message. He strained his ears, striving to hear anything above the heavy hiss of absolute silence. And then he found it. A faint, irritable scratching. High, high overhead, somewhere in the impenetrable darkness on the cliff of shelves, a life was still being written. They looked at each other, their eyes widening. Then Ysabell said, “We passed a ladder back there. On wheels. ” The little casters on the bottom squeaked as Mort rolled it back. The top end moved too, as if it was fixed to another set of wheels somewhere up in the darkness. “Right,” he said. “Give me the candle, and—” “If the candle’s going up, then so am I,” said Ysabell firmly. “You stop down here and move the ladder when I say. And don’t argue. ” “It might be dangerous up there,” said Mort gallantly. “It might be dangerous down here,” Ysabell pointed out. “So I’ll be up the ladder with the candle, thank you. ” She set her foot on the bottom rung and was soon no more than a frilly shadow outlined in a halo of candlelight that soon began to shrink. Mort steadied the ladder and tried not to think of all the lives pressing in on him. Occasionally a meteor of hot wax would thump into the floor beside him, raising a crater in the dust. Ysabell was now a faint glow far above, and he could feel every footstep as it vibrated down the ladder. She stopped. It seemed to be for quite a long time. Then her voice floated down, deadened by the weight of silence around them. “Mort, I’ve found it. ” “Good. Bring it down. ” “Mort, you were right. ” “Okay, thanks. Now bring it down. ” “Yes, Mort, but which one?” “Don’t mess about, that candle won’t last much longer. ” “Mort!” “What?” “Mort, there’s a whole shelf! ” Now it really was dawn, that cusp of the day that belonged to no one except the seagulls in Morpork docks, the tide that rolled in up the river, and a warm turnwise wind that added a smell of spring to the complex odor of the city. Death sat on a bollard, looking out to sea. He had decided to stop being drunk. It made his head ache. He’d tried fishing, dancing, gambling and drink, allegedly four of life’s greatest pleasures, and wasn’t sure that he saw the point. Food he was happy with—Death liked a good meal as much as anyone else. He couldn’t think of any other pleasures of the flesh or, rather, he could, but they were, well, fleshy , and he couldn’t see how it would be possible to go about them without some major bodily restructuring, which he wasn’t going to contemplate. Besides, humans seemed to leave off doing them as they grew older, so presumably they couldn’t be that attractive. Death began to feel that he wouldn’t understand people as long as he lived. |
The sun made the cobbles steam and Death felt the faintest tingling of that little springtime urge that can send a thousand tons of sap pumping through fifty feet of timber in a forest. The seagulls swooped and dived around him. A one-eyed cat, down to its eighth life and its last ear, emerged from its lair in a heap of abandoned fish boxes, stretched, yawned, and rubbed itself against his legs. The breeze, cutting through Ankh’s famous smell, brought a hint of spices and fresh bread. Death was bewildered. He couldn’t fight it. He was actually feeling glad to be alive, and very reluctant to be Death. I MUST BE SICKENING FOR SOMETHING , he thought. Mort eased himself up the ladder alongside Ysabell. It was shaky, but seemed to be safe. At least the height didn’t bother him; everything below was just blackness. Some of Albert’s earlier volumes were very nearly falling apart. He reached out for one at random, feeling the ladder tremble underneath them as he did so, brought it back and opened it somewhere in the middle. “Move the candle this way,” he said. “Can you read it?” “Sort of—” —’turnered hys hand, butt was sorelie vexed that alle menne at laste comme to nort, viz. Deathe, and vowed hymme to seke Imortalitie yn his pride. “Thus,” he tolde the younge wizzerds, “we may take unto ourselfes the mantel of Goddes. ” Thee next day, yt being raining, Alberto’— “It’s written in Old,” he said. “Before they invented spelling. Let’s have a look at the latest one. ” It was Albert all right. Mort caught several references to fried bread. “Let’s have a look at what he’s doing now,” said Ysabell. “Do you think we should? It’s a bit like spying. ” “So what? Scared?” “All right. ” He flicked through until he came to the unfilled pages, and then turned back until he found the story of Albert’s life, crawling across the page at surprising speed considering it was the middle of the night; most biographies didn’t have much to say about sleep, unless the dreams were particularly vivid. “Hold the candle properly, will you? I don’t want to get grease on his life. ” “Why not? He likes grease. ” “Stop giggling, you’ll have us both off. Now look at this bit…. —“He crept through the dusty darkness of the Stack—” Ysabell read—“his eyes fixed on the tiny glow of candlelight high above. Prying, he thought, poking away at things that shouldn’t concern them, the little devils”— “Mort! He’s—” “Shut up! I’m reading!” —“soon put a stop to this. Albert crept silently to the foot of the ladder, spat on his hands, and got ready to push. The master’d never know; he was acting strange these days and it was all that lad’s fault, and”— Mort looked up into Ysabell’s horrified eyes. Then the girl took the book out of Mort’s hand, held it at arm’s length while her gaze remained fixed woodenly on his, and let it go. Mort watched her lips move and then realized that he, too, was counting under his breath. Three, four— There was a dull thump, a muffled cry, and silence. “Do you think you’ve killed him?” said Mort, after a while. “What, here! Anyway, I didn’t notice any better ideas coming from you. ” “No, but—he is an old man, after all. ” “No, he’s not,” said Ysabell sharply, starting down the ladder. “Two thousand years?” “Not a day over sixty-seven. ” “The books said—” “I told you, time doesn’t apply here. Not real time. Don’t you listen, boy?” “Mort,” said Mort. “And stop treading on my fingers, I’m going as fast as I can. ” “Sorry. ” “And don’t act so wet. Have you any idea how boring it is living here?” “Probably not,” said Mort, adding with genuine longing, “I’ve heard about boredom but I’ve never had a chance to try it. ” “It’s dreadful. ” “If it comes to that, excitement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. ” “Anything’s got to be better than this. ” There was a groan from below, and then a stream of swearwords. Ysabell peered into the gloom. “Obviously I didn’t damage his cursing muscles,” she said. “I don’t think I ought to listen to words like that. It could be bad for my moral fiber. ” They found Albert slumped against the foot of the bookshelf, muttering and holding his arm. “There’s no need to make that kind of fuss,” said Ysabell briskly. “You’re not hurt; father simply doesn’t allow that kind of thing to happen. ” “What did you have to go and do that for?” he moaned. “I didn’t mean any harm. ” “You were going to push us off,” said Mort, trying to help him up. “I read it. I’m surprised you didn’t use magic. ” Albert glared at him. “Oh, so you’ve found out, have you?” he said quietly. “Then much good may it do you. You’ve no right to go prying. ” He struggled to his feet, shook off Mort’s hand, and stumbled back along the hushed shelves. “No, wait,” said Mort, “I need your help!” “Well, of course,” said Albert over his shoulder. “It stands to reason, doesn’t it? You thought, I’ll just go and pry into someone’s private life and then I’ll drop it on him and then I’ll ask him to help me. ” “I only wanted to find out if you were really you,” said Mort, running after him. “I am. Everyone is. ” “But if you don’t help me something terrible will happen! There’s this princess, and she—” “Terrible things happen all the time, boy—” “—Mort—” “—and no one expects me to do anything about it. ” “But you were the greatest!” Albert stopped for a moment, but did not look around. “ Was the greatest, was the greatest. And don’t you try to butter me up. I ain’t butterable. ” “They’ve got statues to you and everything,” said Mort, trying not to yawn. “More fool them, then. ” Albert reached the foot of the steps into the library proper, stamped up them and stood outlined against the candlelight from the library. “You mean you won’t help?” said Mort. “Not even if you can?” “Give the boy a prize,” growled Albert. “And it’s no good thinking you can appeal to my better nature under this here crusty exterior,” he added, “’cos my interior’s pretty damn crusty too. ” They heard him cross the library floor as though he had a grudge against it, and slam the door behind him. “Well,” said Mort, uncertainly. “What did you expect?” snapped Ysabell. “He doesn’t care for anyone much except father. ” “It’s just that I thought someone like him would help if I explained it properly,” said Mort. He sagged. The rush of energy that had propelled him through the long night had evaporated, filling his mind with lead. “You know he was a famous wizard?” “That doesn’t mean anything, wizards aren’t necessarily nice. Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards because a refusal often offends, I read somewhere. ” Ysabell stepped closer to Mort and peered at him with some concern. “You look like something left on a plate,” she said. “’M okay,” said Mort, walking heavily up the steps and into the scratching shadows of the library. “You’re not. You could do with a good night’s sleep, my lad. ” “M’t,” murmured Mort. He felt Ysabell slip his arm over her shoulder. The walls were moving gently, even the sound of his own voice was coming from a long way off, and he dimly felt how nice it would be to stretch out on a nice stone slab and sleep forever. Death’d be back soon, he told himself, feeling his unprotesting body being helped along the corridors. There was nothing for it, he’d have to tell Death. He wasn’t such a bad old stick. Death would help; all he needed to do was explain things. And then he could stop all this worrying and go to slee…. “And what was your previous position?” I BEG YOUR PARDON ? “What did you do for a living?” said the thin young man behind the desk. The figure opposite him shifted uneasily. I USHERED SOULS INTO THE NEXT WORLD. I WAS THE GRAVE OF ALL HOPE. I WAS THE ULTIMATE REALITY. I WAS THE ASSASSIN AGAINST WHOM NO LOCK WOULD HOLD. “Yes, point taken, but do you have any particular skills?” Death thought about it. I SUPPOSE A CERTAIN AMOUNT OF EXPERTISE WITH AGRICULTURAL IMPLEMENTS ? he ventured after a while. The young man shook his head firmly. N O ? “This is a city, Mr. —” he glanced down, and once again felt a faint unease that he couldn’t quite put his finger on—“Mr. —Mr. —Mr. |
, and we’re a bit short of fields. ” He laid down his pen and gave the kind of smile that suggested he’d learned it from a book. Ankh-Morpork wasn’t advanced enough to possess an employment exchange. People took jobs because their fathers made room for them, or because their natural talent found an opening, or by word-of-mouth. But there was a call for servants and menial workers, and with the commercial sections of the city beginning to boom the thin young man—a Mr. Liona Keeble—had invented the profession of job broker and was, right at this moment, finding it difficult. “My dear Mr. —” he glanced down—“Mr. , we get many people coming into the city from outside because, alas, they believe life is richer here. Excuse me for saying so, but you seem to me to be a gentleman down on his luck. I would have thought you would have preferred something rather more refined than—” he glanced down again, and frowned—“‘something nice working with cats or flowers. ’” I’ M SORRY. I FELT IT WAS TIME FOR A CHANGE. “Can you play a musical instrument?” N O. “Can you do carpentry?” I DO NOT KNOW , I HAVE NEVER TRIED. Death stared at his feet. He was beginning to feel deeply embarrassed. Keeble shuffled the paper on his desk, and sighed. I CAN WALK THROUGH WALLS , Death volunteered, aware that the conversation had reached an impasse. Keeble looked up brightly. “I’d like to see that,” he said. “That could be quite a qualification. ” R IGHT. Death pushed his chair back and stalked confidently towards the nearest wall. O UCH. Keeble watched expectantly. “Go on, then,” he said. U M. T HIS IS AN ORDINARY WALL, IS IT ? “I assume so. I’m not an expert. ” I T SEEMS TO BE PRESENTING ME WITH SOME DIFFICULTY. “So it would appear. ” W HAT DO YOU CALL THE FEELING OF BEING VERY SMALL AND HOT ? Keeble twiddled his pencil. “Pygmy?” B EGINS WITH AN M. “Embarrassing?” “Yes,” said Death, I MEAN YES. “It would seem that you have no useful skill or talent whatsoever,” he said. “Have you thought of going into teaching?” Death’s face was a mask of terror. Well, it was always a mask of terror, but this time he meant it to be. “You see,” said Keeble kindly, putting down his pen and steepling his hands together, “it’s very seldom I ever have to find a new career for an—what was it again?” A NTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION. “Oh, yes. What is that, exactly?” Death had had enough. T HIS , he said. For a moment, just for a moment, Mr. Keeble saw him clearly. His face went nearly as pale as Death’s own. His hands jerked convulsively. His heart gave a stutter. Death watched him with mild interest, then drew an hourglass from the depths of his robe and held it up to the light and examined it critically. S ETTLE DOWN , he said, YOU’VE GOT A GOOD FEW YEARS YET. “Bbbbbbb—” I COULD TELL YOU HOW MANY IF YOU LIKE. Keeble, fighting to breathe, managed to shake his head. D O YOU WANT ME TO GET YOU A GLASS OF WATER, THEN ? “nnN—nnN. ” The shop bell jangled. Keeble’s eyes rolled. Death decided that he owed the man something. He shouldn’t be allowed to lose custom, which was clearly something humans valued dearly. He pushed aside the bead curtain and stalked into the outer shop, where a small fat woman, looking rather like an angry cottage loaf, was hammering on the counter with a haddock. “It’s about that cook’s job up at the University,” she said. “You told me it was a good position and it’s a disgrace up there, the tricks them students play, and I demand—I want you to—I’m not…. ” Her voice trailed off. “’Ere,” she said, but you could tell her heart wasn’t in it, “you’re not Keeble, are you?” Death stared at her. He’d never before experienced an unsatisfied customer. He was at a less. Finally he gave up. B EGONE, YOU BLACK AND MIDNIGHT HAG , he said. The cook’s small eyes narrowed. “’Oo are you calling a midnight bag?” she said accusingly, and hit the counter with the fish again. “Look at this,” she said. “Last night it was my bedwarmer, in the morning it’s a fish. I ask you. ” M AY ALL THE DEMONS OF HELL REND YOUR LIVING SPIRIT IF YOU DON’T GET OUT OF THE SHOP THIS MINUTE , Death tried. “I don’t know about that, but what about my bedwarmer? It’s no place for a respectable woman up there, they tried to—” I F YOU WOULD CARE TO GO AWAY , said Death desperately, I WILL GIVE YOU SOME MONEY. “How much?” said the cook, with a speed that would have outdistanced a striking rattlesnake and given lightning a nasty shock. Death pulled out his coin bag and tipped a heap of verdigrised and darkened coins on the counter. She regarded them with deep suspicion. N OW LEAVE UPON THE INSTANT , said Death, and added, BEFORE THE SEARING WINDS OF INFINITY SCORCH THY WORTHLESS CARCASS. “My husband will be told about this,” said the cook darkly, as she left the shop. It seemed to Death that no threat of his could possibly be as dire. He stalked back through the curtains. Keeble, still slumped in his chair, gave a kind of strangled gurgle. “It was true!” he said. “I thought you were a nightmare!” I COULD TAKE OFFENSE AT THAT , Said Death. “You really are Death?” said Keeble. YES. “Why didn’t you say?” P EOPLE USUALLY PREFER ME NOT TO. Keeble scrabbled among his papers, giggling hysterically. “You want to do something else?” he said. “Tooth fairy? Water sprite? Sandman?” D O NOT BE FOOLISH. I SIMPLY—FEEL I WANT A CHANGE. Keeble’s frantic rustling at last turned up the paper he’d been searching for. He gave a maniacal laugh and thrust it into Death’s hands. Death read it. T HIS IS A JOB ? P EOPLE ARE PAID TO DO THIS ? “Yes, yes, go and see him, you’re just the right type. Only don’t tell him I sent you. ” Binky moved at a hard gallop across the night, the Disc unrolling far below his hooves. Now Mort found that the sword could reach out further than he had thought, it could reach the stars themselves, and he swung it across the deeps of space and into the heart of a yellow dwarf which went nova most satisfactorily. He stood in the saddle and whirled the blade around his head, laughing as the blue flame fanned across the sky leaving a trail of darkness and embers. And didn’t stop. Mort struggled as the sword cut through the horizon, grinding down the mountains, drying up the seas, turning green forests into punk and ashes. He heard voices behind him, and the brief screams of friends and relatives as he turned desperately. Dust storms whirled from the dead earth as he fought to release his own grip, but the sword burned icy cold in his hand, dragging him on in a dance that would not end until there was nothing left alive. And that time came, and Mort stood alone except for Death, who said, “A fine job, boy. ” And Mort said, MORT. “Mort! Mort! Wake up!” Mort surfaced slowly, like a corpse in a pond. He fought against it, clinging to his pillow and the horrors of sleep, but someone was tugging urgently at his ear. “Mmmph?” he said. “ Mort! ” “ Wsst? ” “Mort, it’s father!” He opened his eyes and stared up blankly into Ysabell’s face. Then the events of the previous night hit him like a sock full of damp sand. Mort swung his legs out of bed, still wreathed in the remains of his dream. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “I’ll go and see him directly. ” “He’s not here! Albert’s going crazy!” Ysabell stood by the bed, tugging a handkerchief between her hands. “Mort, do you think something bad has happened to him?” He gave her a blank look. “Don’t be bloody stupid,” he said, “he’s Death. ” He scratched his skin. He felt hot and dry and itchy. “But he’s never been away this long! Not even when there was that big plague in Pseudopolis! I mean, he has to be here in the mornings to do the books and work out the nodes and—” Mort grabbed her arms. “All right, all right,” he said, as soothingly as he could manage. “I’m sure everything’s okay. Just settle down, I’ll go and check…why have you got your eyes shut?” “Mort, please put some clothes on,” said Ysabell in a tight little voice. Mort looked down. “Sorry,” he said meekly, “I didn’t realize…Who put me to bed?” “I did,” she said. “But I looked the other way. |
” Mort dragged on his breeches, shrugged into his shirt and hurried out towards Death’s study with Ysabell on his heels. Albert was in there, jumping from foot to foot like a duck on a griddle. When Mort came in the look on the old man’s face could almost have been gratitude. Mort saw with amazement that there were tears in his eyes. “His chair hasn’t been sat in,” Albert whined. “Sorry, but is that important?” said Mort. “My grandad didn’t used to come home for days if he’d had a good sale at the market. ” “But he’s always here,” said Albert. “Every morning, as long as I’ve known him, sitting here at his desk a-working on the nodes. It’s his job. He wouldn’t miss it. ” “I expect the nodes can look after themselves for a day or two,” said Mort. The drop in temperature told him he was wrong. He looked at their faces. “They can’t?” he said. Both heads shook. “If the nodes aren’t worked out properly all the Balance is destroyed,” said Ysabell. “Anything could happen. ” “Didn’t he explain?” said Albert. “Not really. I’ve really only done the practical side. He said he’d tell me about the theoretical stuff later,” said Mort. Ysabell burst into tears. Albert took Mort’s arm and, with considerable dramatic waggling of his eyebrows, indicated that they should have a little talk in the corner. Mort trailed after him reluctantly. The old man rummaged in his pockets and at last produced a battered paper bag. “Peppermint?” he inquired. Mort shook his head. “He never tell you about the nodes?” said Albert. Mort shook his head again. Albert gave his peppermint a suck; it sounded like the plughole in the bath of God. “How old are you, lad?” “Mort. I’m sixteen. ” “There’s some things a lad ought to be tole before he’s sixteen,” said Albert, looking over his shoulder at Ysabell, who was sobbing in Death’s chair. “Oh, I know about that. My father told me all about that when we used to take the thargas to be mated. When a man and a woman—” “About the universe is what I meant,” said Albert hurriedly. “I mean, have you ever thought about it?” “I know the Disc is carried through space on the backs of four elephants that stand on the shell of Great A’Tuin,” said Mort. “That’s just part of it. I meant the whole universe of time and space and life and death and day and night and everything. ” “Can’t say I’ve ever given it much thought,” said Mort. “Ah. You ought. The point is, the nodes are part of it. They stop death from getting out of control, see. Not him, not Death. Just death itself. Like, uh—” Albert struggled for words—“like, death should come exactly at the end of life, see, and not before or after, and the nodes have to be worked out so that the key figures…you’re not taking this in, are you?” “Sorry. ” “They’ve got to be worked out,” said Albert flatly, “and then the correct lives have got to be got. The hourglasses, you call them. The actual Duty is the easy job. ” “Can you do it?” “No. Can you?” “No!” Albert sucked reflectively at his peppermint. “That’s the whole world in the gyppo, then,” he said. “Look, I can’t see why you’re so worried. I expect he’s just got held up somewhere,” said Mort, but it sounded feeble even to him. It wasn’t as though people buttonholed Death to tell him another story, or clapped him on the back and said things like “You’ve got time for a quick half in there, my old mate, no need to rush off home” or invited him to make up a skittles team and come out for a Klatchian take-away afterwards, or…It struck Mort with sudden, terrible poignancy that Death must be the loneliest creature in the universe. In the great party of Creation, he was always in the kitchen. “I’m sure I don’t know what’s come over the master lately,” mumbled Albert. “Out of the chair, my girl. Let’s have a look at these nodes. ” They opened the ledger. They looked at it for a long time. Then Mort said, “What do all those symbols mean?” “Sodomy non sapiens,” said Albert under his breath. “What does that mean?” “Means I’m buggered if I know. ” “That was wizard talk, wasn’t it?” said Mort. “You shut up about wizard talk. I don’t know anything about wizard talk. You apply your brain to this here. ” Mort looked down again at the tracery of lines. It was as if a spider had spun a web on the page, stopping at every junction to make notes. Mort stared until his eyes hurt, waiting for some spark of inspiration. None volunteered. “Any luck?” “It’s all Klatchian to me,” said Mort. “I don’t even know whether it should be read upside down or sideways. ” “Spiralling from the center outwards,” sniffed Ysabell from her seat in the corner. Their heads collided as they both peered at the center of the page. They stared at her. She shrugged. “Father taught me how to read the node chart,” she said, “when I used to do my sewing in here. He used to read bits out. ” “You can help?” said Mort. “No,” said Ysabell. She blew her nose. “What do you mean, no?” growled Albert. “This is too important for any flighty—” “I mean,” said Ysabell, in razor tones, “that I can do them and you can help. ” The Ankh-Morpork Guild of Merchants has taken to hiring large gangs of men with ears like fists and fists like large bags of walnuts whose job it is to re-educate those misguided people who publicly fail to recognize the many attractive points of their fine city. For example the philosopher Catroaster was found floating face downward in the river within hours of uttering the famous line, “When a man is tired of Ankh-Morpork, he is tired of ankle-deep slurry. ” Therefore it is prudent to dwell on one—of the very many, of course—on one of the things that makes Ankh-Morpork renowned among the great cities of the multiverse. This is its food. The trade routes of half the Disc pass through the city or down its rather sluggish river. More than half the tribes and races of the Disc have representatives dwelling within its sprawling acres. In Ankh-Morpork the cuisines of the world collide: on the menu are one thousand types of vegetable, fifteen hundred cheeses, two thousand spices, three hundred types of meat, two hundred fowl, five hundred different kinds of fish, one hundred variations on the theme of pasta, seventy eggs of one kind or another, fifty insects, thirty molluscs, twenty assorted snakes and other reptiles, and something pale brown and warty known as the Klatchian migratory bog truffle. Its eating establishments range from the opulent, where the portions are tiny but the plates are silver, to the secretive, where some of the Disc’s more exotic inhabitants are rumored to eat anything they can get down their throat best out of three. Harga’s House of Ribs down by the docks is probably not numbered among the city’s leading eateries, catering as it does for the type of beefy clientele that prefers quantity and breaks up the tables if it doesn’t get it. They don’t go in for the fancy or exotic, but stick to conventional food like flightless bird embryos, minced organs in intestine skins, slices of hog flesh and burnt ground grass seeds dipped in animal fats; or, as it is known in their patois, egg, soss and bacon and a fried slice. It was the kind of eating house that didn’t need a menu. You just looked at Harga’s vest. Still, he had to admit, this new cook seemed to be the business. Harga, an expansive advert for his own high carbohydrate merchandise, beamed at a room full of satisfied customers. And a fast worker, too! In fact, disconcertingly fast. He rapped on the hatch. “Double egg, chips, beans, and a trollburger, hold the onions,” he rasped. R IGHT. The hatch slid up a few seconds later and two plates were pushed through. Harga shook his head in gratified amazement. It had been like that all evening. The eggs were bright and shiny, the beans glistened like rubies, and the chips were the crisp golden brown of sunburned bodies on expensive beaches. Harga’s last cook had turned out chips like little paper bags full of pus. Harga looked around the steamy cafe. No one was watching him. He was going to get to the bottom of this. He rapped on the hatch again. “Alligator sandwich,” he said. |
“And make it sna—” The hatch shot up. After a few seconds to pluck up enough courage, Harga peered under the top slice of the long sarny in front of him. He wasn’t saying that it was alligator, and he wasn’t saying it wasn’t. He knuckled the hatch again. “Okay,” he said, “I’m not complaining, I just want to know how you did it so fast. ” T IME IS NOT IMPORTANT. “You say?” R IGHT. Harga decided not to argue. “Well, you’re doing a damn fine job in there, boy,” he said. W HAT IS IT CALLED WHEN YOU FEEL WARM AND CONTENT AND WISH THINGS WOULD STAY THAT WAY ? “I guess you’d call it happiness,” said Harga. Inside the tiny, cramped kitchen, strata’d with the grease of decades, Death spun and whirled, chopping, slicing and flying. His skillet flashed through the fetid steam. He’d opened the door to the cold night air, and a dozen neighborhood cats had strolled in, attracted by the bowls of milk and meat—some of Harga’s best, if he’d known—that had been strategically placed around the floor. Occasionally Death would pause in his work and scratch one of them behind the ears. “Happiness,” he said, and puzzled at the sound of his own voice. Cutwell, the wizard and Royal Recognizer by appointment, pulled himself up the last of the tower steps and leaned against the wall, waiting for his heart to stop thumping. Actually it wasn’t particularly high, this tower, just high for Sto Lat. In general design and outline it looked the standard sort of tower for imprisoning princesses in; it was mainly used to store old furniture. However, it offered unsurpassed views of the city and the Sto plain, which is to say, you could see an awful lot of cabbages. Cutwell made it as far as the crumbling crenellations atop the wall and looked out at the morning haze. It was, maybe, a little hazier than usual. If he tried hard he could imagine a flicker in the sky. If he really strained his imagination he could hear a buzzing out over the cabbage fields, a sound like someone frying locusts. He shivered. At a time like this his hands automatically patted his pockets, and found nothing but half a bag of jelly babies, melted into a sticky mass, and an apple core. Neither offered much consolation. What Cutwell wanted was what any normal wizard wanted at a time like this, which was a smoke. He’d have killed for a cigar, and would have gone as far as a flesh wound for a squashed dog-end. He pulled himself together. Resolution was good for the moral fiber; the only trouble was the fiber didn’t appreciate the sacrifices he was making for it. They said that a truly great wizard should be permanently under tension. You could have used Cutwell for a bowstring. He turned his back on the brassica-ed landscape and made his way back down the winding steps to the main part of the palace. Still, he told himself, the campaign appeared to be working. The population didn’t seem to be resisting the fact that there was going to be a coronation, although they weren’t exactly clear about who was going to be crowned. There was going to be bunting in the streets and Cutwell had arranged for the town square’s main fountain to run, if not with wine, then at least with an acceptable beer made from broccoli. There was going to be folk dancing, at sword point if necessary. There would be races for children. There would be an ox roast. The royal coach had been regilded and Cutwell was optimistic that people could be persuaded to notice it as it went by. The High Priest at the Temple of Blind Io was going to be a problem. Cutwell had marked him down as a dear old soul whose expertise with the knife was so unreliable that half of the sacrifices got tired of waiting and wandered away. The last time he’d tried to sacrifice a goat it had time to give birth to twins before he could focus, and then the courage of motherhood had resulted in it chasing the entire priesthood out of the temple. The chances of him succeeding in putting the crown on the right person even in normal circumstances were only average, Cutwell had calculated; he’d have to stand alongside the old boy and try tactfully to guide his shaking hands. Still, even that wasn’t the big problem. The big problem was much bigger than that. The big problem had been sprung on him by the Chancellor after breakfast. “Fireworks?” Cutwell had said. “That’s the sort of thing you wizard fellows are supposed to be good at, isn’t it?” said the Chancellor, as crusty as a week-old loaf. “Flashes and bangs and whatnot. I remember a wizard when I was a lad—” “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about fireworks,” said Cutwell, in tones designed to convey that he cherished this ignorance. “Lots of rockets,” the Chancellor reminisced happily. “Ankhian candles. Thunderflashes. And thingies that you can hold in your hand. It’s not a proper coronation without fireworks. ” “Yes, but, you see—” “Good man,” said the Chancellor briskly, “knew we could rely on you. Plenty of rockets, you understand, and to finish with there must be a set-piece, mind you, something really breathtaking like a portrait of—of—” his eyes glazed over in a way that was becoming depressingly familiar to Cutwell. “The Princess Keli,” he said wearily. “Ah. Yes. Her,” said the Chancellor. “A portrait of—who you said—in fireworks. Of course, it’s probably all pretty simple stuff to you wizards, but the people like it. Nothing like a good blowout and a blowup and a bit of balcony waving to keep the loyalty muscles in tip-top shape, that’s what I always say. See to it. Rockets. With runes on. ” An hour ago Cutwell had thumbed through the index of The Monster Fun Grimoire and had cautiously assembled a number of common household ingredients and put a match to them. Funny thing about eyebrows, he mused. You never really noticed them until they’d gone. Red around the eyes, and smelling slightly of smoke, Cutwell ambled towards the royal apartments past bevies of maids engaged in whatever it was maids did, which always seemed to take at least three of them. Whenever they saw Cutwell they would usually go silent, hurry past with their heads down and then break into muffled giggles along the corridor. This annoyed Cutwell. Not—he told himself quickly—because of any personal considerations, but because wizards ought to be shown more respect. Besides, some of the maids had a way of looking at him which caused him to think distinctly unwizardly thoughts. Truly, he thought, the way of enlightenment is like unto half a mile of broken glass. He knocked on the door of Keli’s suite. A maid opened it. “Is your mistress in?” he said, as haughtily as he could manage. The maid put her hand to her mouth. Her shoulders shook. Her eyes sparkled. A sound like escaping steam crept between her fingers. I can’t help it, Cutwell thought, I just seem to have this amazing effect on women. “Is it a man?” came Keli’s voice from within. The maid’s eyes glazed over and she tilted her head, as if not sure of what she had heard. “It’s me, Cutwell,” said Cutwell. “Oh, that’s all right, then. You can come in. ” Cutwell pushed past the girl and tried to ignore the muffled laughter as the maid fled the room. Of course, everyone knew a wizard didn’t need a chaperon. It was just the tone of the princess’s “Oh, that’s all right then” that made him writhe inside. Keli was sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair. Very few men in the world ever find out what a princess wears under her dresses, and Cutwell joined them with extreme reluctance but with remarkable self-control. Only the frantic bobbing of his adam’s apple betrayed him. There was no doubt about it, he’d be no good for magic for days. She turned and he caught a whiff of talcum powder. For weeks , dammit, for weeks. “You look a bit hot, Cutwell. Is something the matter?” “Naarg. ” “I’m sorry?” He shook himself. Concentrate on the hairbrush, man, the hairbrush. “Just a bit of magical experimenting, ma’am. Only superficial burns. ” “Is it still moving?” “I am afraid so. ” Keli turned back to the mirror. Her face was set. “Have we got time?” This was the bit he’d been dreading. |
He’d done everything he could. The Royal Astrologer had been sobered up long enough to insist that tomorrow was the only possible day the ceremony could take place, so Cutwell had arranged for it to begin one second after midnight. He’d ruthlessly cut the score of the royal trumpet fanfare. He’d timed the High Priest’s invocation to the gods and then sub-edited heavily; there was going to be a row when the gods found out. The ceremony of the anointing with sacred oils had been cut to a quick dab behind the ears. Skateboards were an unknown invention on the Disc; if they hadn’t been, Keli’s trip up the aisle would have been unconstitutionally fast. And it still wasn’t enough. He nerved himself. “I think possibly not,” he said. “It could be a very close thing. ” He saw her glare at him in the mirror. “How close?” “Um. Very. ” “Are you trying to say it might reach us at the same time as the ceremony?” “Um. More sort of, um, before it,” said Cutwell wretchedly. There was no sound but the drumming of Keli’s fingers on the edge of the table. Cutwell wondered if she was going to break down, or smash the mirror. Instead she said: “How do you know?” He wondered if he could get away with saying something like, I’m a wizard, we know these things, but decided against it. The last time he’d said that she’d threatened him with the axe. “I asked one of the guards about that inn Mort talked about,” he said. “Then I worked out the approximate distance it had to travel. Mort said it was moving at a slow walking pace, and I reckon his stride is about—” “As simple as that? You didn’t use magic?” “Only common sense. It’s a lot more reliable in the long run. ” She reached out and patted his hand. “Poor old Cutwell,” she said. “I am only twenty, ma’am. ” She stood up and walked over to her dressing room. One of the things you learn when you’re a princess is always to be older than anyone of inferior rank. “Yes, I suppose there must be such things as young wizards,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s just that people always think of them as old. I wonder why this is?” “Rigors of the calling, ma’am,” said Cutwell, rolling his eyes. He could hear the rustle of silk. “What made you decide to become a wizard?” Her voice was muffled, as if she had something over her head. “It’s indoor work with no heavy lifting,” said Cutwell. “And I suppose I wanted to learn how the world worked. ” “Have you succeeded, then?” “No. ” Cutwell wasn’t much good at small talk, otherwise he’d never have let his mind wander sufficiently to allow him to say: “What made you decide to become a princess?” After a thoughtful silence she said, “It was decided for me, you know. ” “Sorry, I—” “Being royal is a sort of family tradition. I expect it’s the same with magic; no doubt your father was a wizard?” Cutwell gritted his teeth. “Um. No,” he said, “not really. Absolutely not, in fact. ” He knew what she would say next, and here it came, reliable as the sunset, in a voice tinged with amusement and fascination. “Oh? Is it really true that wizards aren’t allowed to—” “Well, if that’s all I really should be going,” said Cutwell loudly. “If anyone wants me, just follow the explosions. I— gnnnh! ” Keli had stepped out of the dressing room. Now, women’s clothes were not a subject that preoccupied Cutwell much—in fact, usually when he thought about women his mental pictures seldom included any clothes at all—but the vision in front of him really did take his breath away. Whoever had designed the dress didn’t know when to stop. They’d put lace over the silk, and trimmed it with black vermine, and strung pearls anywhere that looked bare, and puffed and starched the sleeves and then added silver filigree and then started again with the silk. In fact it really was amazing what could be done with several ounces of heavy metal, some irritated molluscs, a few dead rodents and a lot of thread wound out of insects’ bottoms. The dress wasn’t so much worn as occupied; if the outlying flounces weren’t supported on wheels, then Keli was stronger than he’d given her credit for. “What do you think?” she said, turning slowly. “This was worn by my mother, and my grandmother, and her mother. ” “What, all together?” said Cutwell, quite prepared to believe it. How can she get into it? he wondered. There must be a door round the back…. “It’s a family heirloom. It’s got real diamonds on the bodice. ” “Which bit’s the bodice?” “This bit. ” Cutwell shuddered. “It’s very impressive,” he said, when he could trust himself to speak. “You don’t think it’s perhaps a bit mature, though?” “It’s queenly. ” “Yes, but perhaps it won’t allow you to move very fast?” “I have no intention of running. There must be dignity. ” Once again the set of her jaw traced the line of her descent all the way to her conquering ancestor, who preferred to move very fast at all times and knew as much about dignity as could be carried on the point of a sharp spear. Cutwell spread his hands. “All right,” he said. “Fine. We all do what we can. I just hope Mort has come up with some ideas. ” “It’s hard to have confidence in a ghost,” said Keli. “He walks through walls!” “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Cutwell. “It’s a puzzle, isn’t it? He walks through things only if he doesn’t know he’s doing it. I think it’s an industrial disease. ” “What?” “I was nearly sure last night. He’s becoming real. ” “But we’re all real! At least, you are, and I suppose I am. ” “But he’s becoming more real. Extremely real. Nearly as real as Death, and you don’t get much realler. Not much realler at all. ” “Are you sure?” said Albert, suspiciously. “Of course,” said Ysabell. “Work it out yourself if you like. ” Albert looked back at the big book, his face a portrait of uncertainty. “Well, they could be about right,” he conceded with bad grace, and copied out the two names on a scrap of paper. “There’s one way to find out, anyway. ” He pulled open the top drawer of Death’s desk and extracted a big iron keyring. There was only one key on it. W HAT HAPPENS NOW ? said Mort. “We’ve got to fetch the lifetimers,” said Albert. “You have to come with me. ” “Mort!” hissed Ysabell. “What?” “What you just said—” She lapsed into silence, and then added, “Oh, nothing. It just sounded…odd. ” “I only asked what happens now,” said Mort. “Yes, but—oh, never mind. ” Albert brushed past them and sidled out into the hallway like a two-legged spider until he reached the door that was always kept locked. The key fitted perfectly. The door swung open. There wasn’t so much as a squeak from its hinges, just a swish of deeper silence. And the roar of sand. Mort and Ysabell stood in the doorway, transfixed, as Albert stamped off between the aisles of glass. The sound didn’t just enter the body via the ears, it came up through the legs and down through the skull and filled up the brain until all that it could think of was the rushing, hissing gray noise, the sound of millions of lives being lived. And rushing towards their inevitable destination. They stared up and out at the endless ranks of lifetimers, every one different, every one named. The light from torches ranged along the walls picked highlights off them, so that a star gleamed on every glass. The far walls of the room were lost in the galaxy of light. Mort felt Ysabell’s fingers tighten on his arm. When she spoke, her voice was strained. “Mort, some of them are so small !” I KNOW. Her grip relaxed, very gently, like someone putting the top ace on a house of cards and taking their hand away gingerly so as not to bring the whole edifice down. “Say that again?” she said quietly. “I said I know. There’s nothing I can do about it. Haven’t you been in here before?” “No. ” She had withdrawn slightly, and was staring at his eyes. “It’s no worse than the library,” said Mort, and almost believed it. But in the library you only read about it; in here you could see it happening. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he added. |
“I was just trying to remember what color your eyes were,” she said, “because—” “If you two have quite had enough of each other!” bellowed Albert above the roar of the sand. “This way!” “Brown,” said Mort to Ysabell. “They’re brown. Why?” “Hurry up!” “You’d better go and help him,” said Ysabell. “He seems to be getting quite upset. ” Mort left her, his mind a sudden swamp of uneasiness, and stalked across the tiled floor to where Albert stood impatiently tapping a foot. “What do I have to do?” he said. “Just follow me. ” The room opened out into a series of passages, each one lined with the hourglasses. Here and there the shelves were divided by stone pillars inscribed with angular markings. Albert glanced at them occasionally; mainly he strode through the maze of sand as though he knew every turn by heart. “Is there one glass for everyone, Albert?” “Yes. ” “This place doesn’t look big enough. ” “Do you know anything about m-dimensional topography?” “Um. No. ” “Then I shouldn’t aspire to hold any opinions, if I was you,” said Albert. He paused in front of a shelf of glasses, glanced at the paper again, ran his hand along the row and suddenly snatched up a glass. The top bulb was almost empty. “Hold this,” he said. “If this is right, then the other should be somewhere near. Ah. Here. ” Mort turned the two glasses around in his hands. One had all the markings of an important life, while the other one was squat and quite unremarkable. Mort read the names. The first seemed to refer to a nobleman in the Agatean Empire regions. The second was a collection of pictograms that he recognized as originating in Turnwise Klatch. “Over to you,” Albert sneered. “The sooner you get started, the sooner you’ll be finished. I’ll bring Binky round to the front door. ” “Do my eyes look all right to you?” said Mort, anxiously. “Nothing wrong with them that I can see,” said Albert. “Bit red round the edges, bit bluer than usual, nothing special. ” Mort followed him back past the long shelves of glass, looking thoughtful. Ysabell watched him take the sword from the rack by the door and test its edge by swishing it through the air, just as Death did, and grinning mirthlessly at the satisfactory sound of the thunderclap. She recognized the walk. He was stalking. “Mort?” she whispered. Y ES ? “Something’s happening to you. ” I KNOW , said Mort. “But I think I can control it. ” They heard the sound of hooves outside, and Albert pushed the door open and came in rubbing his hands. “Right, lad, no time to—” Mort swung the sword at arm’s length. It scythed through the air with a noise like ripping silk and buried itself in the doorpost by Albert’s ear. O N YOUR KNEES , A LBERTO M ALICH. Albert’s mouth dropped open. His eyes rolled sideways to the shimmering blade a few inches from his head, and then narrowed to tight little lines. “You surely wouldn’t dare, boy,” he said. M ORT. The syllable snapped out as fast as a whiplash and twice as vicious. “There was a pact,” said Albert, but there was the barest gnat-song of doubt in his voice. “There was an agreement. ” “Not with me. ” “There was an agreement! Where would we be if we could not honor an agreement?” “I don’t know where I would be,” said Mort softly. B UT I KNOW WHERE YOU WOULD GO. “That’s not fair!” Now it was a whine. T HERE’S NO JUSTICE. T HERE’S JUST ME. “Stop it,” said Ysabell. “Mort, you’re being silly. You can’t kill anyone here. Anyway, you don’t really want to kill Albert. ” “Not here. But I could send him back to the world. ” Albert went pale. “You wouldn’t!” “No? I can take you back and leave you there. I shouldn’t think you’ve got much time left, have you?” H AVE YOU ? “Don’t talk like that,” said Albert, quite failing to meet his gaze. “You sound like the master when you talk like that. ” “I could be a lot worse than the master,” said Mort evenly. “Ysabell, go and get Albert’s book, will you?” “Mort, I really think you’re—” S HALL I ASK YOU AGAIN ? She fled from the room, white-faced. Albert squinted at Mort along the length of the sword, and smiled a lopsided, humorless smile. “You won’t be able to control it forever,” he said. “I don’t want to. I just want to control it for long enough. ” “You’re receptive now, see? The longer the master is away, the more you’ll become just like him. Only it’ll be worse, because you’ll remember all about being human and—” “What about you, then?” snapped Mort. “What can you remember about being human? If you went back, how much life have you got left?” “Ninety-one days, three hours and five minutes,” said Albert promptly. “I knew he was on my trail, see? But I’m safe here and he’s not such a bad master. Sometimes I don’t know what he’d do without me. ” “Yes, no one dies in Death’s own kingdom. And you’re pleased with that?” said Mort. “I’m more than two thousand years old, I am. I’ve lived longer than anyone in the world. ” Mort shook his head. “You haven’t, you know,” he said. “You’ve just stretched things out more. No one really lives here. The time in this place is just a sham. It’s not real. Nothing changes. I’d rather die and see what happens next than spend eternity here. ” Albert pinched his nose reflectively. “Yes, well, you might,” he conceded, “but I was a wizard, you know. I was pretty good at it. They put up a statue to me, you know. But you don’t live a long life as a wizard without making a few enemies, see, ones who’ll…wait on the Other Side. ” He sniffed. “They ain’t all got two legs, either. Some of them ain’t got legs at all. Or faces. Death don’t frighten me. It’s what comes after. ” “Help me, then. ” “What good will that do me?” “One day you might need some friends on the Other Side,” said Mort. He thought for a few seconds and added, “If I were you, it wouldn’t do any harm to give my soul a bit of a last-minute polish. Some of those waiting for you might not like the taste of that. ” Albert shuddered and shut his eyes. “You don’t know about that what you talk about,” he added, with more feeling than grammar, “else you wouldn’t say that. What do you want from me?” Mort told him. Albert cackled. “Just that? Just change Reality? You can’t. There isn’t any magic strong enough any more. The Great Spells could of done it. Nothing else. And that’s it, so you might as well do as you please and the best of luck to you. ” Ysabell came back, a little out of breath, clutching the latest volume of Albert’s life. Albert sniffed again. The tiny drip on the end of his nose fascinated Mort. It was always on the point of dropping off but never had the courage. Just like him, he thought. “You can’t do anything to me with the book,” said the old wizard warily. “I don’t intend to. But it strikes me that you don’t get to be a powerful wizard by telling the truth all the time. Ysabell, read out what’s being written. ” “‘Albert looked at him uncertainly,’” Ysabell read. “You can’t believe everything writ down there—” “—‘he burst out, knowing in the flinty pit of his heart that Mort certainly could,’” Ysabell read. “Stop it!” “‘he shouted, trying to put at the back of his mind the knowledge that even if Reality could not be stopped it might be possible to slow it down a little. ’” How? “‘intoned Mort in the leaden tones of Death,’” began Ysabell dutifully. “Yes, yes, all right, you needn’t bother with my bit,” snapped Mort irritably. “Pardon me for living, I’m sure. ” N O ONE GETS PARDONED FOR LIVING. “And don’t talk like that to me, thank you. It doesn’t frighten me,” she said. She glanced down at the book, where the moving line of writing was calling her a liar. “Tell me how, wizard,” said Mort. “My magic’s all I’ve got left!” wailed Albert. “You don’t need it, you old miser. ” “You don’t frighten me, boy—” L OOK INTO MY FACE AND TELL ME THAT. Mort snapped his fingers imperiously. Ysabell bent her head over the book again. |
“‘Albert looked into the blue glow of those eyes and the last of his defiance drained away,’” she read, “‘for he saw not just Death but Death with all the human seasonings of vengeance and cruelty and distaste, and with a terrible certainty he knew that this was the last chance and Mort would send him back into Time and hunt him down and take him and deliver him bodily into the dark Dungeon Dimensions where creatures of horror would dot dot dot dot dot,’” she finished. “It’s just dots for half a page. ” “That’s because the book daren’t even mention them,” whispered Albert. He tried to shut his eyes but the pictures in the darkness behind his eyelids were so vivid that he opened them again. Even Mort was better than that. “All right,” he said. “There is one spell. It slows down time over a little area. I’ll write it down, but you’ll have to find a wizard to say it. ” “I can do that. ” Albert ran a tongue like an old loofah over his dry lips. “There is a price, though,” he added. “You must complete the Duty first. ” “Ysabell?” said Mort. She looked at the page in front of her. “He means it,” she said. “If you don’t then everything will go wrong and he’ll drop back into Time anyway. ” All three of them turned to look at the great clock that dominated the hallway. Its pendulum blade sawed slowly through the air, cutting time into little pieces. Mort groaned. “There isn’t enough time!” he groaned. “I can’t do both of them in time!” he groaned. “I can’t do both of them in time!” “The master would have found time,” observed Albert. Mort wrenched the blade from the doorway and shook it furiously but ineffectually towards Albert, who flinched. “Write down the spell, then,” he shouted. “And do it fast!” He turned on his heel and stalked back into Death’s study. There was a large disc of the world in one corner, complete down to solid silver elephants standing on the back of a Great A’Tuin cast in bronze and more than a meter long. The great rivers were represented by veins of jade, the deserts by powdered diamond and the most notable cities were picked out in precious stones; Ankh-Morpork, for instance, was a carbuncle. He plonked the two glasses down at the approximate locations of their owners and flopped down in Death’s chair, glaring at them, willing them to be closer together. The chair squeaked gently as he swivelled from side to side, glowering at the little disc. After a while Ysabell came in, treading softly. “Albert’s written it down,” she said quietly. “I’ve checked the book. It isn’t a trick. He’s gone and locked himself in his room now and—” “Look at these two! I mean, will you look at them!” “I think you should calm down a bit, Mort. ” “How can I calm down with, look, this one over here almost in the Great Nef, and this one right in Bes Pelargic and then I’ve got to get back to Sto Lat. That’s a ten thousand mile round trip however you look at it. It can’t be done. ” “I’m sure you’ll find a way. And I’ll help. ” He looked at her for the first time and saw she was wearing her outdoor coat, the unsuitable one with the big fur collar. “You? What could you do?” “Binky can easily carry two,” said Ysabell meekly. She waved a paper package vaguely. “I’ve packed us something to eat. I could—hold open doors and things. ” Mort laughed mirthlessly. T HAT WON’T BE NECESSARY. “I wish you’d stop talking like that”. “I can’t take passengers. You’ll slow me down. ” Ysabell sighed. “Look, how about this? Let’s pretend we’ve had the row and I’ve won. See? It saves a lot of effort. I actually think you might find Binky rather reluctant to go if I’m not there. I’ve fed him an awful lot of sugar lumps over the years. Now—are we going?” Albert sat on his narrow bed, glowering at the wall. He heard the sound of hoofbeats, abruptly cut off as Binky got airborne, and muttered under his breath. Twenty minutes passed. Expressions flitted across the old wizard’s face like cloud shadows across a hillside. Occasionally he’d whisper something to himself, like “I told ’em” or “Never would of stood for it” or “The master ought to be tole. ” Eventually he seemed to reach an agreement with himself, knelt down gingerly and pulled a battered trunk from under his bed. He opened it with difficulty and unfolded a dusty gray robe that scattered mothballs and tarnished sequins across the floor. He pulled it on, brushed off the worst of the dust, and crawled under the bed again. There was a lot of muffled cursing and the occasional clink of china and finally Albert emerged holding a staff taller than he was. It was thicker than any normal staff, mainly because of the carvings that covered it from top to bottom. They were actually quite indistinct, but gave the impression that if you could see them better you would regret it. Albert brushed himself down again and examined himself critically in the washstand mirror. Then he said, “Hat. No hat. Got to have a hat for the wizarding. Damn. ” He stamped out of the room and returned after a busy fifteen minutes which included a circular hole cut out of the carpet in Mort’s bedroom, the silver paper taken out from behind the mirror in Ysabell’s room, a needle and thread from the box under the sink in the kitchen and a few loose sequins scraped up from the bottom of the robe chest. The end result was not as good as he would have liked and tended to slip rakishly over one eye, but it was black and had stars and moons on it and proclaimed its owner to be, without any doubt, a wizard, although possibly a desperate one. He felt properly dressed for the first time in two thousand years. It was a disconcerting feeling and caused him a second’s reflection before he kicked aside the rag rug beside the bed and used the staff to draw a circle on the floor. When the tip of the staff passed it left a line of glowing octarine, the eighth color of the spectrum, the color of magic, the pigment of the imagination. He marked eight points on its circumference and joined them up to form an octogram. A low throbbing began to fill the room. Alberto Malich stepped into the center and held the staff above his head. He felt it wake to his grip, felt the tingle of the sleeping power unfold itself slowly and deliberately, like a waking tiger. It triggered old memories of power and magic that buzzed through the cobwebbed attics of his mind. He felt alive for the first time in centuries. He licked his lips. The throbbing had died away, leaving a strange, waiting kind of silence. Malich raised his head and shouted one single syllable. Blue-green fire flashed from both ends of the staff. Streams of octarine flame spouted from the eight points of the octogram and enveloped the wizard. All this wasn’t actually necessary to accomplish the spell, but wizards consider appearances are very important…. So are disappearances. He vanished. Stratohemispheric winds whipped at Mort’s cloak. “Where are we going first?” yelled Ysabell in his ear. “Bes Pelargic!” shouted Mort, the gale whirling his words away. “Where’s that?” “Agatean Empire! Counterweight Continent!” He pointed downward. He wasn’t forcing Binky at the moment, knowing the miles that lay ahead, and the big white horse was currently running at an easy gallop out over the ocean. Ysabell looked down at roaring green waves topped with white foam, and clung tighter to Mort. Mort peered ahead at the cloudbank that marked the distant continent and resisted the urge to hurry Binky along with the flat of his sword. He’d never struck the horse and wasn’t at all confident about what would happen if he did. All he could do was wait. A hand appeared under his arm, holding a sandwich. “There’s ham or cheese and chutney,” she said. “You might as well eat, there’s nothing else to do. ” Mort looked down at the soggy triangle and tried to remember when he last had a meal. Some time beyond the reach of a clock, anyway—he’d need a calendar to calculate it. He took the sandwich. “Thanks,” he said, as graciously as he could manage. The tiny sun rolled down towards the horizon, towing its lazy daylight behind it. |
The clouds ahead grew, and became outlined in pink and orange. After a while he could make out the darker blur of land below them, with here and there the lights of a city. Half an hour later he was sure he could see individual buildings. Agatean architecture inclined towards squat pyramids. Binky lost height until his hooves were barely a few feet above the sea. Mort examined the hourglass again, and gently tugged on the reins to direct the horse towards a seaport a little Rimwards of their present course. There were a few ships at anchor, mostly single-sailed coastal traders. The Empire didn’t encourage its subjects to go far away, in case they saw things that might disturb them. For the same reason it had built a wall around the entire country, patrolled by the Heavenly Guard whose main function was to tread heavily on the fingers of any inhabitants who felt they might like to step outside for five minutes for a breath of fresh air. This didn’t happen often, because most of the subjects of the Sun Emperor were quite happy to live inside the Wall. It’s a fact of life that everyone is on one side or other of a wall, so the only thing to do is forget about it or evolve stronger fingers. “Who runs this place?” said Ysabell, as they passed over the harbor. “There’s some kind of boy emperor,” said Mort. “But the top man is really the Grand Vizier, I think. ” “Never trust a Grand Vizier,” said Ysabell wisely. In fact the Sun Emperor didn’t. The Vizier, whose name was Nine Turning Mirrors, had some very clear views about who should run the country, e. g. , that it should be him, and now the boy was getting big enough to ask questions like “Don’t you think the wall would look better with a few gates in it?” and “Yes, but what is it like on the other side?” He had decided that in the Emperor’s own best interests he should be painfully poisoned and buried in quicklime. Binky landed on the raked gravel outside the low, many-roomed palace, severely rearranging the harmony of the universe. * Mort slid off his back and helped Ysabell down. “Just don’t get in the way, will you?” he said urgently. “And don’t ask questions either. ” He ran up some lacquered steps and hurried through the silent rooms, pausing occasionally to take his bearings from the hourglass. At last he sidled down a corridor and peered through an ornate lattice into a long low room where the Court was at its evening meal. The young Sun Emperor was sitting crosslegged at the head of the mat with his cloak of vermine and feathers spread out behind him. He looked as though he was outgrowing it. The rest of the Court was sitting around the mat in strict and complicated order of precedence, but there was no mistaking the Vizier, who was tucking into his bowl of squishi and boiled seaweed in a highly suspicious fashion. No one seemed to be about to die. Mort padded along the passage, turned the corner and nearly walked into several large members of the Heavenly Guard, who were clustered around a spyhole in the paper wall and passing a cigarette from hand to hand in that palm-cupped way of soldiers on duty. He tiptoed back to the lattice and overheard the conversation thus: “I am the most unfortunate of mortals, O Immanent Presence, to find such as this in my otherwise satisfactory squishi ” said the Vizier, extending his chopsticks. The Court craned to see. So did Mort. Mort couldn’t help agreeing with the statement, though—the thing was a sort of blue-green lump with rubbery tubes dangling from it. “The preparer of food will be disciplined, Noble Personage of Scholarship,” said the Emperor. “Who got the spare ribs?” “No, O Perceptive Father of Your People, I was rather referring to the fact that this is, I believe, the bladder and spleen of the deepwater puff eel, allegedly the most tasty of morsels to the extent that it may be eaten only by those beloved of the gods themselves or so it is written, among such company of course I do not include my miserable self. ” With a deft flick he transported it to the bowl of the Emperor, where it wobbled to a standstill. The boy looked at it for some time, and then skewered it on a chopstick. “Ah,” he said, “but is it not also written by none other than the great philosopher Ly Tin Wheedle that a scholar may be ranked above princes? I seem to remember you giving me the passage to read once, O Faithful and Assiduous Seeker of Knowledge. ” The thing followed another brief arc through the air and flopped apologetically into the Vizier’s bowl. He scooped it up in a quick movement and poised it for a second service. His eyes narrowed. “Such may be generally the case, O Jade River of Wisdom, but specifically I cannot be ranked above the Emperor whom I love as my own son and have done ever since his late father’s unfortunate death, and thus I lay this small offering at your feet. ” The eyes of the court followed the wretched organ on its third flight across the mat, but the Emperor snatched up his fan and brought off a magnificent volley that ended back in the Vizier’s bowl with such force that it sent up a spray of seaweed. “ Somebody eat it, for heaven’s sake,” shouted Mort, totally unheard. “I’m in a hurry!” “Thou art indeed the most thoughtful of servants, O Devoted and Indeed Only Companion of My Late Father and Grandfather When They Passed Over, and therefore I decree that your reward shall be this most rare and exquisite of morsels. ” The Vizier prodded the thing uncertainly, and looked into the Emperor’s smile. It was bright and terrible. He fumbled for an excuse. “Alas, it would seem that I have already eaten far too much—” he began, but the Emperor waved him into silence. “Doubtless it requires a suitable seasoning,” he said, and clapped his hands. The wall behind him ripped from top to bottom and four Heavenly Guards stepped through, three of them brandishing cando swords and the fourth trying hurriedly to swallow a lighted dog-end. The Vizier’s bowl dropped from his hands. “My most faithful of servants believes he has no space left for this final mouthful,” said the Emperor. “Doubtless you can investigate his stomach to see if this is true. Why has that man got smoke coming out of his ears?” “Anxious for action, O Sky Eminence,” said the sergeant quickly. “No stopping him, I’m afraid. ” “Then let him take his knife and—oh, the Vizier seems to be hungry after all. Well done. ” There was absolute silence while the Vizier’s cheeks bulged rhythmically. Then he gulped. “Delicious,” he said. “Superb. Truly the food of the gods, and now, if you will excuse me—” He unfolded his legs and made as if to stand up. Little beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead. “You wish to depart?” said the Emperor, raising his eyebrows. “Pressing matters of state, O Perspicacious Personage of—” “Be seated. Rising so soon after meals can be bad for the digestion,” said the Emperor, and the guards nodded agreement. “Besides, there are no urgent matters of state unless you refer to those in the small red bottle marked ‘Antidote’ in the black lacquered cabinet on the bamboo rug in your quarters, O Lamp of Midnight Oil. ” There was a ringing in the Vizier’s ears. His face began to go blue. “You see?” said the Emperor. “Untimely activity on a heavy stomach is conducive to ill humors. May this message go swiftly to all corners of my country, that all men may know of your unfortunate condition and derive instruction thereby. ” “I…must…congratulate your…Personage on such…consideration,” said the Vizier, and fell forward into a dish of boiled soft-shelled crabs. “I had an excellent teacher,” said the Emperor. A BOUT TIME, TOO , said Mort, and swung the sword. A moment later the soul of the Vizier got up from the mat and looked Mort up and down. “Who are you, barbarian?” he snapped. D EATH. “Not my Death,” said the Vizier firmly. “Where’s the Black Celestial Dragon of Fire?” H E COULDN’T COME , said Mort. There were shadows forming in the air behind the Vizier’s soul. |
Several of them wore emperor’s robes, but there were plenty of others jostling them, and they all looked most anxious to welcome the newcomer to the lands of the dead. “I think there’s some people here to see you,” said Mort, and hurried away. As he reached the passageway the Vizier’s soul started to scream…. Ysabell was standing patiently by Binky, who was making a late lunch of a five-hundred-year-old bonsai tree. “One down,” said Mort, climbing into the saddle. “Come on. I’ve got a bad feeling about the next one, and we haven’t much time. ” Albert materialized in the center of Unseen University, in the same place, in fact, from which he had departed the world some two thousand years before. He grunted with satisfaction and brushed a few specks of dust off his robe. He became aware that he was being watched; on looking up, he discovered that he had flashed into existence under the stern marble gaze of himself. He adjusted his spectacles and peered disapprovingly at the bronze plaque screwed to his pedestal. It said: “Alberto Malich, Founder of This University. AM 1,222—1,289. ‘We Will Not See His Like Again. ’” So much for prediction, he thought. And if they thought so much of him they could at least have hired a decent sculptor. It was disgraceful. The nose was all wrong. Call that a leg? People had been carving their names on it, too. He wouldn’t be seen dead in a hat like that, either. Of course, if he could help it, he wouldn’t be seen dead at all. Albert aimed an octarine thunderbolt at the ghastly thing and grinned evilly as it exploded into dust. “Right,” he said to the Disc at large, “I’m back. ” The tingle from the magic coursed all the way up his arm and started a warm glow in his mind. How he’d missed it, all these years. Wizards came hurrying through the big double doors at the sound of the explosion and cleared the wrong conclusion from a standing start. There was the pedestal, empty. There was a cloud of marble dust over everything. And striding out of it, muttering to himself, was Albert. The wizards at the back of the crowd started to have it away as quickly and quietly as possible. There wasn’t one of them that hadn’t, at some time in his jolly youth, put a common bedroom utensil on old Albert’s head or carved his name somewhere on the statue’s chilly anatomy, or spilled beer on the pedestal. Worse than that, too, during Rag Week when the drink flowed quickly and the privy seemed too far to stagger. These had all seemed hilarious ideas at the time. They suddenly didn’t, now. Only two figures remained to face the statue’s wrath, one because he had got his robe caught in the door and the other because he was, in fact, an ape and could therefore take a relaxed attitude to human affairs. Albert grabbed the wizard, who was trying desperately to walk into the wall. The man squealed. “All right, all right, I admit it! I was drunk at the time, believe me, didn’t mean it, gosh, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” “What are you bleating about, man?” said Albert, genuinely puzzled. “—so sorry, if I tried to tell you how sorry I am we’d—” “Stop this bloody nonsense!” Albert glanced down at the little ape, who gave him a warm friendly smile. “What’s your name, man?” “Yes, sir, I’ll stop, sir, right away, no more nonsense, sir…Rincewind, sir. Assistant librarian, if it’s all right by you. ” Albert looked him up and down. The man had a desperate scuffed look, like something left out for the laundry. He decided that if this was what wizarding had come to, someone ought to do something about it. “What sort of librarian would have you for assistant?” he demanded irritably. “Oook. ” Something like a warm soft leather glove tried to hold his hand. “A monkey! In my university!” “Orangoutang, sir. He used to be a wizard but got caught in some magic, sir, now he won’t let us turn him back, and he’s the only one who knows where all the books are,” said Rincewind urgently. “I look after his bananas,” he added, feeling some additional explanation was called for. Albert glared at him. “Shut up. ” “Shutting up right away, sir. ” “And tell me where Death is. ” “Death, sir?” said Rincewind, backing against the wall. “Tall, skeletal, blue eyes, stalks, TALKS LIKE THIS …Death. Seen him lately?” Rincewind swallowed. “Not lately, sir. ” “Well, I want him. This nonsense has got to stop. I’m going to stop it now , see? I want the eight most senior wizards assembled here, right, in half an hour with all the necessary equipment to perform the Rite of AshkEnte, is that understood? Not that the sight of you lot gives me any confidence. Bunch of pantywaisters the lot of you, and stop trying to hold my hand!” “Oook. ” “And now I’m going to the pub,” snapped Albert. “Do they sell any halfway decent cat’s piss anywhere these days?” “There’s the Drum, sir,” said Rincewind. “The Broken Drum? In Filigree Street? Still there?” “Well, they change the name sometimes and rebuild it completely but the site has been, er, on the site for years. I expect you’re pretty dry, eh, sir?” Rincewind said, with an air of ghastly camaraderie. “What would you know about it?” said Albert sharply. “Absolutely nothing, sir,” said Rincewind promptly. “I’m going to the Drum, then. Half an hour, mind. And if they’re not waiting for me when I come back, then well, they’d just better be!” He stormed out of the hall in a cloud of marble dust. Rincewind watched him go. The librarian held his hand. “You know the worst of it?” said Rincewind. “Oook?” “I don’t even remember walking under a mirror. ” At about the time Albert was in The Mended Drum arguing with the landlord over a yellowing bar tab that had been handed down carefully from father to son through one regicide, three civil wars, sixty-one major fires, four hundred and ninety robberies and more than fifteen thousand bar-room brawls to record the fact that Alberto Malich still owed the management three copper pieces plus interest currently standing at the contents of most of the Disc’s larger strongrooms, which proved once again that an Ankhian merchant with an unpaid bill has the kind of memory that would make an elephant blink…at about this time, Binky was leaving a vapor trail in skies above the great mysterious continent of Klatch. Far below drums sounded in the scented, shadowy jungles and columns of curling mist rose from hidden rivers where nameless beasts lurked under the surface and waited for supper to walk past. “There’s no more cheese, you’ll have to have the ham,” said Ysabell. “What’s that light over there?” “The Light Dams,” said Mort. “We’re getting closer. ” He pulled the hourglass out of his pocket and checked the level of the sand. “But not close enough, dammit!” The Light Dams lay like pools of light hubwards of their course, which is exactly what they were; some of the tribes constructed mirror walls in the desert mountains to collect the Disc sunlight, which is slow and slightly heavy. It was used as currency. Binky glided over the campfires of the nomads and the silent marshes of the Tsort river. Ahead of them dark, familiar shapes began to reveal themselves in the moonlight. “The Pyramids of Tsort by moonlight!” breathed Ysabell. “How romantic!” M ORTARED WITH THE BLOOD OF THOUSANDS OF SLAVES , observed Mort. “Please don’t. ” “I’m sorry, but the practical fact of the matter is that these—” “All right, all right, you’ve made your point,” said Ysabell irritably. “It’s a lot of effort to go to to bury a dead king,” said Mort, as they circled above one of the smaller pyramids. “They fill them full of preservative, you know, so they’ll survive into the next world. ” “Does it work?” “Not noticeably. ” Mort leaned over Binky’s neck. “Torches down there,” he said. “Hang On. ” A procession was winding away from the avenue of pyramids, led by a giant statue of Offler the Crocodile God borne by a hundred sweating slaves. Binky cantered above it, entirely unnoticed, and performed a perfect four-point landing on the hard-packed sand outside the pyramid’s entrance. “They’ve pickled another king,” said Mort. |
He examined the glass again in the moonlight. It was quite plain, not the sort normally associated with royalty. “That can’t be him,” said Ysabell. “They don’t pickle them when they’re still alive, do they?” “I hope not, because I read where, before they do the preserving, they, um, cut them open and remove—” “I don’t want to hear it—” “—all the soft bits,” Mort concluded lamely. “It’s just as well the pickling doesn’t work, really, just imagine having to walk around with no—” “So it isn’t the king you’ve come to take,” said Ysabell loudly. “Who is it, then?” Mort turned towards the dark entrance. It wouldn’t be sealed until dawn, to give time for the dead king’s soul to leave. It looked deep and foreboding, hinting at purposes considerably more dire than, say, keeping a razor blade nice and sharp. “Let’s find out,” he said. “Look out! He’s coming back!” The University’s eight most senior wizards shuffled into line, tried to smooth out their beards and in general made an unsuccessful effort to look presentable. It wasn’t easy. They had been snatched from their workrooms, or a postprandial brandy in front of a roaring fire, or quiet contemplation under a handkerchief in a comfy chair somewhere, and all of them were feeling extremely apprehensive and rather bewildered. They kept glancing at the empty pedestal. Only one creature could have duplicated the expressions on their faces, and that would be a pigeon who has heard not only that Lord Nelson has got down off his column but has also been seen buying a 12-bore repeater and a box of cartridges. “He’s coming up the corridor!” shouted Rincewind, and dived behind a pillar. The assembled mages watched the big double doors as if they were about to explode, which shows how prescient they were, because they exploded. Matchstick-sized bits of oak rained down among them and a small thin figure stood outlined against the light. It held a smoking staff in one hand. The other held a small yellow toad. “Rincewind!” bawled Albert. “Sir!” “Take this thing away and dispose of it. ” The toad crawled into Rincewind’s hand and gave him an apologetic look. “That’s the last time that bloody landlord gives any lip to a wizard,” said Albert with smug satisfaction. “It seems I turn my back for a few hundred years and suddenly people in this town are encouraged to think they can talk back to wizards, eh?” One of the senior wizards mumbled something. “What was that? Speak up, man!” “As the bursar of this university I must say that we’ve always encouraged a good neighbor policy with respect to the community,” mumbled the wizard, trying to avoid Albert’s gimlet stare. He had an upturned chamber pot on his conscience, with three cases of obscene graffiti to be taken into consideration. Albert let his mouth drop open. “Why?” he said. “Well, er, a sense of civic duty, we feel it’s vitally important that we show an examp—arrgh!” The wizard tried desperately to beat out the flames in his beard. Albert lowered his staff and looked slowly along the row of mages. They swayed away from his stare like grass in a gale. “Anyone else want to show a sense of civic duty?” he said. “Good neighbors, anybody?” He drew himself up to his full height. “You spineless maggots! I didn’t found this University so you could lend people the bloody lawnmower! What’s the use of having the power if you don’t wield it? Man doesn’t show you respect, you don’t leave enough of his damn inn to roast chestnuts on, understand?” Something like a soft sigh went up from the assembled wizards. They stared sadly at the toad in Rincewind’s hand. Most of them, in the days of their youth, had mastered the art of getting rascally drunk at the Drum. Of course, all that was behind them now, but the Guild of Merchants’ annual knife-and-fork supper would have been held in the Dram’s upstairs room the following evening, and all the Eighth Level wizards had been sent complimentary tickets; there would have been roast swan and two kinds of trifle and lots of fraternal toasts to “Our esteemed, nay, distinguished guests” until it was time for the college porters to turn up with the wheelbarrows. Albert strutted along the row, poking the occasional paunch with his staff. His mind danced and sang. Go back? Never! This was power, this was living; he’d challenge old boniface and spit in his empty eye. “By the Smoking Mirror of Grism, there’s going to be a few changes around here!” Those wizards who had studied history nodded uncomfortably. It would be back to the stone floors and getting up when it was still dark and no alcohol under any circumstances and memorizing the true names of everything until the brain squeaked. “ What’s that man doing !” A wizard who had absent-mindedly reached for his tobacco pouch let the half-formed cigarette fall from his trembling fingers. It bounced when it hit the floor and all the wizards watched it roll with longing eyes until Albert stepped forward smartly and squashed it. Albert spun round. Rincewind, who had been following him as a sort of unofficial adjutant, nearly walked into him. “You! Rincething! D’yer smoke?” “No, sir! Filthy habit!” Rincewind avoided the gaze of his superiors. He was suddenly aware that he had made some lifelong enemies, and it was no consolation to know that he probably wouldn’t have them for very long. “Right! Hold my staff. Now, you bunch of miserable back-sliders, this is going to stop, d’yer hear? First thing tomorrow, up at dawn, three times round the quadrangle and back here for physical jerks! Balanced meals! Study! Healthy exercise! And that bloody monkey goes to a circus, first thing!” “Oook?” Several of the older wizards shut their eyes. “But first,” said Albert, lowering his voice, “you’ll oblige me by setting up the Rite of AshkEnte. ” “I have some unfinished business,” he added. Mort strode through the cat-black corridors of the pyramid, with Ysabell hurrying along behind him. The faint glow from his sword illuminated unpleasant things; Offler the Crocodile God was a cosmetics advert compared to some of the things the people of Tsort worshipped. In alcoves along the way were statues of creatures apparently built of all the bits God had left over. “What are they here for?” whispered Ysabell. “The Tsortean priests say they come alive when the pyramid is sealed and prowl the corridors to protect the body of the king from tomb robbers,” said Mort. “What a horrible superstition. ” “Who said anything about superstition?” said Mort absently. “They really come alive?” “All I’ll say is that when the Tsorteans put a curse on a place, they don’t mess about. ” Mort turned a corner and Ysabell lost sight of him for a heart-stopping moment. She scurried through the darkness and cannoned into him. He was examining a dog-headed bird. “Urgh,” she said. “Doesn’t it send shivers up your spine?” “No,” said Mort flatly. “Why not?” B ECAUSE I AM M ORT. He turned, and she saw his eyes glow like blue pinpoints. “Stop it!” I— CAN’T. She tried to laugh. It didn’t work. “You’re not Death,” she said. “You’re only doing his job. ” D EATH IS WHOEVER DOES D EATH’S JOB. The shocked pause that followed this was broken by a groan from further along the dark passage. Mort turned on his heel and hurried towards it. He’s right, thought Ysabell. Even the way he moves…. But the fear of the darkness that the light was dragging towards her overcame any other doubts and she crept after him, around another corner and into what appeared, in the fitful glow from the sword, to be a cross between a treasury and a very cluttered attic. “What’s this place?” she whispered. “I’ve never seen so much stuff!” T HE KING TAKES IT WITH HIM INTO THE NEXT WORLD , said Mort. “He certainly doesn’t believe in traveling light. Look, there’s a whole boat. And a gold bathtub!” D OUBTLESS HE WILL WISH TO KEEP CLEAN WHEN HE GETS THERE. “And all those statues!” T HOSE STATUES , I’ M SORRY TO SAY, WERE PEOPLE. S ERVANTS FOR THE KING, YOU UNDERSTAND. Ysabell’s face set grimly. T HE PRIESTS GIVE THEM POISON. |
There was another groan, from the other side of the cluttered room. Mort followed it to its source, stepping awkwardly over rolls of carpet, bunches of dates, crates of crockery and piles of gems. The king obviously hadn’t been able to decide what he was going to leave behind on his journey, so had decided to play safe and take everything. O NLY IT DOESN’T ALWAYS WORK QUICKLY , Mort added somberly. Ysabell clambered gamely after him, and peered over a canoe at a young girl sprawled across a pile of rugs. She was wearing gauze trousers, a waistcoat cut from not enough material, and enough bangles to moor a decent-sized ship. There was a green stain around her mouth. “Does it hurt?” said Ysabell quietly. No. T HEY THINK IT TAKES THEM TO PARADISE. “Does it”? M AYBE. W HO KNOWS ? Mort took the hourglass out of an inner pocket and inspected it by the gleam of the sword. He seemed to be counting to himself, and then with a sudden movement tossed the glass over his shoulder and brought the sword down with his other hand. The girl’s shade sat up and stretched, with a clink of ghostly jewelry. She caught sight of Mort, and bowed her head. “My lord!” N O ONE’S LORD , said Mort. N OW RUN ALONG TO WHEREVER YOU BELIEVE YOU’RE GOING. “I shall be a concubine at the heavenly court of King Zetesphut, who will dwell among the stars forever,” she said firmly. “You don’t have to be,” said Ysabell sharply. The girl turned to her, wide-eyed. “Oh, but I must. I’ve been training for it,” she said, as she faded from view. “I’ve only managed to be a handmaiden up till now. ” She vanished. Ysabell stared with dark disapproval at the space she had occupied. “Well!” she said, and, “Did you see what she had on?” L ET’S GET OUT OF HERE. “But it can’t be true about King Whosis dwelling among the stars,” she grumbled as they found their way out of the crowded room. “There’s nothing but empty space up there. ” I T’S HARD TO EXPLAIN , said Mort. H E’LL DWELL AMONG THE STARS IN HIS OWN MIND. “With slaves?” I F THAT’S WHAT THEY THINK THEY ARE. “That’s not very fair. ” T HERE’S NO JUSTICE , said Mort. J UST US. They hurried back along the avenues of waiting ghouls and were nearly running when they burst out into the desert night air. Ysabell leaned against the rough stonework and panted for breath. Mort wasn’t out of breath. He wasn’t breathing. I WILL TAKE YOU WHEREVER YOU WANT , he Said, AND THEN I MUST LEAVE YOU. “But I thought you wanted to rescue the princess!” Mort shook his head. I HAVE NO CHOICE. THERE ARE NO CHOICES. She ran forward and grabbed his arm as he turned towards the waiting Binky. He removed her hand gently. I HAVE FINISHED MY APPRENTICESHIP. “It’s all in your own mind!” yelled Ysabell. “You’re whatever you think you are!” She stopped and looked down. The sand around Mort’s feet was beginning to whip up in little spurts and twirling dust devils. There was a crackle in the air, and a greasy feel. Mort looked uneasy. S OMEONE IS PERFORMING THE RITE OF A SH — It hit like a hammer, a force from out of the sky that blew the sand into a crater. There was a low buzzing and the smell of hot tin. Mort looked around himself in the gale of rushing sand, turning as if in a dream, alone in the calm center of the gale. Lightning flashed in the whirling cloud. Deep inside his own mind he struggled to break free, but something had him in its grip and he could no more resist than a compass needle can ignore the compulsion to point towards the Hub. At last he found what he was searching for. It was a doorway edged in octarine light, leading to a short tunnel. There were figures at the other end, beckoning to him. I COME , he said, and then turned as he heard the sudden noise behind him. Eleven stone of young womanhood hit him squarely in the chest, lifting him off the ground. Mort landed with Ysabell kneeling on him, holding on grimly to his arms. L ET ME GO , he intoned. I HAVE BEEN SUMMONED. “Not you, idiot!” She stared into the blue, pupil-less pools of his eyes. It was like looking down a rushing tunnel. Mort arched his back and screamed a curse so ancient and virulent that in the strong magical field it actually took on a form, flapped its leathery wings and slunk away. A private thunderstorm crashed around the sand dunes. His eyes drew her again. She looked away before she dropped like a stone down a well made of blue light. I COMMAND YOU. Mort’s voice could have cut holes in rock. “Father tried that tone on me for years,” she said calmly. “Generally when he wanted me to clean my bedroom. It didn’t work then, either. ” Mort screamed another curse, which flopped out of the air and tried to bury itself in the sand. T HE PAIN — “It’s all in your head,” she said, bracing herself against the force that wanted to drag them towards that flickering doorway. “You’re not Death. You’re just Mort. You’re whatever I think you are. ” In the center of the blurred blueness of his eyes were two tiny brown dots, rising at the speed of sight. The storm around them rose and wailed. Mort screamed. The Rite of AshkEnte, quite simply, summons and binds Death. Students of the occult will be aware that it can be performed with a simple incantation, three small bits of wood and 4cc of mouse blood, but no wizard worth his pointy hat would dream of doing anything so unimpressive; they knew in their hearts that if a spell didn’t involve big yellow candles, lots of rare incense, circles drawn on the floor with eight different colors of chalk and a few cauldrons around the place then it simply wasn’t worth contemplating. The eight wizards at their stations on the points of the great ceremonial octogram swayed and chanted, their arms held out sideways so they were just touching the fingertips of the mages on either side. But something was going wrong. True, a mist had formed in the very center of the living octogram, but it was writhing and turning in on itself, refusing to focus. “More power!” shouted Albert. “Give it more power!” A figure appeared momentarily in the smoke, black-robed and holding a glittering sword. Albert swore as he caught a glimpse of the pale face under the cowl; it wasn’t pale enough. “No!” Albert yelled, ducking into the octogram and flailing at the flickering shape with his hands. “Not you, not you…. ” And, in faraway Tsort, Ysabell forgot she was a lady, bunched her fist, narrowed her eyes and caught Mort squarely on the jaw. The world around her exploded…. In the kitchen of Harga’s House of Ribs the frying pan crashed to the floor, sending the cats scurrying out of the door…. In the great hall of the Unseen University everything happened at once. * The tremendous force the wizards had been exerting on the shadow realm suddenly had one focus. Like a reluctant cork from a bottle, like a dollop of fiery ketchup from the upturned sauce bottle of Infinity, Death landed in the octogram and swore. Albert realized just too late that he was inside the charmed ring and made a dive for the edge. But skeletal fingers caught him by the hem of his robe. The wizards, such of them who were still on their feet and conscious, were rather surprised to see that Death was wearing an apron and holding a small kitten. “Why did you have” TO SPOIL IT ALL ? “Spoil it all? Have you seen what the lad has done?” snapped Albert, still trying to reach the edge of the ring. Death raised his skull and sniffed the air. The sound cut through all the other noises in the hall and forced them into silence. It was the kind of noise that is heard on the twilight edges of dreams, the sort that you wake from in a cold sweat of mortal horror. It was the snuffling under the door of dread. It was like the snuffling of a hedgehog, but if so then it was the kind of hedgehog that crashes out of the verges and flattens lorries. It was the kind of noise you wouldn’t want to hear twice; you wouldn’t want to hear it once. Death straightened up slowly. |
I S THIS HOW HE REPAYS MY KINDNESS ? T O STEAL MY DAUGHTER, INSULT MY SERVANTS, AND RISK THE FABRIC OF REALITY ON A PERSONAL WHIM ? O H, FOOLISH, FOOLISH , I HAVE BEEN FOOLISH TOO LONG ! “Master, if you would just be so good as to let go of my robe—” began Albert, and the wizard noticed a pleading edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. Death ignored him. He snapped his fingers like a castanet and the apron around his waist exploded into brief flames. The kitten, however, he put down very carefully and gently pushed away with his foot. D ID I NOT GIVE HIM THE GREATEST OPPORTUNITY ? “Exactly, master, and now if you could see your way clear—” S KILLS ? A CAREER STRUCTURE ? P ROSPECTS ? A JOB FOR LIFE ? “Indeed, and if you would but let go—” The change in Albert’s voice was complete. The trumpets of command had become the piccolos of supplication. He sounded terrified, in fact, but he managed to catch Rincewind’s eye and hiss: “My staff! Throw me my staff! While he is in the circle he is not invincible! Let me have my staff and I can break free!” Rincewind said: “Pardon?” O H, MINE IS THE FAULT FOR GIVING IN TO THESE WEAKNESSES OF WHAT FOR WANT OF A BETTER WORD I SHALL CALL THE FLESH ! “My staff, you idiot, my staff!” gibbered Albert. “Sorry?” W ELL DONE, MY SERVANT, FOR CALLING ME TO MY SENSES , said Death. L ET US LOSE NO TIME. “My sta—!” There was an implosion and an inrush of air. The candle flames stretched out like lines of fire for a moment, and then went out. Some time passed. Then the bursar’s voice from somewhere near the floor said, “That was very unkind, Rincewind, losing his staff like that. Remind me to discipline you severely one of these days. Anyone got a light?” “I don’t know what happened to it! I just leaned it against the pillar here and now it’s—” “Oook. ” “Oh,” said Rincewind. “Extra banana ration, that ape,” said the bursar levelly. A match flared and someone managed to get a candle alight. Wizards started to pick themselves off the floor. “Well, that was a lesson to all of us,” the bursar continued, brushing dust and candlewax off his robe. He looked up, expecting to see the statue of Alberto Malich back on its pedestal. “Clearly even statues have feelings,” he said. “I myself recall, when I was but a first-year student, writing my name on his well, never mind. The point is, I propose here and now we replace the statue. ” Dead silence greeted this suggestion. “With, say, an exact likeness cast in gold. Suitably embellished with jewels, as befits our great founder,” he went on brightly. “And to make sure no students deface it in any way I suggest we then erect it in the deepest cellar,” he continued. “And then lock the door,” he added. Several wizards began to cheer up. “And throw away the key?” said Rincewind. “And weld the door,” the bursar said. He had just remembered about The Mended Drum. He thought for a while and remembered about the physical fitness regime as well. “And then brick up the doorway,” he said. There was a round of applause. “And throw away the bricklayer!” chortled Rincewind, who felt he was getting the hang of this. The bursar scowled at him. “No need to get carried away,” he said. In the silence a larger than usual sand dune humped up awkwardly and then fell away to reveal Binky, blowing the sand out of his nostrils and shaking his mane. Mort opened his eyes. There should be a word for that brief period just after waking when the mind is full of warm pink nothing. You lie there entirely empty of thought, except for a growing suspicion that heading towards you, like a sockful of damp sand in a nocturnal alleyway, are all the recollections you’d really rather do without, and which amount to the fact that the only mitigating factor in your horrible future is the certainty that it will be quite short. Mort sat up and put his hands on top of his head to stop it unscrewing. The sand beside him heaved and Ysabell pushed herself into a sitting position. Her hair was full of sand and her face was grimy with pyramid dust. Some of her hair had frizzled at the tips. She stared listlessly at him. “Did you hit me?” he said, gently testing his jaw. “Yes. ” “Oh. ” He looked at the sky, as though it could remind him about things. He had to be somewhere, soon, he recalled. Then he remembered something else. “Thank you,” he said. “Any time, I assure you. ” Ysabell made it to her feet and tried to brush the dirt and cobwebs off her dress. “Are we going to rescue this princess of yours?” she said diffidently. Mort’s own personal, internal reality caught up with him. He shot to his feet with a strangled cry, watched blue fireworks explode in front of his eyes, and collapsed again. Ysabell caught him under the shoulders and hauled him back on his feet. “Let’s go down to the river,” she said. “I think we could all do with a drink. ” “What happened to me?” She shrugged as best she could while supporting his weight. “Someone used the Rite of AshkEnte. Father hates it, he says they always summon him at inconvenient moments. The part of you that was Death went and you stayed behind. I think. At least you’ve got your own voice back. ” “What time is it?” “What time did you say the priests close up the pyramid?” Mort squinted through streaming eyes back towards the tomb of the king. Sure enough, torchlit fingers were working on the door. Soon, according to the legend, the guardians would come to life and begin their endless patrol. He knew they would. He remembered the knowledge. He remembered his mind feeling as cold as ice and limitless as the night sky. He remembered being summoned into reluctant existence at the moment the first creature lived, in the certain knowledge that he would outlive life until the last being in the universe passed to its reward, when it would then be his job, figuratively speaking, to put the chairs on the tables and turn all the lights off. He remembered the loneliness. “Don’t leave me,” he said urgently. “I’m here,” she said. “For as long as you need me. ” “It’s midnight,” he said dully, sinking down by the Tsort and lowering his aching head to the water. Beside him there was a noise like a bath emptying as Binky also took a drink. “Does that mean we’re too late?” “Yes. ” “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do. ” “There isn’t. ” “At least you kept your promise to Albert. ” “Yes,” said Mort, bitterly. “At least I did that. ” Nearly all the way from one side of the Disc to the other…. There should be a word for the microscopic spark of hope that you dare not entertain in case the mere act of acknowledging it will cause it to vanish, like trying to look at a photon. You can only sidle up to it, looking past it, walking past it, waiting for it to get big enough to face the world. He raised his dripping head and looked towards the sunset horizon, trying to remember the big model of the Disc in Death’s study without actually letting the universe know what he was entertaining. At times like this it can seem that eventuality is so finely balanced that merely thinking too loud can spoil everything. He oriented himself by the thin streamers of Hublight dancing against the stars, and made an inspired guess that Sto Lat was…over there…. “Midnight,” he said aloud. “Gone midnight now,” said Ysabell. Mort stood up, trying not to let the delight radiate out from him like a beacon, and grabbed Binky’s harness. “Come on,” he said. “We haven’t got much time. ” “What are you talking about?” Mort reached down to swing her up behind him. It was a nice idea, but merely meant that he nearly pulled himself out of the saddle. She pushed him back gently and climbed up by herself. Binky skittered sideways, sensing Mort’s feverish excitement, and snorted and pawed at the sand. “I said, what are you talking about?” Mort turned the horse to face the distant glow of the sunset. “The speed of night,” he said. Cutwell poked his head over the palace battlements and groaned. The interface was only a street away, clearly visible in the octarine, and he didn’t have to imagine the sizzling. |
He could hear it—a nasty, saw-toothed buzz as random particles of possibility hit the interface and gave up their energy as noise. As it ground its way up the street the pearly wall swallowed the bunting, the torches and the waiting crowds, leaving only dark streets. Somewhere out there, Cutwell thought, I’m fast asleep in my bed and none of this has happened. Lucky me. He ducked down, skidded down the ladder to the cobbles and legged it back to the main hall with the skirts of his robe flapping around his ankles. He slipped in through the small postern in the great door and ordered the guards to lock it, then grabbed his skirts again and pounded along a side passage so that the guests wouldn’t notice him. The hall was lit with thousands of candles and crowded with Sto Plain dignitaries, nearly all of them slightly unsure why they were there. And, of course, there was the elephant. It was the elephant that had convinced Cutwell that he had gone off the rails of sanity, but it seemed like a good idea a few hours ago, when his exasperation at the High Priest’s poor eyesight had run into the recollection that a lumber mill on the edge of town possessed said beast for the purposes of heavy haulage. It was elderly, arthritic and had an uncertain temper, but it had one important advantage as a sacrificial victim. The High Priest should be able to see it. Half a dozen guards were gingerly trying to restrain the creature, in whose slow brain the realization had dawned that it should be in its familiar stable, with plenty of hay and water and time to dream of the hot days on the great khaki plains of Klatch. It was getting restless. It will shortly become apparent that another reason for its growing friskiness is the fact that, in the pre-ceremony confusion, its trunk found the ceremonial chalice containing a gallon of strong wine and drained the lot. Strange hot ideas are beginning to bubble in front of its crusted eyes, of uprooted baobabs, mating fights with other bulls, glorious stampedes through native villages and other half-remembered pleasures. Soon it will start to see pink people. Fortunately this was unknown to Cutwell, who caught the eye of the High Priest’s assistant—a forward-looking young man who had the foresight to provide himself with a long rubber apron and waders—and signaled that the ceremony should begin. He darted back into the priest’s robing room and struggled into the special ceremonial robe the palace seamstress had made up for him, digging deep into her workbasket for scraps of lace, sequins and gold thread to produce a garment of such dazzling tastelessness that even the ArchChancellor of Unseen University wouldn’t have been ashamed to wear it. Cutwell allowed himself five seconds to admire himself in the mirror before ramming the pointy hat on his head and running back to the door, stopping just in time to emerge at a sedate pace as befitted a person of substance. He reached the High Priest as Keli started her advance up the central aisle, flanked by maidservants who fussed around her like tugs around a liner. Despite the drawbacks of the hereditary dress, Cutwell thought she looked beautiful. There was something about her that made him— He gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate on the security arrangements. He had put guards at various vantage points in the hall in case the Duke of Sto Helit tried any last-minute rearrangement of the royal succession, and reminded himself to keep a special eye on the duke himself, who was sitting in the front row of seats with a strange quiet smile on his face. The duke caught Cutwell’s eye, and the wizard hastily looked away. The High Priest held up his hands for silence. Cutwell sidled towards him as the old man turned towards the Hub and in a cracked voice began the invocation to the gods. Cutwell let his eyes slip back towards the duke. “Hear me, mm, O gods—” Was Sto Helit looking up into the bat-haunted darkness of the rafters? “—hear me, O Blind Io of the Hundred Eyes; hear me, O Great Offler of the Bird-Haunted Mouth; hear me, O Merciful Fate; hear me, O Cold, mm, Destiny; hear me, O Seven-handed Sek; hear me, O Hoki of the Woods; hear me, O—” With dull horror Cutwell realized that the daft old fool, against all instruction, was going to mention the whole lot. There were more than nine hundred known gods on the Disc, and research theologians were discovering more every year. It could take hours. The congregation was already beginning to shuffle its feet. Keli was standing in front of the altar with a look of fury on her face. Cutwell nudged the High Priest in the ribs, which had no noticeable effect, and then waggled his eyebrows ferociously at the young acolyte. “Stop him!” he hissed. “We haven’t got time!” “The gods would be displeased—” “Not as displeased as me, and I’m here. ” The acolyte looked at Cutwell’s expression for a moment and decided that he’d better explain to the gods later. He tapped the High Priest on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear. “—O Steikhegel, god of, mm, isolated cow byres; hear me, O—hello? What?” Murmur, murmur. “This is, mm, very irregular. Very well, we shall go straight to the, mm, Recitation of the Lineage. ” Murmur, murmur. The High Priest scowled at Cutwell, or at least where he believed Cutwell to be. “Oh, all right. Mm, prepare the incense and fragrances for the Shriving of the Fourfold-Path. ” Murmur, murmur. The High Priest’s face darkened. “I suppose, mm, a short prayer, mm, is totally out of the question?” he said acidly. “If some people don’t get a move on,” said Keli demurely, “there is going to be trouble. ” Murmur. “I don’t know, I’m sure,” said the High Priest. “People might as well not bother with a religious, mm, ceremony at all. Fetch the bloody elephant, then. ” The acolyte gave Cutwell a frantic look and waved at the guards. As they urged their gently-swaying charge forward with shouts and pointed sticks the young priest sidled towards Cutwell and pushed something into his hand. He looked down. It was a waterproof hat. “Is this necessary?” “He’s very devout,” said the acolyte. “We may need a snorkel. ” The elephant reached the altar and was forced, without too much difficulty, to kneel. It hiccupped. “Well, where is it, then?” snapped the High Priest. “Let’s get this, mm, farce over with!” Murmur went the acolyte. The High Priest listened, nodded gravely, picked up his white-handled sacrificial knife and raised it double-handed over his head. The whole hall watched, holding its breath. Then he lowered it again. “ Where in front of me?” Murmur. “I certainly don’t need your help, my lad! I’ve been sacrificing man and boy—and, mm, women and animals—for seventy years, and when I can’t use the, mm, knife you can put me to bed with a shovel!” And he brought the blade down in a wild sweep which, by sheer luck, gave the elephant a mild flesh wound on the trunk. The creature awoke from its pleasant reflective stupor and squealed. The acolyte turned in horror to look at two tiny bloodshot eyes squinting down the length of an enraged trunk, and cleared the altar in one standing jump. The elephant was enraged. Vague confusing recollections flooded its aching head, of fires and shouts and men with nets and cages and spears and too many years hauling heavy tree trunks. It brought its trunk down across the altar stone and somewhat to its own surprise smashed it in two, levered the two parts into the air with its tusks, tried unsuccessfully to uproot a stone pillar and then, feeling the sudden need for a breath of fresh air, started to charge arthritically down the length of the hall. It hit the door at a dead run, its blood loud with the call of the herd and fizzing with alcohol, and took it off at the hinges. Still wearing the frame on its shoulders it careened across the courtyard, smashed the outer gates, burped, thundered through the sleeping city and was still slowly accelerating when it sniffed the distant dark continent of Klatch on the night breeze and, tail raised, followed the ancient call of home. |
Back in the hall there was dust and shouts and confusion. Cutwell pushed his hat out of his eyes and got to his hands and knees. “Thank you,” said Keli, who had been lying underneath him. “And why did you jump on top of me?” “My first instinct was to protect you, your Majesty. ” “Yes, instinct it may have been, but—” She started to say that maybe the elephant would have weighed less, but the sight of his big, serious and rather flushed face stopped her. “We will talk about this later,” she said, sitting up and brushing the dust off her. “In the meantime, I think we will dispense with the sacrifice. I’m not your Majesty yet, just your Highness, and now if someone will fetch the crown—” There was the snick of a safety catch behind them. “The wizard will put his hands where I can see them,” said the duke. Cutwell stood up slowly, and turned around. The duke was backed by half a dozen large serious men, the type of men whose only function in life is to loom behind people like the duke. They had a dozen large serious crossbows, whose main purpose was to appear to be on the point of going off. The princess sprang to her feet and launched herself at her uncle, but Cutwell grabbed her. “No,” he said, quietly. “This isn’t the kind of man who ties you up in a cellar with just enough time for the mice to eat your ropes before the flood waters rise. This is the kind of man who just kills you here and now. ” The duke bowed. “I think it can be truly said that the gods have spoken,” he said. “Clearly the princess was tragically crushed by the rogue elephant. The people will be upset. I will personally decree a week of mourning. ” “You can’t do that, all the guests have seen—!” the princess began, nearly in tears. Cutwell shook his head. He could see the guards moving through the crowds of bewildered guests. “They haven’t,” he said. “You’ll be amazed at what they haven’t seen. Especially when they learn that being tragically crushed to death by rogue elephants can be catching. You can even die of it in bed. ” The duke laughed pleasantly. “You really are quite intelligent for a wizard,” he said. “Now, I am merely proposing banishment—” “You won’t get away with this,” said Cutwell. He thought for a bit, and added, “Well, you will probably get away with it, but you’ll feel bad about it on your deathbed and you’ll wish—” He stopped talking. His jaw dropped. The duke half turned to follow his gaze. “Well, wizard? What have you seen?” “You won’t get away with it,” said Cutwell hysterically. “You won’t even be here. This is going to have never happened, do you realize?” “Watch his hands,” said the duke. “If he even moves his fingers, shoot them. ” He looked around again, puzzled. The wizard had sounded genuine. Of course, it was said wizards could see things that weren’t there…. “It doesn’t even matter if you kill me,” Cutwell babbled, “because tomorrow I’ll wake up in my own bed and this won’t have happened anyway. It’s come through the wall!” Night rolled onwards across the Disc. It was always there, of course, lurking in shadows and holes and cellars, but as the slow light of day drifted after the sun the pools and lakes of night spread out, met and merged. Light on the Discworld moves slowly because of the vast magical field. Light on the Discworld isn’t like light elsewhere. It’s grown up a bit, it’s been around, it doesn’t feel the need to rush everywhere. It knows that however fast it goes darkness always gets there first, so it takes it easy. Midnight glided across the landscape like a velvet bat. And faster than midnight, a tiny spark against the dark world of the Disc, Binky pounded after it. Flames roared back from his hooves. Muscles moved under his glistening skin like snakes in oil. They moved in silence. Ysabell took one arm from around Mort’s waist and watched sparks glitter around her fingers in all eight colors of the rainbow. Little crackling serpents of light flowed down her arm and flashed off the tips of her hair. Mort took the horse down lower, leaving a boiling wake of cloud that extended for miles behind them. “Now I know I’m going mad,” he muttered. “Why?” “I just saw an elephant down there. Whoa, boy. Look, you can see Sto Lat up ahead. ” Ysabell peered over his shoulder at the distant gleam of light. “How long have we got?” she said nervously. “I don’t know. A few minutes, perhaps. ” “Mort, I hadn’t asked you before—” “Well?” “What are you going to do when we get there?” “I don’t know,” he said. “I was sort of hoping something would suggest itself at the time. ” “Has it?” “No. But it isn’t time yet. Albert’s spell may help. And I—” The dome of reality squatted over the palace like a collapsing jellyfish. Mort’s voice trailed into horrified silence. Then Ysabell said, “Well, I think it’s nearly time. What are we going to do?” “Hold tight!” Binky glided through the smashed gates of the outer courtyard, slid across the cobbles in a trail of sparks and leapt through the ravaged doorway of the hall. The pearly wall of the interface loomed up and passed like a shock of cold spray. Mort had a confused vision of Keli and Cutwell and a group of large men diving for their lives. He recognized the features of the duke and drew his sword, vaulting from the saddle as soon as the steaming horse skidded to a halt. “Don’t you lay a finger on her!” he screamed. “I’ll have your head off!” “This is certainly most impressive,” said the duke, drawing his own sword. “And also very foolish. I—” He stopped. His eyes glazed over. He toppled forward. Cutwell put down the big silver candlestick he’d wielded and gave Mort an apologetic smile. Mort turned towards the guards, the blue flame of Death’s sword humming through the air. “Anyone else want some?” he snarled. They backed away, and then turned and ran. As they passed through the interface they vanished. There were no guests outside there, either. In the real reality the hall was dark and empty. The four of them were left in a hemisphere that was rapidly growing smaller. Mort sidled over to Cutwell. “Any ideas?” he said. “I’ve got a magic spell here somewhere—” “Forget it. If I try any magic in here now it’ll blow our heads off. This little reality is too small to contain it. ” Mort sagged against the remains of the altar. He felt empty, drained. For a moment he watched the sizzling wall of the interface drifting nearer. He’d survive it, he hoped, and so would Ysabell. Cutwell wouldn’t, but a Cutwell would. Only Keli— “Am I going to be crowned or not?” she said icily. “I’ve got to die a queen! It’d be terrible to be dead and common!” Mort gave her an unfocused look, trying to remember what on earth she was talking about. Ysabell fished around in the wreckage behind the altar, and came up with a rather battered gold circlet set with small diamonds. “Is this it?” she said. “That’s the crown,” said Keli, nearly in tears. “But there’s no priest or anything. ” Mort sighed deeply. “Cutwell, if this is our own reality we can rearrange it the way we want, can’t we?” “What had you in mind?” “You’re now a priest. Name your own god. ” Cutwell curtsied, and took the crown from Ysabell. “You’re all making fun of me!” snapped Keli. “Sorry,” said Mort, wearily. “It’s been rather a long day. ” “I hope I can do this right,” said Cutwell solemnly. “I’ve never crowned anyone before. ” “I’ve never been crowned before!” “Good,” said Cutwell soothingly. “We can learn together. ” He started to mutter some impressive words in a strange tongue. It was in fact a simple spell for ridding the clothing of fleas, but he thought, what the hell. And then he thought, gosh, in this reality I’m the most powerful wizard there ever was, that’d be something to tell my grandch…He gritted his teeth. There’d be some rules changed in this reality, that was for sure. Ysabell sat down beside Mort and slipped her hand in his. “Well?” she said quietly. “This is the time. Has anything suggested itself?” “No. ” The interface was more than halfway down the hall, slowing slightly as it relentlessly ground down the pressure of the intruding reality. |
Something wet and warm blew in Mort’s ear. He reached up and touched Binky’s muzzle. “Dear old horse,” he said. “And I’m right out of sugar lumps. You’ll have to find your way home by yourself—” His hand stopped in mid-pat. “We can all go home,” he said. “I don’t think father would like that very much,” said Ysabell, but Mort ignored her. “Cutwell!” “Yes?” “We’re leaving. Are you coming? You’ll still exist when the interface closes. ” “Part of me will,” said the wizard. “That’s what I meant,” said Mort, swinging himself up on to Binky’s back. “But speaking as the part that won’t, I’d like to join you,” said Cutwell quickly. “I intend to stay here to die in my own kingdom,” said Keli. “What you intend doesn’t signify,” said Mort. “I’ve come all the way across the Disc to rescue you, d’you see, and you’re going to be rescued. ” “But I’m the queen!” said Keli. Uncertainty welled up in her eyes, and she spun round to Cutwell, who lowered his candlestick guiltily. “I heard you say the words! I am queen, aren’t I?” “Oh, yes,” said Cutwell instantly; and then, because a wizard’s word is supposed to be harder than cast iron, added virtuously, “And totally free from infestation, too. ” “Cutwell!” snapped Mort. The wizard nodded, caught Keli around the waist and bodily hoisted her on to Binky’s back. Hoisting his skirts around his waist he clambered up behind Mort and reached down and swung Ysabell up behind him. The horse jigged across the floor, complaining about the overloading, but Mort turned him towards the broken doorway and urged him forward. The interface followed them as they clattered down the hall and into the courtyard, rising slowly. Its pearly fog was only yards away, tightening by inches. “Excuse me,” said Cutwell to Ysabell, raising his hat. “Igneous Cutwell, Wizard 1st Grade (UU), former Royal Recognizer and soon to be beheaded probably. Would you happen to know where we are going?” “To my father’s country,” shouted Ysabell, above the wind of their passage. “Have I ever met him?” “I don’t think so. You’d have remembered. ” The top of the palace wall scraped Binky’s hooves as, muscles straining, he sought for more height. Cutwell leaned backward again, holding on to his hat. “Who is this gentleman of which we speak?” he yelled. “Death,” said Ysabell. “Not—” “Yes. ” “Oh. ” Cutwell peered down at the distant rooftops, and gave her a lopsided smile. “Would it save time if I just jumped off now?” “He’s quite nice if you get to know him,” said Ysabell defensively. “Is he? Do you think we’ll get the chance?” “Hold on!” said Mort. “We should be going across just about—” A hole full of blackness rushed out of the sky and caught them. The interface bobbed uncertainly, empty as a pauper’s pocket, and carried on shrinking. The front door opened. Ysabell poked her head out. “There’s no one at home,” she said. “You’d better come in. ” The other three filed into the hallway. Cutwell conscientiously wiped his feet. “It’s a bit small,” said Keli, critically. “It’s a lot bigger inside,” said Mort, and turned to Ysabell. “Have you looked everywhere?” “I can’t even find Albert,” she said. “I can’t remember him ever not being here. ” She coughed, remembering her duties as hostess. “Would anyone like a drink?” she said. Keli ignored her. “I was expecting a castle at least,” she said. “Big and black, with great dark towers. Not an umbrella stand. ” “It has got a scythe in it,” Cutwell pointed out. “Let’s all go into the study and sit down and I’m sure we’ll all feel better,” said Ysabell hurriedly, and pushed open the black baize door. Cutwell and Keli stepped through, bickering. Ysabell took Mort’s arm. “What are we going to do now?” she said. “Father will be very angry if he finds them here. ” “I’ll think of something,” said Mort. “I’ll rewrite the autobiographies or something. ” He smiled weakly. “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something. ” The door slammed behind him. Mort turned to look into Albert’s grinning face. The big leather armchair behind the desk revolved slowly. Death looked at Mort over steepled fingers. When he was quite certain he had their full, horrified attention, he said: Y OU HAD BETTER START NOW. He stood up, appearing to grow larger as the room darkened. D ON’T BOTHER TO APOLOGIZE , he added. Keli buried her head in Cutwell’s ample chest. I AM BACK. A ND I AM ANGRY. “Master, I—” Mort began. S HUT UP , said Death. He beckoned Keli with a calcareous forefinger. She turned to look at him, her body not daring to disobey. Death reached out and touched her chin. Mort’s hand went to his sword. I S THIS THE FACE THAT LAUNCHED A THOUSAND SHIPS, AND BURNED THE TOPLESS TOWERS OF P SEUDOPOLIS ? Wondered Death. Keli stared hypnotized at the red pinpoints miles deep in those dark sockets. “Er, excuse me,” said Cutwell, holding his hat respectfully, Mexican fashion. W ELL ? said Death, distracted. “It isn’t, sir. You must be thinking about another face. ” W HAT IS YOUR NAME ? “Cutwell, sir. I’m a wizard, sir. ” I’ M A WIZARD, SIR , Death sneered. B E SILENT, WIZARD. “Sir. ” Cutwell stepped back. Death turned to Ysabell. D AUGHTER, EXPLAIN YOURSELF. W HY DID YOU AID THIS FOOL ? Ysabell curtsied nervously. “I—love him, Father. I think. ” “You do?” said Mort, astonished. “You never said!” “There didn’t seem to be time,” said Ysabell. “Father, he didn’t mean—” B E SILENT. Ysabell dropped her gaze. “Yes, Father. ” Death stalked around the desk until he was standing directly in front of Mort. He stared at him for a long time. Then in one blurred movement his hand struck Mort across the face, knocking him off his feet. I INVITE YOU INTO MY HOME , he Said, I TRAIN YOU , I FEED YOU , I CLOTHE YOU , I GIVE YOU OPPORTUNITIES YOU COULD NOT DREAM OF, AND THUS YOU REPAY ME. Y OU SEDUCE MY DAUGHTER FROM ME, YOU NEGLECT THE DUTY, YOU MAKE RIPPLES IN REALITY THAT WILL TAKE A CENTURY TO HEAL. Y OUR ILL-TIMED ACTIONS HAVE DOOMED YOUR COMRADES TO OBLIVION. T HE GODS WILL DEMAND NOTHING LESS. A LL IN ALL, BOY, NOT A GOOD START TO YOUR FIRST JOB. Mort struggled into a sitting position, holding his cheek. It burned coldly, like comet ice. “Mort,” he said. I T SPEAKS ! W HAT DOES IT SAY ? “You could let them go,” said Mort. “They just got involved. It wasn’t their fault. You could rearrange this so—” W HY SHOULD I DO THAT ? T HEY BELONG TO ME NOW. “I’ll fight you for them,” said Mort. V ERY NOBLE. M ORTALS FIGHT ME ALL THE TIME. Y OU ARE DISMISSED. Mort got to his feet. He remembered what being Death had been like. He caught hold of the feeling, let it surface…. No, he said. A H. Y OU CHALLENGE ME AS BETWEEN EQUALS, THEN ? Mort swallowed. But at least the way was clear now. When you step off a cliff, your life takes a very definite direction. “If necessary,” he said. “And if I win—” I F YOU WIN, YOU WILL BE IN A POSITION TO DO WHATEVER YOU PLEASE , said Death. F OLLOW ME. He stalked past Mort and out into the hall. The other four looked at Mort. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” said Cutwell. “No. ” “You can’t beat the master,” said Albert. He sighed. “Take it from me. ” “What will happen if you lose?” said Keli. “I won’t lose,” said Mort. “That’s the trouble. ” “Father wants him to win,” said Ysabell bitterly. “You mean he’ll let Mort win?” said Cutwell. “Oh, no, he won’t let him win. He just wants him to win. ” Mort nodded. As they followed Death’s dark shape he reflected on an endless future, serving whatever mysterious purpose the Creator had in mind, living outside Time. He couldn’t blame Death for wanting to quit the job. Death had said the bones were not compulsory, but perhaps that wouldn’t matter. Would eternity feel like a long time, or were all lives—from a personal viewpoint—entirely the same length? Hi, said a voice in his head. Remember me? I’m you. I got you into this. “Thanks,” he said bitterly. The others glanced at him. You could come through this, the voice said. You’ve got a big advantage. You’ve been him, and he’s never been you. Death swept through the hall and into the Long Room, the candles obediently flicking into flame as he entered. |
A LBERT. “Master?” F ETCH THE GLASSES. “Master. ” Cutwell grabbed the old man’s arm. “You’re a wizard,” he hissed. “You don’t have to do what he says!” “How old are you, lad?” said Albert, kindly. “Twenty. ” “When you’re my age you’ll see your choices differently. ” He turned to Mort. “Sorry. ” Mort drew his sword, its blade almost invisible in the light from the candles. Death turned and stood facing him, a thin silhouette against a towering rack of hourglasses. He held out his arms. The scythe appeared in them with a tiny thunderclap. Albert came back down one of the glass-lined alleys with two hourglasses, and set them down wordlessly on a ledge on one of the pillars. One was several times the size of the ordinary glasses—black, thin and decorated with a complicated skull-and-bones motif. That wasn’t the most unpleasant thing about it. Mort groaned inwardly. He couldn’t see any sand in there. The smaller glass beside it was quite plain and unadorned. Mort reached for it. “May I?” he said. B E MY GUEST. The name Mort was engraved on the top bulb. He held it up to the light, noting without any real surprise that there was hardly any sand left. When he held it to his ear he thought he could hear, even above the ever-present roar of the millions of lifetimers around him, the sound of his own life pouring away. He put it down very carefully. Death turned to Cutwell. M R. W IZARD, SIR, YOU WILL BE GOOD ENOUGH TO GIVE US A COUNT OF THREE. Cutwell nodded glumly. “Are you sure this couldn’t all be sorted out by getting around a table—” he began. N O. “No. ” Mort and Death circled one another warily, their reflections flickering across the banks of hourglasses. “One,” said Cutwell. Death spun his scythe menacingly. “Two. ” The blades met in mid-air with a noise like a cat sliding down a pane of glass. “They both cheated!” said Keli. Ysabell nodded. “Of course,” she said. Mort jumped back, bringing the sword round in a too-slow arc that Death easily deflected, turning the parry into a wicked low sweep that Mort avoided only by a clumsy standing jump. Although the scythe isn’t preeminent among weapons of war, anyone who has been on the wrong end of, say, a peasants’ revolt will know that in skilled hands it is fearsome. Once its owner gets it weaving and spinning no one—including the wielder—is quite certain where the blade is now and where it will be next. Death advanced, grinning. Mort ducked a cut at head height and dived sideways, hearing a tinkle behind him as the tip of the scythe caught a glass on the nearest shelf…. …in a dark alley in Morpork a night soil entrepreneur clutched at his chest and pitched forward over his cart…. Mort rolled and came up swinging the sword double-handed over his head, feeling a twang of dark exhilaration as Death darted backwards across the checkered tiles. The wild swing cut through a shelf; one after another its burden of glasses started to slide towards the floor. Mort was dimly aware of Ysabell scurrying past him to catch them one by one…. …across the Disc four people miraculously escaped death by falling…. …and then he ran forward, pressing home his advantage. Death’s hands moved in a blur as he blocked every chop and thrust, and then changed grip on the scythe and brought the blade swinging up in an arc that Mort sidestepped awkwardly, nicking the frame of an hourglass with the hilt of his sword and sending it flying across the room…. …in the Ramtop mountains a tharga-herder, searching by lamplight in the high meadows for a lost cow, missed his footing and plunged over a thousand foot drop…. …Cutwell dived forward and caught the tumbling glass in one desperately outstretched hand, hit the floor and slid along on his stomach…. …a gnarled sycamore mysteriously loomed under the screaming herder and broke his fall, removing his major problems—death, the judgement of the gods, the uncertainty of Paradise and so on—and replacing them with the comparatively simple one of climbing back up about one hundred feet of sheer, icy cliff in pitch darkness. There was a pause as the combatants backed away from each other and circled again, looking for an opening. “Surely there’s something we can do?” said Keli. “Mort will lose either way,” said Ysabell, shaking her head. Cutwell shook the silver candlestick out of his baggy sleeve and tossed it thoughtfully from hand to hand. Death hefted the scythe threateningly, incidentally smashing an hourglass by his shoulder…. …in Bes Pelargic the Emperor’s chief torturer slumped backwards into his own acid pit…. …and took another swing which Mort dodged by sheer luck. But only just. He could feel the hot ache in his muscles and the numbing grayness of fatigue poisons in his brain, two disadvantages that Death did not have to consider. Death noticed. Y IELD , he said. I MAY BE MERCIFUL. To illustrate the point he made a roundarm slash that Mort caught, clumsily, on the edge of his sword. The scythe blade bounced up, splintered a glass into a thousand shards…. …the Duke of Sto Helit clutched at his heart, felt the icy stab of pain, screamed soundlessly and tumbled from his horse…. Mort backed away until he felt the roughness of a stone pillar on his neck. Death’s glass with its dauntingly empty bulbs was a few inches from his head. Death himself wasn’t paying much attention. He was looking down thoughtfully at the jagged remains of the Duke’s life. Mort yelled and swung his sword up, to the faint cheers of the crowd that had been waiting for him to do this for some time. Even Albert clapped his wrinkled hands. But instead of the tinkle of glass that Mort had expected there was—nothing. He turned and tried again. The blade passed right through the glass without breaking it. The change in the texture of the air made him bring the sword around and back in time to deflect a vicious downward sweep. Death sprang away in time to dodge Mort’s counter thrust, which was slow and weak. T HUS IT ENDS, BOY. “Mort,” said Mort. He looked up. “Mort,” he repeated, and brought the sword up in a stroke that cut the scythe’s handle in two. Anger bubbled up inside him. If he was going to die, then at least he’d die with the right name. “Mort, you bastard!” he screamed, and propelled himself straight towards the grinning skull with the sword whirring in a complicated dance of blue light. Death staggered backwards, laughing, crouching under the rain of furious strokes that sliced the scythe handle into more pieces. Mort circled him, chopping and thrusting and dully aware, even through the red mists of fury, that Death was following his every move, holding the orphaned scytheblade like a sword. There was no opening, and the motor of his anger wouldn’t last. You’ll never beat him, he told himself. The best we can do is hold him off for a while. And losing is probably better than winning. Who needs eternity, anyway? Through the curtain of his fatigue he saw Death unfold the length of his bones and bring his blade around in a slow, leisurely arc as though it was moving through treacle. “Father!” screamed Ysabell. Death turned his head. Perhaps Mort’s mind welcomed the prospect of the life to come but his body, which maybe felt it had most to lose in the deal, objected. It brought his sword arm up in one unstoppable stroke that flicked Death’s blade from his hand, and then pinned him against the nearest pillar. In the sudden hush Mort realized he could no longer hear an intrusive little noise that had been just at his threshold of hearing for the last ten minutes. His eyes darted sideways. The last of his sand was running out. S TRIKE. Mort raised the sword, and looked into the twin blue fires. He lowered the sword. “No. ” Death’s foot lashed out at groin height with a speed that even made Cutwell wince. Mort silently curled into a ball and rolled across the floor. Through his tears he saw Death advancing, scytheblade in one hand and Mort’s own hourglass in the other. He saw Keli and Ysabell swept disdainfully aside as they made a grab for the robe. |
He saw Cutwell elbowed in the ribs, his candlestick clattering across the tiles. Death stood over him. The tip of the blade hovered in front of Mort’s eyes for a moment, and then swept upwards. “You’re right. There’s no justice. There’s just you. ” Death hesitated, and then slowly lowered the blade. He turned and looked down into Ysabell’s face. She was shaking with anger. Y OUR MEANING ? She glowered up at Death’s face and then her hand swung back and swung around and swung forward and connected with a sound like a dice box. It was nothing like as loud as the silence that followed it. Keli shut her eyes. Cutwell turned away and put his arms over his head. Death raised a hand to his skull, very slowly. Ysabell’s chest rose and fell in a manner that should have made Cutwell give up magic for life. Finally, in a voice even more hollow than usual, Death said: W HY ? “You said that to tinker with the fate of one individual could destroy the whole world,” said Ysabell. Y ES ? “You meddled with his. And mine. ” She pointed a trembling finger at the splinters of glass on the floor. “And those, too. ” W ELL ? “What will the gods demand for that? ” F ROM ME ? “Yes!” Death looked surprised. T HE GODS CAN DEMAND NOTHING OF ME. EVEN GODS ANSWER TO ME, EVENTUALLY. “Doesn’t seem very fair, does it? Don’t the gods bother about justice and mercy?” snapped Ysabell. Without anyone quite noticing she had picked up the sword. Death grinned. I APPLAUD YOUR EFFORTS , he said, BUT THEY AVAIL YOU NAUGHT. S TAND ASIDE. “No. ” Y OU MUST BE AWARE THAT EVEN LOVE IS NO DEFENSE AGAINST ME. I AM SORRY. Ysabell raised the sword. “You’re sorry?” S TAND ASIDE, I SAY. “No. You’re just being vindictive. It’s not fair!” Death bowed his skull for a moment, then looked up with his eyes blazing. Y OU WILL DO AS YOU ARE TOLD. “I will not. ” Y OU’RE MAKING THIS VERY DIFFICULT. “Good. ” Death’s fingers drummed impatiently on the scytheblade, like a mouse tapdancing on a tin. He seemed to be thinking. He looked at Ysabell standing over Mort, and then turned and looked at the others crouching against a shelf. No, he said eventually. No. I CANNOT BE BIDDEN. I CANNOT BE FORCED. I WILL DO ONLY THAT WHICH I KNOW TO BE RIGHT. He waved a hand, and the sword whirred out of Ysabell’s grasp. He made another complicated gesture and the girl herself was picked up and pressed gently but firmly against the nearest pillar. Mort saw the dark reaper advance on him again, blade swinging back for the final stroke. He stood over the boy. You DON’T KNOW HOW SORRY THIS MAKES ME , he said. Mort pulled himself on to his elbows. “I might,” he said. Death gave him a surprised look for several seconds, and then started to laugh. The sound bounced eerily around the room, ringing off the shelves as Death, still laughing like an earthquake in a graveyard, held Mort’s own glass in front of its owner’s eyes. Mort tried to focus. He saw the last grain of sand skid down the glossy surface, teeter on the edge and then drop, tumbling in slow motion, towards the bottom. Candlelight flickered off its tiny silica facets as it spun gently downward. It landed soundlessly, throwing up a tiny crater. The light in Death’s eyes flared until it filled Mort’s vision and the sound of his laughter rattled the universe. And then Death turned the hourglass over. Once again the great hall of Sto Lat was brilliant with candlelight and loud with music. As the guests flocked down the steps and descended on the cold buffet the Master of Ceremonies was in non-stop voice, introducing those who, by reason of importance or simple absent-mindedness, had turned up late. As for example: “The Royal Recognizer, Master of the Queen’s Bedchamber, His Ipississumussness Igneous Cutwell, Wizard 1st Grade (UU). ” Cutwell advanced on the royal couple, grinning, a large cigar in one hand. “May I kiss the bride?” he said. “If it’s allowed for wizards,” said Ysabell, offering a cheek. “We thought the fireworks were marvelous,” said Mort. “And I expect they’ll soon be able to rebuild the outer wall. No doubt you’ll be able to find your way to the food. ” “He’s looking a lot better these days,” said Ysabell behind her fixed grin, as Cutwell disappeared into the throng. “Certainly there’s a lot to be said for being the only person who doesn’t bother to obey the queen,” said Mort, exchanging nods with a passing nobleman. “They say he’s the real power behind the throne,” said Ysabell. “An eminence something. ” “Eminence grease,” said Mort absently. “Notice how he doesn’t do any magic these days?” “Shutuphereshecomes. ” “Her Supreme Majesty, Queen Kelirehenna I, Lord of Sto Lat, Protector of the Eight Protectorates and Empress of the Long Thin Debated Piece Hubwards of Sto Kerrig. ” Ysabell bobbed. Mort bowed. Keli beamed at both of them. They couldn’t help noticing that she had come under some influence that inclined her towards clothes that at least roughly followed her shape, and away from hairstyles that looked like the offspring of a pineapple and a candyfloss. She pecked Ysabell on the cheek and then stepped back and looked Mort up and down. “How’s Sto Helit?” she said. “Fine, fine,” said Mort. “We’ll have to do something about the cellars, though. Your late uncle had some unusual—hobbies, and…” “She means you,” whispered Ysabell. “That’s your official name. ” “I preferred Mort,” said Mort. “Such an interesting coat of arms, too,” said the queen. “Crossed scythes on an hourglass rampant against a sable field. It gave the Royal College quite a headache. ” “It’s not that I mind being a duke,” said Mort. “It’s being married to a duchess that comes as a shock. ” “You’ll get used to it. ” “I hope not. ” “Good. And now, Ysabell,” said Keli, setting her jaw, “if you are to move in royal circles there are some people you simply must meet…. ” Ysabell gave Mort a despairing look as she was swept away into the crowd, and was soon lost to view. Mort ran a finger around the inside of his collar, looked both ways, and then darted into a fern-shaded corner near the end of the buffet where he could have a quiet moment to himself. Behind him the Master of Ceremonies cleared his throat. His eyes took on a distant, glazed look. “The Stealer of Souls,” he said in the faraway voice of one whose ears aren’t hearing what his mouth is saying, “Defeater of Empires, Swallower of Oceans, Thief of Years, The Ultimate Reality, Harvester of Mankind, the—” A LL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT. I CAN SEE MYSELF IN. Mort paused with a cold turkey leg halfway to his mouth. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. There was no mistaking that voice, felt rather than heard, or the way in which the air chilled and darkened. The chatter and music of the wedding reception slowed and faded. “We didn’t think you’d come,” he said to a potted fern. T O MY OWN DAUGHTER’S WEDDING ? A NYWAY, IT WAS THE FIRST TIME I’ VE EVER HAD AN INVITATION TO ANYTHING. I T HAD GOLD EDGES AND RSVP AND EVERYTHING. “Yes, but when you weren’t at the service—” I THOUGHT PERHAPS IT WOULD NOT BE ENTIRELY APPROPRIATE. “Well, yes, I suppose so—” T O BE FRANK , I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO MARRY THE PRINCESS. Mort blushed. “We talked about it,” he said. “Then we thought, just because you happen to rescue a princess, you shouldn’t rush into things. ” V ERY WISE. T OO MANY YOUNG WOMEN LEAP INTO THE ARMS OF THE FIRST YOUNG MAN TO WAKE THEM AFTER A HUNDRED YEARS’ SLEEP, FOR EXAMPLE. “And, well, we thought that all in all, well, once I really got to know Ysabell, well…. ” Y ES, YES , I AM SURE. A N EXCELLENT DECISION. H OWEVER , I HAVE DECIDED NOT TO INTEREST MYSELF IN HUMAN AFFAIRS ANY FURTHER. “Really?” E XCEPT OFFICIALLY, OF COURSE. I T WAS CLOUDING MY JUDGEMENT. A skeletal hand appeared on the edge of Mort’s vision and skilfully speared a stuffed egg. Mort spun around. “What happened?” he said. “I’ve got to know! One minute we were in the Long Room and the next we were in a field outside the city, and we were really us! I mean, reality had been altered to fit us in! Who did it?” I HAD A WORD WITH THE GODS. Death looked uncomfortable. “Oh. |
You did, did you?” said Mort. Death avoided his gaze. Y ES. “I shouldn’t think they were very pleased. ” T HE GODS ARE JUST. T HEY ARE ALSO SENTIMENTALISTS. I HAVE NEVER BEEN ABLE TO MASTER IT, MYSELF. B UT YOU AREN’T FREE YET. Y OU MUST SEE TO IT THAT HISTORY TAKES PLACE. “I know,” said Mort. “Uniting the kingdoms and everything. ” Y OU MIGHT END UP WISHING YOU’D STAYED WITH ME. “I certainly learned a lot,” Mort admitted. He put his hand up to his face and absent-mindedly stroked the four thin white scars across his cheek. “But I don’t think I was cut out for that sort of work. Look, I’m really sorry—” I HAVE A PRESENT FOR YOU. Death put down his plate of hors d’oeuvres and fumbled in the mysterious recesses of his robe. When his skeletal hand emerged it was holding a little globe between thumb and forefinger. It was about three inches across. It could have been the largest pearl in the world, except that the surface was a moving swirl of complicated silver shapes, forever on the point of resolving themselves into something recognizable but always managing to avoid it. When Death dropped it into Mort’s outstretched palm it felt surprisingly heavy and slightly warm. F OR YOU AND YOUR LADY. A WEDDING PRESENT. A DOWRY. “It’s beautiful! We thought the silver toast rack was from you. ” T HAT WAS ALBERT. I’ M AFRAID HE DOESN’T HAVE MUCH IMAGINATION. Mort turned the globe over and over in his hands. The shapes boiling inside it seemed to respond to his touch, sending little streamers of light arching across the surface towards his fingers. “Is it a pearl?” he said. Y ES. W HEN SOMETHING IRRITATES AN OYSTER AND CAN’T BE REMOVED, THE POOR THING COATS IT WITH MUCUS AND TURNS IT INTO A PEARL. T HIS IS A PEARL OF A DIFFERENT COLOR. A PEARL OF REALITY. A LL THAT SHINY STUFF IS CONGEALED ACTUALITY. Y OU OUGHT TO RECOGNIZE IT—YOU CREATED IT, AFTER ALL. Mort tossed it gently from hand to hand. “We will put it with the castle jewels,” he said. “We haven’t got that many. ” O NE DAY IT WILL BE THE SEED OF A NEW UNIVERSE. Mort fumbled the catch, but reached down with lightning reflexes and caught it before it hit the flagstones. “What?” T HE PRESSURE OF THIS REALITY KEEPS IT COMPRESSED. T HERE MAY COME A TIME WHEN THE UNIVERSE ENDS AND REALITY DIES, AND THEN THIS ONE WILL EXPLODE AND…WHO KNOWS ? K EEP IT SAFE. I T’S A FUTURE AS WELL AS A PRESENT. Death put his skull on one side. I T’S A SMALL THING , he added. Y OU COULD HAVE HAD ETERNITY. “I know,” said Mort. “I’ve been very lucky. ” He put it very carefully on the buffet table, between the quails’ eggs and the sausage rolls. T HERE WAS ANOTHER THING , said Death. He reached under his robe again and pulled out an oblong shape inexpertly wrapped and tied with string. I T’S FOR YOU , he said, PERSONALLY. Y OU NEVER SHOWED ANY INTEREST IN IT BEFORE. D ID YOU THINK IT DIDN’T EXIST ? Mort unwrapped the packet and realized he was holding a small leather-bound book. On the spine was blocked, in shiny gold leaf, the one word: Mort. He leafed backwards through the unfilled pages until he found the little trail of ink, winding patiently down the page, and read: Mort shut the book with a little snap that sounded, in the silence, like the crack of creation, and smiled uneasily. “ There’s a lot of pages still to fill,” he said. “How much sand have I got left? Only Ysabell said that since you turned the glass over that means I shall die when I’m —” Y OU HAVE SUFFICIENT , said Death coldly. M ATHEMATICS ISN’T ALL IT’S CRACKED UP TO BE. “ How do you feel about being invited to christenings ?” I THINK NOT. I WASN’T CUT OUT TO BE A FATHER, AND CERTAINLY NOT A GRANDAD. I HAVEN’T GOT THE RIGHT KIND OF KNEES. He put down his wine glass and nodded at Mort. M Y REGARDS TO YOUR GOOD LADY , he said. A ND NOW I REALLY MUST BE OFF. “ Are you sure? You’re welcome to stay. ” I T’S NICE OF YOU TO SAY SO, BUT DUTY CALLS. He extended a bony hand. Y OU KNOW HOW IT IS. Mort gripped the hand and shook it, ignoring the chill. “ Look,” he said. “If ever you want a few days off, you know, if you’d like a holiday —” M ANY THANKS FOR THE OFFER , said Death graciously. I SHALL THINK ABOUT IT MOST SERIOUSLY. AND NOW — “ Goodbye,” Mort said, and was surprised to find a lump in his throat. “It’s such an unpleasant word, isn’t it ?” Q UITE SO. Death grinned because, as has so often been remarked, he didn’t have much option. But possibly he meant it, this time. I PREFER AU REVOIR , he said. THE END About the Author Terry Pratchett lives in England, an island off the coast of France, where he spends his time writing Discworld novels in accordance with the Very Strong Anthropic Principle, which holds that the entire Purpose of the Universe is to make possible a being that will live in England, an island off the coast of France, and spend his time writing Discworld novels. Which is exactly what he does. Which proves the whole business true. Any Questions? Visit www. AuthorTracker. com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author. UNANIMOUS PRAISE FOR TERRY PRATCHETT “Superb popular entertainment. ” Washington Post Book World “Pratchett has now moved beyond the limits of humorous fantasy, and should be recognized as one of the more significant contemporary English language satirists. ” Publishers Weekly “Humorously entertaining…subtly thought-provoking…Pratchett’s Discworld books are filled with humor and with magic, but they’re rooted in—of all things—real life and cold, hard reason. ” Chicago Tribune “Think J. R. R. Tolkien with a sharper, more satiric edge. ” Houston Chronicle “His books are richly textured, and far more complex than they appear at first. ” Barbara Mertz “Truly original…Discworld is more complicated and satisfactory than Oz…. Has the energy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and the inventiveness of Alice in Wonderland. …Brilliant!” A. S. Byatt “For lighthearted escape with a thoughtful center, you can’t do better than…any…Discworld novel. ” Washington Post Book World “Simply the best humorous writer of the twentieth century. ” Oxford Times “A brilliant storyteller with a sense of humor…whose infectious fun completely engulfs you…. The Dickens of the twentieth century. ” Mail on Sunday (London) “If you are unfamiliar with Pratchetts unique blend of philosophical badinage interspersed with slapstick, you are on the threshold of a mind-expanding opportunity. ” Financial Times (London) “The funniest parodist working in the field today, period. ” New York Review of Science Fiction “Pratchett demonstrates just how great the distance is between one- or two-joke writers and the comic masters whose work will be read into the next century. ” Locus “Pratchett is a comic genius. ” Express (London) “As always he is head and shoulders above the best of the rest. He is screamingly funny. He is wise. He has style. ” Daily Telegraph (London) “Terry Pratchett does for fantasy what Douglas Adams did for science fiction. ” Today (Great Britain) “What makes Terry Pratchett’s fantasies so entertaining is that their humor depends on the characters first, on the plot second, rather than the other way around. The story isn’t there simply to lead from one slapstick pratfall to another pun. Its humor is genuine and unforced. ” Ottawa Citizen “Terry Pratchett is more than a magician. He is the kindest, most fascinating teacher you ever had. ” Harlan Ellison “Delightful…. Logically illogical as only Terry Pratchett can write. |
” Anne McCaffrey B OOKS BY T ERRY P RATCHETT The Carpet People The Dark Side of the Sun Strata • Truckers Diggers • Wings Only You Can Save Mankind Johnny and the Dead • Johnny and the Bomb The Unadulterated Cat (with Gray Jollife) Good Omens (with Neil Gaiman) T HE D ISCWORLD ® S ERIES : Going Postal • Monstrous Regiment • Night Watch The Last Hero • The Truth • Thief of Time The Fifth Elephant • Carpe Jugulum The Last Continent • Jingo Hogfather • Feet of Clay • Maskerade Interesting Times • Soul Music • Men at Arms Lords and Ladies • Small Gods Witches Abroad • Reaper Man Moving Pictures • Eric (with Josh Kirby) Guards! Guards! • Pyramids Wyrd Sisters • Sourcery • Mort • Equal Rites The Light Fantastic • The Color of Magic Mort: A Discworld Big Comic (with Graham Higgins) The Streets of Ankh-Morpork (with Stephen Briggs) The Discworld Companion (with Stephen Briggs) The Discworld Mapp (with Stephen Briggs) The Pratchett Portfolio (with Paul Kidby) Copyright This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. MORT. Copyright © 1987 by Terry Pratchett. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. EPub Edition © FEBRUARY 2007 ISBN: 9780061803888 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. 25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321) Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia http://www. harpercollinsebooks. com. au Canada HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900 Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada http://www. harpercollinsebooks. ca New Zealand HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited P. O. Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand http://www. harpercollinsebooks. co. nz United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www. harpercollinsebooks. co. uk United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 http://www. harpercollinsebooks. com * Practically anything can go faster than Disc light, which is lazy and tame, unlike ordinary light. The only thing known to go faster than ordinary light is monarchy, according to the philosopher Ly Tin Wheedle. He reasoned like this: you can’t have more than one king, and tradition demands that there is no gap between kings, so when a king dies the succession must therefore pass to the heir instantaneously. Presumably, he said, there must be some elementary particles—kingons, or possibly queons—that do this job, but of course succession sometimes fails if, in mid-flight, they strike an anti-particle, or republicon. His ambitious plans to use his discovery to send messages, involving the careful torturing of a small king in order to modulate the signal, were never fully expounded because, at that point, the bar closed. * The first pizza was created on the Disc by the Klatchian mystic Ronron “Revelation Joe” Shuwadhi, who claimed to have been given the recipe in a dream by the Creator of the Discworld Himself, Who had apparently added that it was what He had intended all along. Those desert travelers who had seen the original, which is reputedly miraculously preserved in the Forbidden City of Ee, say that what the Creator had in mind then was a fairly small cheese and pepperoni affair with a few black olives** and things like mountains and seas got added out of last-minute enthusiasm as so often happens. ** After the Schism of the Turnwise Ones and the deaths of some 25,000 people in the ensuing jihad the faithful were allowed to add one small bayleaf to the recipe. * Although not the droopy moustache and round furry hat with the spike on it. † The speech has been passed on to later generations in an epic poem commissioned by his son, who wasn’t born in a saddle and could eat with a knife and fork. It began: “See yonder the stolid foemen slumber Fat with stolen gold, corrupt of mind. Let the spears of your wrath be as the steppe fire on a windy day in the dry season, Let your honest blade thrust like the horns of a five-year old yok with severe toothache…. ” And went on for three hours. Reality, which can’t usually afford to pay poets, records that in fact the entire speech ran: “Lads, most of them are still in bed, we should go through them like kzak fruit through a short grandmother, and I for one have had it right up to here with yurts, okay?” * The Disc’s greatest lovers were undoubtedly Mellius and Gretelina, whose pure, passionate and soul-searing affair would have scorched the pages of History if they had not, because of some unexplained quirk of fate, been born two hundred years apart on different continents. However, the gods took pity on them and turned him into an ironing board** and her into a small brass bollard. ** When you’re a god, you don’t have to have reasons. * There had been half a jar of elderly mayonnaise, a piece of very old cheese, and a tomato with white mold growing on it. Since during the day the pantry of the palace of Sto Lat normally contained fifteen whole stags, one hundred brace of partridges, fifty hogsheads of butter, two hundred jugs of hares, seventy-five sides of beef, two miles of assorted sausages, various fowls, eighty dozen eggs, several Circle Sea sturgeon, a vat of caviar and an elephant’s leg stuffed with olives, Cutwell had learned once again that one universal manifestation of raw, natural magic throughout the universe is this: that any domestic food store, raided furtively in the middle of the night, always contains, no matter what its daytime inventory, half a jar of elderly mayonnaise, a piece of very old cheese, and a tomato with white mold growing on it. * Ankh-Morpork had dallied with many forms of government and had ended up with that form of democracy known as One Man, One Vote. The Patrician was the Man; he had the Vote. * The stone garden of Universal Peace and Simplicity, laid out to the orders of the old Emperor One Sun Mirror**, used economy of position and shadow to symbolize the basic unity of soul and matter and the harmony of all things. It was said the secrets at the very heart of reality lay hidden in the precise ordering of its stones. ** Whose other claim to fame was his habit of cutting off his enemies’ lips and legs and then promising them their freedom if they could run through the city playing a trumpet. * This is not precisely true. It is generally agreed by philosophers that the shortest time in which everything can happen is one thousand billion years. Table of Contents Cover Title Page Dedication Contents Begin Reading About the Author Praise Books by Terry Pratchett Copyright About the Publisher Terry Pratchett Reaper Man A Novel of Discworld ® Contents Begin Reading About the Author Praise Other Books by Terry Pratchett Copyright About the Publisher Begin Reading T he Morris dance is common to all inhabited worlds in the multiverse. It is danced under blue skies to celebrate the quickening of the soil and under bare stars because it’s springtime and with any luck the carbon dioxide will unfreeze again. The imperative is felt by deep-sea beings who have never seen the sun and urban humans whose only connection with the cycles of nature is that their Volvo once ran over a sheep. It is danced innocently by raggedy-bearded young mathematicians to an inexpert accordion rendering of “Mrs. Widgery’s Lodger” and ruthlessly by such as the Ninja Morris Men of New Ankh, who can do strange and terrible things with a simple handkerchief and a bell. |
And it is never danced properly. Except on the Discworld, which is flat and supported on the backs of four elephants which travel through space on the shell of Great A’Tuin, the world turtle. And even there, only in one place have they got it right. It’s a small village high in the Ramtop Mountains, where the big and simple secret is handed down across the generations. There, the men dance on the first day of spring, backward and forward, bells tied under their knees, white shirts flapping. People come and watch. There’s an ox roast afterward, and it’s generally considered a nice day out for all the family. But that isn’t the secret. The secret is the other dance. And that won’t happen for a while yet. There is a ticking, such as might be made by a clock. And, indeed, in the sky there is a clock, and the ticking of freshly minted seconds flows out from it. At least, it looks like a clock. But it is in fact exactly the opposite of a clock, and the biggest hand goes around just once. There is a plain under a dim sky. It is covered with gentle rolling curves that might remind you of something else if you saw it from a long way away, and if you did see it from a long way away you’d be very glad that you were, in fact, a long way away. Three gray figures floated just above it. Exactly what they were can’t be described in normal language. Some people might call them cherubs, although there was nothing rosy-cheeked about them. They might be numbered among those who see to it that gravity operates and that time stays separate from space. Call them auditors. Auditors of reality. They were in conversation without speaking. They didn’t need to speak. They just changed reality so that they had spoken. One said, It has never happened before. Can it be done? One said, It will have to be done. There is a personality. Personalities come to an end. Only forces endure. It said this with a certain satisfaction. One said, Besides…there have been irregularities. Where you get personality, you get irregularities. Well-known fact. One said, He has worked inefficiently? One said, No. We can’t get him there. One said, That is the point. The word is him. Becoming a personality is inefficient. We don’t want it to spread. Supposing gravity developed a personality? Supposing it decided to like people? One said, Got a crush on them, sort of thing? One said, in a voice that would have been even chillier if it was not already at absolute zero, No. One said, Sorry. Just my little joke. One said, Besides, sometimes he wonders about his job. Such speculation is dangerous. One said, No argument there. One said, Then we are agreed? One, who seemed to have been thinking about something, said, Just one moment. Did you not just use the singular pronoun, “my?” Not developing a personality, are you? One said, guiltily, Who? Us? One said, Where there is personality, there is discord. One said, Yes. Yes. Very true. One said, All right. But watch it in future. One said, Then we are agreed? They looked up at the face of Azrael, outlined against the sky. In fact, it was the sky. Azrael nodded, slowly. One said, Very well. Where is this place? One said, It is the Discworld. It rides through space on the back of a giant turtle. One said, Oh, one of that sort. I hate them. One said, You’re doing it again. You said “I. ” One said, No! No! I didn’t! I never said “I”!…oh, bugger… It burst into flame and burned in the same way that a small cloud of vapor burns, quickly and with no residual mess. Almost immediately, another one appeared. It was identical in appearance to its vanished sibling. One said, Let that be a lesson. To become a personality is to end. And now…let us go. Azrael watched them skim away. It is hard to fathom the thoughts of a creature so big that, in real space, his length would be measured only in terms of the speed of light. But he turned his enormous bulk and, with eyes that stars could be lost in, sought among the myriad worlds for a flat one. On the back of a turtle. The Discworld—world and mirror of worlds. It sounded interesting. And, in his prison of a billion years, Azrael was bored. And this is the room where the future pours into the past via the pinch of the now. Timers line the walls. Not hour-glasses, although they have the same shape. Not egg-timers, such as you might buy as a souvenir attached to a small board with the name of the holiday resort of your choice jauntily inscribed on it by someone with the same sense of style as a jelly doughnut. It’s not even sand in there. It’s seconds, endlessly turning the maybe into the was. And every lifetimer has a name on it. And the room is full of the soft hissing of people living. Picture the scene… And now add the sharp clicking of bone on stone, getting closer. A dark shape crosses the field of vision and moves up the endless shelves of sibilant glassware. Click, click. Here’s a glass with the top bulb nearly empty. Bone fingers rise and reach out. Select. And another. Select. And more. Many, many more. Select, select. It’s all in a day’s work. Or it would be, if days existed here. Click, click, as the dark shape moves patiently along the rows. And stops. And hesitates. Because here’s a small gold timer, not much bigger than a watch. It wasn’t there yesterday, or wouldn’t have been if yesterdays existed here. Bony fingers close around it and hold it up to the light. It’s got a name on it, in small capital letters. The name is DEATH. Death put down the timer, and then picked it up again. The sands of time were already pouring through. He turned it over experimentally, just in case. The sand went on pouring, only now it was going upward. He hadn’t really expected anything else. It meant that, even if tomorrows could exist here, there wasn’t going to be any. Not anymore. There was a movement in the air behind him. Death turned slowly, and addressed the figure that wavered indistinctly in the gloom. W HY ? It told him. B UT THAT IS … NOT RIGHT. It told him that No, it was right. Not a muscle moved on Death’s face, because he hadn’t got any. I SHALL APPEAL. It told him, he should know that there was no appeal. Never any appeal. Never any appeal. Death thought about this, and then he said: I HAVE ALWAYS DONE MY DUTY AS I SAW FIT. The figure floated closer. It looked vaguely like a gray-robed and hooded monk. It told him, We know. That is why we’re letting you keep the horse. The sun was near the horizon. The shortest-lived creatures on the Disc were mayflies, which barely make it through twenty-four hours. Two of the oldest zigzagged aimlessly over the waters of a trout stream, discussing history with some younger members of the evening hatching. “You don’t get the kind of sun now that you used to get,” said one of them. “You’re right there. We had proper sun in the good old hours. It were all yellow. None of this red stuff. ” “It were higher, too. ” “It was. You’re right. ” “And nymphs and larvae showed you a bit of respect. ” “They did. They did,” said the other mayfly vehemently. “I reckon, if mayflies these hours behaved a bit better, we’d still be having proper sun. ” The younger mayflies listened politely. “I remember,” said one of the oldest mayflies, “when all this was fields, as far as you could see. ” The younger mayflies looked around. “It’s still fields,” one of them ventured, after a polite interval. “I remember when it was better fields,” said the old mayfly sharply. “Yeah,” said his colleague. “And there was a cow. ” “That’s right! You’re right! I remember that cow! Stood right over there for, oh, forty, fifty minutes. It was brown, as I recall. ” “You don’t get cows like that these hours. ” “You don’t get cows at all. ” “What’s a cow?” said one of the hatchlings. “See?” said the oldest mayfly triumphantly. “That’s modern Ephemeroptera for you. ” It paused. “What were we doing before we were talking about the sun?” “Zigzagging aimlessly over the water,” said one of the young flies. This was a fair bet in any case. “No, before that. ” “Er…you were telling us about the Great Trout. ” “Ah, yes. Right. |
The Trout. Well, you see, if you’ve been a good mayfly, zigzagging up and down properly—” “—taking heed of your elders and betters—” “—yes, and taking heed of your elders and betters, then eventually the Great Trout—” Clop Clop “Yes?” said one of the younger mayflies. There was no reply. “The Great Trout what?” said another mayfly, nervously. They looked down at a series of expanding concentric rings on the water. “The holy sign!” said a mayfly. “I remember being told about that! A Great Circle in the water! Thus shall be the sign of the Great Trout!” The oldest of the young mayflies watched the water thoughtfully. It was beginning to realize that, as the most senior fly present, it now had the privilege of hovering closest to the surface. “They say,” said the mayfly at the top of the zigzagging crowd, “that when the Great Trout comes for you, you go to a land flowing with…flowing with…” Mayflies don’t eat. It was at a loss. “Flowing with water,” it finished lamely. “I wonder,” said the oldest mayfly. “It must be really good there,” said the youngest. “Oh? Why?” “’Cos no one ever wants to come back. ” Whereas the oldest things on the Discworld were the famous Counting Pines, which grow right on the permanent snowline of the high Ramtop Mountains. The Counting Pine is one of the few known examples of borrowed evolution. Most species do their own evolving, making it up as they go along, which is the way Nature intended. And this is all very natural and organic and in tune with mysterious cycles of the cosmos, which believes that there’s nothing like millions of years of really frustrating trial and error to give a species moral fiber and, in some cases, backbone. This is probably fine from the species’ point of view, but from the perspective of the actual individuals involved it can be a real pig, or at least a small pink root-eating reptile that might one day evolve into a real pig. So the Counting Pines avoided all this by letting other vegetables do their evolving for them. A pine seed, coming to rest anywhere on the Disc, immediately picks up the most effective local genetic code via morphic resonance and grows into whatever best suits the soil and climate, usually doing much better at it than the native trees themselves, which it usually usurps. What makes the Counting Pines particularly noteworthy, however, is the way they count. Being dimly aware that human beings had learned to tell the age of a tree by counting the rings, the original Counting Pines decided that this was why humans cut trees down. Overnight every Counting Pine readjusted its genetic code to produce, at about eye-level on its trunk, in pale letters, its precise age. Within a year they were felled almost into extinction by the ornamental house number plate industry, and only a very few survive in hard-to-reach areas. The six Counting Pines in this clump were listening to the oldest, whose gnarled trunk declared it to be thirty-one thousand, seven hundred and thirty-four years old. The conversation took seventeen years, but has been speeded up. “I remember when all this wasn’t fields. ” The pines stared out over a thousand miles of landscape. The sky flickered like a bad special effect from a time travel movie. Snow appeared, stayed for an instant, and melted. “What was it, then?” said the nearest pine. “Ice. If you can call it ice. We had proper glaciers in those days. Not like the ice you get now, here one season and gone the next. It hung around for ages. ” “What happened to it, then?” “It went. ” “Went where?” “Where things go. Everything’s always rushing off. ” “Wow. That was a sharp one. ” “What was?” “That winter just then. ” “Call that a winter? When I was a sapling we had winters—” Then the tree vanished. After a shocked pause for a couple of years, one of the clump said: “He just went! Just like that! One day he was here, next he was gone!” If the other trees had been humans, they would have shuffled their feet. “It happens, lad,” said one of them, carefully. “He’s been taken to a Better Place, * you can be sure of that. He was a good tree. ” The young tree, which was a mere five thousand, one hundred and eleven years old, said: “What sort of Better Place?” “We’re not sure,” said one of the clump. It trembled uneasily in a week-long gale. “But we think it involves…sawdust. ” Since the trees were unable even to sense any event that took place in less than a day, they never heard the sound of axes. Windle Poons, oldest wizard in the entire faculty of Unseen University— —home of magic, wizardry and big dinners— —was also going to die. He knew it, in a frail and shaky sort of way. Of course, he mused, as he wheeled his wheelchair over the flagstones toward his ground-floor study, in a general sort of way everyone knew they were going to die, even the common people. No one knew where you were before you were born, but when you were born, it wasn’t long before you found you’d arrived with your return ticket already punched. But wizards really knew. Not if death involved violence or murder, of course, but if the cause of death was simply a case of running out of life then…well, you knew. You generally got the premonition in time to return your library books and make sure your best suit was clean and borrow quite large sums of money from your friends. He was one hundred and thirty. It occurred to him that for most of his life he’d been an old man. Didn’t seem fair, really. And no one had said anything. He’d mentioned it in the Uncommon Room last week, and no one had taken the hint. And at lunch today they’d hardly spoken to him. Even his old so-called friends seemed to be avoiding him, and he wasn’t even trying to borrow money. It was like not having your birthday remembered, only worse. He was going to die all alone, and no one cared. He bumped the door open with the wheel of the chair and fumbled on the table by the door for the tinder box. That was another thing. Hardly anyone used tinder boxes these days. They bought the big smelly yellow matches the alchemists made. Windle disapproved. Fire was important. You shouldn’t be able to switch it on just like that, it didn’t show any respect. That was people these days, always rushing around and…fires. Yes, it had been a lot warmer in the old days, too. The kind of fires they had these days didn’t warm you up unless you were nearly on top of them. It was something in the wood…it was the wrong sort of wood. Everything was wrong these days. More thin. More fuzzy. No real life in anything. And the days were shorter. Mmm. Something had gone wrong with the days. They were shorter days. Mmm. Everyday took an age to go by, which was odd, because days plural went past like a stampede. There weren’t many things people wanted a 130-year-old wizard to do, and Windle had got into the habit of arriving at the dining-table up to two hours before each meal, simply to pass the time. Endless days, going by fast. Didn’t make sense. Mmm. Mind you, you didn’t get the sense now that you used to get in the old days. And they let the University be run by mere boys now. In the old days it had been run by proper wizards, great big men built like barges, the kinds of wizards you could look up to. Then suddenly they’d all gone off somewhere and Windle was being patronized by these boys who still had some of their own teeth. Like that Ridcully lad. Windle remembered him clearly. Thin lad, sticking-out ears, never wiped his nose properly, cried for his mother in the dorm on the first night. Always up to mischief. Someone had tried to tell Windle that Ridcully was Archchancellor now. Mmm. They must think he was daft. Where was that damn tinder box? Fingers…you used to get proper fingers in the old days… Someone pulled the covers off a lantern. Someone else pushed a drink into his groping hand. “Surprise!” In the hall of the house of Death is a clock with a pendulum like a blade but with no hands, because in the house of Death there is no time but the present. (There was, of course, a present before the present now, but that was also the present. |
It was just an older one. ) The pendulum is a blade that would have made Edgar Allan Poe give it all up and start again as a stand-up comedian on the scampi-in-a-casket circuit. It swings with a faint whum-whum noise, gently slicing thin rashers of interval from the bacon of eternity. Death stalked past the clock and into the somber gloom of his study. Albert, his servant, was waiting for him with the towel and dusters. “Good morning, master. ” Death sat down silently in his big chair. Albert draped the towel over the angular shoulders. “Another nice day,” he said, conversationally. Death said nothing. Albert flapped the polishing cloth and pulled back Death’s cowl. A LBERT. “Sir?” Death pulled out the tiny golden timer. D O YOU SEE THIS ? “Yes, sir. Very nice. Never seen one like that before. Whose is it?” M INE. Albert’s eyes swiveled sideways. On one corner of Death’s desk was a large timer in a black frame. It contained no sand. “I thought that one was yours, sir?” he said. I T WAS. N OW THIS IS. A RETIREMENT PRESENT. F ROM A ZRAEL HIMSELF. Albert peered at the thing in Death’s hand. “But…the sand, sir. It’s pouring. ” Q UITE SO. “But that means…I mean…?” I T MEANS THAT ONE DAY THE SAND WILL ALL BE POURED , A LBERT. “I know that, sir, but…you…I thought Time was something that happened to other people, sir. Doesn’t it? Not to you , sir. ” By the end of the sentence Albert’s voice was beseeching. Death pulled off the towel and stood up. C OME WITH ME. “But you’re Death , master,” said Albert, running crab-legged after the tall figure as it led the way out into the hall and down the passage to the stable. “This isn’t some sort of joke, is it?” he added hopefully. I AM NOT KNOWN FOR MY SENSE OF FUN. “Well, of course not, no offense meant. But listen, you can’t die, because you’re Death, you’d have to happen to yourself, it’d be like that snake that eats its own tail—” N EVERTHELESS , I AM GOING TO DIE. T HERE IS NO APPEAL. “But what will happen to me? ” Albert said. Terror glittered on his words like flakes of metal on the edge of a knife. T HERE WILL BE A NEW D EATH. Albert drew himself up. “I really don’t think I could serve a new master,” he said. T HEN GO BACK INTO THE WORLD. I WILL GIVE YOU MONEY. Y OU HAVE BEEN A GOOD SERVANT , A LBERT. “But if I go back—” Y ES , said Death. Y OU WILL DIE. In the warm, horsey gloom of the stable, Death’s pale horse looked up from its oats and gave a little whinny of greeting. The horse’s name was Binky. He was a real horse. Death had tried fiery steeds and skeletal horses in the past, and found them impractical, especially the fiery ones, which tended to set light to their own bedding and stand in the middle of it looking embarrassed. Death took the saddle down from its hook and glanced at Albert, who was suffering a crisis of conscience. Thousands of years before, Albert had opted to serve Death rather than die. He wasn’t exactly immortal. Real time was forbidden in Death’s realm. There was only the ever-changing now , but it went on for a very long time. He had less than two months of real time left; he hoarded his days like bars of gold. “I, er…” he began. “That is—” Y OU FEAR TO DIE ? “It’s not that I don’t want…I mean, I’ve always…it’s just that life is a habit that’s hard to break…” Death watched him curiously, as one might watch a beetle that had landed on its back and couldn’t turn over. Finally Albert lapsed into silence. I UNDERSTAND , said Death, unhooking Binky’s bridle. “But you don’t seem worried! You’re really going to die? ” Y ES. I T WILL BE A GREAT ADVENTURE. “It will? You’re not afraid?” I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO BE AFRAID. “I could show you, if you like,” Albert ventured. N O. I SHOULD LIKE TO LEARN BY MYSELF. I SHALL HAVE EXPERIENCES. A T LAST. “Master…if you go, will there be—?” A NEW D EATH WILL ARISE FROM THE MINDS OF THE LIVING , A LBERT. “Oh. ” Albert looked relieved. “You don’t happen to know what he’ll be like, do you?” NO. “Perhaps I’d better, you know, clean the place up a bit, get an inventory prepared, that sort of thing?” G OOD IDEA , said Death, as kindly as possible. W HEN I SEE THE NEW D EATH , I SHALL HEARTILY RECOMMEND YOU. “Oh. You’ll see him, then?” O H , YES. A ND I MUST LEAVE NOW. “What, so soon?” C ERTAINLY. M USTN’T WASTE T IME ! Death adjusted the saddle, and then turned and held the tiny hourglass proudly in front of Albert’s hooked nose. S EE ! I HAVE T IME. A T LAST , I HAVE T IME ! Albert backed away nervously. “And now that you have it, what are you going to do with it?” he said. Death mounted his horse. I AM GOING TO SPEND IT. The party was in full swing. The banner with the legend “Goodebye Windle 130 Gloriouse Years” was drooping a bit in the heat. Things were getting to the point where there was nothing to drink but the punch and nothing to eat but the strange yellow dip with highly suspicious tortillas and nobody minded. The wizards chatted with the forced jolliness of people who see one another all day and are now seeing one another all evening. In the middle of it all Windle Poons sat with a huge glass of rum and a funny hat on his head. He was almost in tears. “A genuine Going-Away party!” he kept muttering. “Haven’t had one of them since old ‘Scratcher’ Hocksole Went Away,” the capital letters fell into place easily, “back in, mm, the Year of the Intimidating, mm, Porpoise. Thought everyone had forgotten about ’em. ” “The Librarian looked up the details for us,” said the Bursar, indicating a large orangutan who was trying to blow into a party squeaker. “He also made the banana dip. I hope someone eats it soon. ” He leaned down. “Can I help you to some more potato salad?” he said, in the loud deliberate voice used for talking to imbeciles and old people. Windle cupped a trembling hand to his ear. “What? What?” “More! salad! Windle?” “No, thank you. ” “Another sausage, then?” “What?” “Sausage!” “They give me terrible gas all night,” said Windle. He considered this for a moment, and then took five. “Er,” shouted the Bursar, “do you happen to know what time—?” “Eh?” “What! Time?” “Half past nine,” said Windle, promptly if indistinctly. “Well, that’s nice,” said the Bursar. “It gives you the rest of the evening, er, free. ” Windle rummaged in the dreadful recesses of his wheelchair, a graveyard for old cushions, dog-eared books and ancient, half-sucked sweets. He flourished a small green-covered book and pushed it into the Bursar’s hands. The Bursar turned it over. Scrawled on the cover were the words: Windle Poons Hys Dyary. Apiece of bacon rind marked today’s date. Under Things to Do, a crabbed hand had written: Die. The Bursar couldn’t stop himself from turning the page. Yes. Under tomorrow’s date, Things to Do: Get Born. His gaze slid sideways to a small table at the side of the room. Despite the fact that the room was quite crowded, there was an area of clear floor around the table, as if it had some kind of personal space that no one was about to invade. There had been special instructions in the Going Away ceremony concerning the table. It had to have a black cloth, with a few magic sigils embroidered on it. It had a plate, containing a selection of the better canapés. It had a glass of wine. After considerable discussion among the wizards, a funny paper hat had been added as well. They all had an expectant look. The Bursar took out his watch and flicked open the lid. It was one of the new-fangled pocket watches, with hands. They pointed to a quarter past nine. He shook it. A small hatch opened under the 12 and a very small demon poked its head out and said, “Knock it off, guv’nor, I’m pedalling as fast as I can. ” He closed the watch again and looked around desperately. No one else seemed anxious to come too near Windle Poons. The Bursar felt it was up to him to make polite conversation. He surveyed possible topics. They all presented problems. Windle Poons helped him out. “I’m thinking of coming back as a woman,” he said conversationally. The Bursar opened and shut his mouth a few times. “I’m looking forward to it,” Poons went on. |
“I think it might, mm, be jolly good fun. ” The Bursar riffled desperately through his limited repertoire of small talk relating to women. He leaned down to Windle’s gnarled ear. “Isn’t there rather a lot of,” he struck out aimlessly, “washing things? And making beds and cookery and all that sort of thing?” “Not in the kind of, mm, life I have in mind,” said Windle firmly. The Bursar shut his mouth. The Archchancellor banged on a table with a spoon. “Brothers—” he began, when there was something approaching silence. This prompted a loud and ragged chorus of cheering. “—As you all know we are here tonight to mark the, ah, retirement ”—nervous laughter—“of our old friend and colleague Windle Poons. You know, seeing old Windle sitting here tonight puts me in mind, as luck would have it, of the story of the cow with three wooden legs. It appears that there was this cow, and—” The Bursar let his mind wander. He knew the story. The Archchancellor always mucked up the punch line, and in any case he had other things on his mind. He kept looking back at the little table. The Bursar was a kindly if nervous soul, and quite enjoyed his job. Apart from anything else, no other wizard wanted it. Lots of wizards wanted to be Archchancellor, for example, or the head of one of the eight orders of magic, but practically no wizards wanted to spend lots of time in an office shuffling bits of paper and doing sums. All the paperwork of the University tended to accumulate in the Bursar’s office, which meant that he went to bed tired at nights but at least slept soundly and didn’t have to check very hard for unexpected scorpions in his nightshirt. Killing off a wizard of a higher grade was a recognized way of getting advancement in the orders. However, the only person likely to want to kill the Bursar was someone else who derived a quiet pleasure from columns of numbers, all neatly arranged, and people like that don’t often go in for murder. * He recalled his childhood, long ago, in the Ramtop Mountains. He and his sister used to leave a glass of wine and a cake out every Hogswatch-night for the Hogfather. Things had been different, then. He’d been a lot younger and hadn’t known much and had probably been a lot happier. For example, he hadn’t known that he might one day be a wizard and join other wizards in leaving a glass of wine and a cake and a rather suspect chicken vol-au-vent and a paper party hat for… …someone else. There’d been Hogswatch parties, too, when he was a little boy. They’d always follow a certain pattern. Just when all the children were nearly sick with excitement, one of the grown-ups would say, archly, “I think we’re going to have a special visitor!” and, amazingly on cue, there’d be a suspicious ringing of hog bells outside the window and in would come… …in would come… The Bursar shook his head. Someone’s grandad in false whiskers, of course. Some jolly old boy with a sack of toys, stamping the snow off his boots. Someone who gave you something. Whereas tonight … Of course, old Windle probably felt different about it. After one hundred and thirty years, death probably had a certain attraction. You probably became quite interested in finding out what happened next. The Archchancellor’s convoluted anecdote wound jerkily to its close. The assembled wizards laughed dutifully, and then tried to work out the joke. The Bursar looked surreptitiously at his watch. It was now twenty minutes past nine. Windle Poons made a speech. It was long and rambling and disjointed and went on about the good old days and he seemed to think that most of the people around him were people who had been, in fact, dead for about fifty years, but that didn’t matter because you got into the habit of not listening to old Windle. The Bursar couldn’t tear his eyes away from his watch. From inside came the squeak of the treadle as the demon patiently pedalled his way toward infinity. Twenty-five minutes past the hour. The Bursar wondered how it was supposed to happen. Did you hear— I think we’re going to have a very special visitor —hoofbeats outside? Did the door actually open or did He come through it? Silly question. He was renowned for His ability to get into sealed places— especially into sealed places, if you thought about it logically. Seal yourself in anywhere and it was only a matter of time. The Bursar hoped He’d use the door properly. His nerves were twanging as it was. The conversational level was dropping. Quite a few other wizards, the Bursar noticed, were glancing at the door. Windle was at the center of a very tactfully widening circle. No one was actually avoiding him, it was just that an apparent random Brownian motion was gently moving everyone away. Wizards can see Death. And when a wizard dies, Death arrives in person to usher him into the Beyond. The Bursar wondered why this was considered a plus— “Don’t know what you’re all looking at,” said Windle, cheerfully. The Bursar opened his watch. The hatch under the 12 snapped up. “Can you knock it off with all this shaking around?” squeaked the demon. “I keeps on losing count. ” “Sorry,” the Bursar hissed. It was nine twenty-nine. The Archchancellor stepped forward. “’Bye, then, Windle,” he said, shaking the old man’s parchment-like hand. “The old place won’t seem the same without you. ” “Don’t know how we’ll manage,” said the Bursar, thankfully. “Good luck in the next life,” said the Dean. “Drop in if you’re ever passing and happen to, you know, remember who you’ve been. ” “Don’t be a stranger, you hear?” said the Archchancellor. Windle Poons nodded amiably. He hadn’t heard what they were saying. He nodded on general principles. The wizards, as one man, faced the door. The hatch under the 12 snapped up again. “Bing bing bong bing,” said the demon. “Bingely-bingely bong bing bing. ” “What?” said the Bursar, jolted. “Half past nine,” said the demon. The wizards turned to Windle Poons. They looked faintly accusing. “What’re you all looking at?” he said. The seconds hand on the watch squeaked onward. “How are you feeling?” said the Dean loudly. “Never felt better,” said Windle. “Is there anymore of that, mm, rum left?” The assembled wizards watched him pour a generous measure into his beaker. “You want to go easy on that stuff,” said the Dean nervously. “Good health!” said Windle Poons. The Archchancellor drummed his fingers on the table. “Mr. Poons,” he said, “are you quite sure? ” Windle had gone off at a tangent. “Any more of these toturerillas? Not that I call it proper food,” he said, “dippin’ bits of hard bikky in sludge, what’s so special about that? What I could do with right now is one of Mr. Dibbler’s famous meat pies—” And then he died. The Archchancellor glanced at his fellow wizards, and then tiptoed across to the wheelchair and lifted a blue-veined wrist to check the pulse. He shook his head. “That’s the way I want to go,” said the Dean. “What, muttering about meat pies?” said the Bursar. “No. Late. ” “Hold on. Hold on,” said the Archchancellor. “This isn’t right, you know. According to tradition, Death himself turns up for the death of a wiz—” “Perhaps He was busy,” said the Bursar hurriedly. “That’s right,” said the Dean. “Bit of a serious flu epidemic over Quirm way, I’m told. ” “Quite a storm last night, too. Lots of shipwrecks, I daresay,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “And of course it’s springtime, when you get a great many avalanches in the mountains. ” “And plagues. ” The Archchancellor stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Hmmm,” he said. Alone of all the creatures in the world, trolls believe that all living things go through Time backward. If the past is visible and the future is hidden, they say, then it means you must be facing the wrong way. Everything alive is going through life back to front. And this is a very interesting idea, considering it was invented by a race who spend most of their time hitting one another on the head with rocks. Whichever way around it is, Time is something that living creatures possess. Death galloped down through towering black clouds. |
And now he had Time, too. The time of his life. Windle Poons peered into the darkness. “Hallo?” he said. “Hallo. Anyone there? What ho?” There was a distant, forlorn soughing, as of wind at the end of a tunnel. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” said Windle, his voice trembling with mad cheerfulness. “Don’t worry. I’m quite looking forward to it, to tell the truth. ” He clapped his hands, spiritual hands, and rubbed them together with forced enthusiasm. “Get a move on. Some of us have got new lives to go to,” he said. The darkness remained inert. There was no shape, no sound. It was void, without form. The spirit of Windle Poons moved on the face of the darkness. It shook its head. “Blow this for a lark,” it muttered. “This isn’t right at all. ” It hung around for a while and then, because there didn’t seem anything else for it, headed for the only home it had ever known. It was a home he’d occupied for one hundred and thirty years. It wasn’t expecting him back and put up a lot of resistance. You either had to be very determined or very powerful to overcome that sort of thing, but Windle Poons had been a wizard for more than a century. Besides, it was like breaking into your own house, the old familiar property that you’d lived in for years. You knew where the metaphorical window was that didn’t shut properly. In short, Windle Poons went back to Windle Poons. Wizards don’t believe in gods in the same way that most people don’t find it necessary to believe in, say, tables. They know they’re there, they know they’re there for a purpose, they’d probably agree that they have a place in a well-organized universe, but they wouldn’t see the point of believing , of going around saying, “O great table, without whom we are as naught. ” Anyway, either the gods are there whether you believe or not, or exist only as a function of the belief, so either way you might as well ignore the whole business and, as it were, eat off your knees. Nevertheless, there is a small chapel off the University’s Great Hall, because while the wizards stand right behind the philosophy as outlined above, you don’t become a successful wizard by getting up gods’ noses even if those noses only exist in an ethereal or metaphorical sense. Because while wizards don’t believe in gods they know for a fact that gods believe in gods. And in this chapel lay the body of Windle Poons. The University had instituted twenty-four hours’ lying-in-state ever since the embarrassing affair thirty years previously with the late Prissal “Merry Prankster” Teatar. The body of Windle Poons opened its eyes. Two coins jingled onto the stone floor. The hands, crossed over the chest, unclenched. Windle raised his head. Some idiot had stuck a lily on his stomach. His eyes swiveled sideways. There was a candle on either side of his head. He raised his head some more. There were two more candles down there, too. Thank goodness for old Teatar, he thought. Otherwise I’d already be looking at the underside of a rather cheap pine lid. Funny thing, he thought. I’m thinking. Clearly. Wow. Windle lay back, feeling his spirit refilling his body like gleaming molten metal running through a mold. White-hot thoughts seared across the darkness of his brain, fired sluggish neurones into action. It was never like this when I was alive. But I’m not dead. Not alive and not dead. Sort of non-alive. Or un-dead. Oh dear … He swung himself upright. Muscles that hadn’t worked properly for seventy or eighty years jerked into overdrive. For the first time in his entire life, he corrected himself, better make that “period of existence,” Windle Poons’ body was entirely under Windle Poons’ control. And Windle Poons’ spirit wasn’t about to take any lip from a bunch of muscles. Now the body stood up. The knee joints resisted for a while, but they were no more able to withstand the onslaught of will-power than a sick mosquito can withstand a blowtorch. The door to the chapel was locked. However, Windle found that the merest pressure was enough to pull the lock out of the woodwork and leave fingerprints in the metal of the doorhandle. “Oh, goodness,” he said. He piloted himself out into the corridor. The distant clatter of cutlery and the buzz of voices suggested that one of the University’s four daily meals was in progress. He wondered whether you were allowed to eat when you were dead. Probably not, he thought. And could he eat, anyway? It wasn’t that he wasn’t hungry. It was just that…well, he knew how to think, and walking and moving were just a matter of twitching some fairly obvious nerves, but how exactly did your stomach work? It began to dawn on Windle that the human body is not run by the brain, despite the brain’s opinion on the matter. In fact it’s run by dozens of complex automatic systems, all whirring and clicking away with the kind of precision that isn’t noticed until it breaks down. He surveyed himself from the control room of his skull. He looked at the silent chemical factory of his liver with the same sinking feeling as a canoe builder might survey the controls of a computerized supertanker. The mysteries of his kidneys awaited Windle’s mastery of renal control. What, when you got right down to it, was a spleen? And how did you make it go? His heart sank. Or, rather, it didn’t. “Oh, gods ,” muttered Windle, and leaned against the wall. How did it work, now? He prodded a few likely-looking nerves. Was it systolic…diastolic…systolic…diastolic…? And then there were the lungs, too… Like a conjuror keeping eighteen plates spinning at the same time—like a man trying to program a video recorder from an instruction manual translated from Japanese into Dutch by a Korean rice-husker—like, in fact, a man finding out what total self-control really means, Windle Poons lurched onward. The wizards of Unseen University set great store by big, solid meals. A man couldn’t be expected to get down to some serious wizarding, they held, without soup, fish, game, several huge plates of meat, a pie or two, something big and wobbly with cream on it, little savory things on toast, fruit, nuts and a brick-thick mint with coffee. It gave him a lining to his stomach. It was also important that the meals were served at regular times. It was what gave the day shape, they said. Except for the Bursar, of course. He didn’t eat much, but lived on his nerves. He was certain he was anorectic, because every time he looked in a mirror he saw a fat man. It was the Archchancellor, standing behind him and shouting at him. And it was the Bursar’s unfortunate fate to be sitting opposite the doors when Windle Poons smashed them in because it was easier than fiddling with the handles. He bit through his wooden spoon. The wizards revolved on their benches to stare. Windle Poons swayed for a moment, assembling control of vocal chords, lips and tongue, and then said: “I think I may be able to metabolize alcohol. ” The Archchancellor was the first one to recover. “Windle!” he said. “We thought you were dead!” He had to admit that it wasn’t a very good line. You didn’t put people on a slab with candles and lilies all around them because you think they’ve got a bit of a headache and want a nice lie down for half an hour. Windle took a few steps forward. The nearest wizards fell over themselves in an effort to get away. “I am dead, you bloody young fool,” he muttered. “Think I go around looking like this all the time? Good grief. ” He glared at the assembled wizardry. “Anyone here know what a spleen is supposed to do?” He reached the table, and managed to sit down. “Probably something to do with the digestion,” he said. “Funny thing, you can go through your whole life with the bloody thing ticking away or whatever it does, gurgling or whatever, and you never know what the hell it’s actually for. It’s like when you’re lying in bed of a night and you hear your stomach or something go pripple-ipple-goinnng. |
It’s just a gurgle to you , but who knows what marvelously complex chemical exchange processes are really going—” “You’re an undead? ” said the Bursar, managing to get the words out at last. “I didn’t ask to be,” said the late Windle Poons irritably, looking at the food and wondering how the blazes one went about turning it into Windle Poons. “I only came back because there was nowhere else to go. Think I want to be here?” “But surely,” said the Archchancellor, “didn’t…you know the fella, the one with the skull and the scythe—” “Never saw him,” said Windle, shortly, inspecting the nearest dishes. “Really takes it out of you, this un-dyin’. ” The wizards made frantic signals to one another over his head. He looked up and glared at them. “And don’t think I can’t see all them frantic signals,” he said. And he was amazed to realize that this was true. Eyes that had viewed the past sixty years through a pale, fuzzy veil had been bullied into operating like the finest optical machinery. In fact two main bodies of thought were occupying the minds of the wizards of Unseen University. What was being thought by most of the wizards was: this is terrible, is it really old Windle in there, he was such a sweet old buffer, how can we get rid of it? How can we get rid of it? What was being thought by Windle Poons, in the humming, flashing cockpit of his brain, was: well, it’s true. There is life after death. And it’s the same one. Just my luck. “Well,” he said, “what’re you going to do about it?” It was five minutes later. Half a dozen of the most senior wizards scurried along the drafty corridor in the wake of the Archchancellor, whose robes billowed out behind him. The conversation went like this: “It’s got to be Windle! It even talks like him!” “It’s not old Windle. Old Windle was a lot older!” “Older? Older than dead? ” “He’s said he wants his old bedroom back, and I don’t see why I should have to move out—” “Did you see his eyes? Like gimlets!” “Eh? What? What d’you mean? You mean like that dwarf who runs the delicatessen on Cable Street?” “I mean like they bore into you!” “—it’s got a lovely view of the gardens and I’ve had all my stuff moved in and it’s not fair—” “Has this ever happened before?” “Well, there was old Teatar—” “Yes, but he never actually died, he just used to put green paint on his face and push the lid off the coffin and shout, ‘Surprise, surprise—’” “We’ve never had a zombie here. ” “He’s a zombie?” “I think so—” “Does that mean he’ll be playing kettle drums and doing that bimbo dancing all night, then?” “Is that what they do?” “Old Windle? Doesn’t sound like his cup of tea. He never liked dancing much when he was alive—” “Anyway, you can’t trust those voodoo gods. Never trust a god who grins all the time and wears a top hat, that’s my motto. ” “—I’m damned if I’m going to give up my bedroom to a zombie after waiting years for it—” “Is it? That’s a funny motto. ” Windle Poons strolled around the inside of his own head again. Strange thing, this. Now he was dead, or not living anymore, or whatever he was, his mind felt clearer than it had ever done. And control seemed to be getting easier, too. He hardly had to bother about the whole respiratory thing, the spleen seemed to be working after a fashion, the senses were operating at full speed. The digestive system was still a bit of a mystery, though. He looked at himself in a silver plate. He still looked dead. Pale face, red under the eyes. A dead body. Operating but still, basically, dead. Was that fair? Was that justice? Was that a proper reward for being a firm believer in reincarnation for almost 130 years? You come back as a corpse? No wonder the undead were traditionally considered to be very angry. Something wonderful, if you took the long view, was about to happen. If you took the short or medium view, something horrible was about to happen. It’s like the difference between seeing a beautiful new star in the winter sky and actually being close to the supernova. It’s the difference between the beauty of morning dew on a cobweb and actually being a fly. It was something that wouldn’t normally have happened for thousands of years. It was about to happen now. It was about to happen at the back of a disused cupboard in a tumbledown cellar in the Shades, the oldest and most disreputable part of Ankh-Morpork. Plop. It was a sound as soft as the first drop of rain on a century of dust. “Maybe we could get a black cat to walk across his coffin. ” “He hasn’t got a coffin!” wailed the Bursar, whose grip on sanity was always slightly tentative. “Okay, so we buy him a nice new coffin and then we get a black cat to walk across it?” “No, that’s stupid. We’ve got to make him pass water. ” “What?” “Pass water. Undeads can’t do it. ” The wizards, who had crowded into the Archchancellor’s study, gave this statement their full, fascinated attention. “You sure?” said the Dean. “Well-known fact,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes flatly. “He used to pass water all the time when he was alive,” said the Dean doubtfully. “Not when he’s dead, though. ” “Yeah? Makes sense. ” “ Running water,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes suddenly. “It’s running water. Sorry. They can’t cross over it. ” “Well, I can’t cross running water, either,” said the Dean. “Undead! Undead!” The Bursar was becoming a little unglued. “Oh, stop teasing him,” said the Lecturer, patting the trembling man on the back. “Well, I can’t,” said the Dean. “I sink. ” “Undead can’t cross running water even on a bridge. ” “And is he the only one, eh? Are we going to have a plague of them, eh?” said the Lecturer. The Archchancellor drummed his fingers on his desk. “Dead people walking around is unhygienic,” he said. This silenced them. No one had ever looked at it that way, but Mustrum Ridcully was just the sort of man who would. Mustrum Ridcully was, depending on your point of view, either the worst or the best Archchancellor that Unseen University had had for a hundred years. There was just too much of him, for one thing. It wasn’t that he was particularly big, it was just that he had the kind of huge personality that fits any available space. He’d get roaring drunk at supper and that was fine and acceptable wizardly behavior. But then he’d go back to his room and play darts all night long and leave at five in the morning to go duck hunting. He shouted at people. He tried to jolly them along. And he hardly ever wore proper robes. He’d persuaded Mrs. Whitlow, the University’s dreaded housekeeper, to make him a sort of baggy trouser suit in garish blue and red; twice a day the wizards stood in bemusement and watched him jog purposefully around the University buildings, his pointy wizarding hat tied firmly on his head with string. He’d shout cheerfully up at them, because fundamental to the make-up of people like Mustrum Ridcully is an iron belief that everyone else would like it, too, if only they tried it. “Maybe he’ll die,” they told one another hopefully, as they watched him try to break the crust on the river Ankh for an early morning dip. “All this healthy exercise can’t be good for him. ” Stories trickled back into the University. The Archchancellor had gone two rounds bare-fisted with Detritus, the huge odd-job troll at the Mended Drum. The Archancellor had arm-wrestled with the Librarian for a bet and, although of course he hadn’t won, still had his arm afterward. The Archchancellor wanted the University to form its own football team for the big city game on Hogswatchday. Intellectually, Ridcully maintained his position for two reasons. One was that he never, ever, changed his mind about anything. The other was that it took him several minutes to understand any new idea put to him, and this is a very valuable trait in a leader, because anything anyone is still trying to explain to you after two minutes is probably important and anything they give up after a mere minute or so is almost certainly something they shouldn’t have been bothering you with in the first place. |
There seemed to be more Mustrum Ridcully than one body could reasonably contain. Plop. Plop In the dark cupboard in the cellar, a whole shelf was already full. There was exactly as much Windle Poons as one body could contain, and he steered it carefully along the corridors. I never expected this, he thought. I don’t deserve this. There’s been a mistake somewhere. He felt a cool breeze on his face and realized he’d tottered out into the open air. Ahead of him were the University’s gates, locked shut. Suddenly Windle Poons felt acutely claustrophobic. He’d waited years to die, and now he had, and here he was stuck in this—this mausoleum with a lot of daft old men, where he’d have to spend the rest of his life being dead. Well, the first thing to do was to get out and make a proper end to himself— “’Evening, Mr. Poons. ” He turned around very slowly and saw the small figure of Modo, the University’s dwarf gardener, who was sitting in the twilight smoking his pipe. “Oh. Hallo, Modo. ” “I ’eard you was took dead, Mr. Poons. ” “Er. Yes. I was. ” “See you got over it, then. ” Poons nodded, and looked dismally around the walls. The University gates were always locked at sunset every evening, obliging students and staff to climb over the walls. He doubted very much that he’d be able to manage that. He clenched and unclenched his hands. Oh, well… “Is there any other gateway around here, Modo?” he said. “No, Mr. Poons. ” “Well, where shall we have one?” “Sorry, Mr. Poons?” There was the sound of tortured masonry, followed by a vaguely Poons-shaped hole in the wall. Windle’s hand reached back in and picked up his hat. Modo relit his pipe. You see a lot of interesting things in this job, he thought. In an alley, temporarily out of sight of passers-by, someone called Reg Shoe, who was dead, looked both ways, took a brush and a paint tin out of his pocket, and painted on the wall the words: DEAD YES! GONE NO! …and ran away, or at least lurched off at high speed. The Archchancellor opened a window onto the night. “Listen,” he said. The wizards listened. A dog barked. Somewhere a thief whistled, and was answered from a neighboring rooftop. In the distance a couple were having the kind of quarrel that causes most of the surrounding streets to open their windows and listen in and make notes. But these were only major themes against the continuous hum and buzz of the city. Ankh-Morpork purred through the night, en route for the dawn, like a huge living creature although, of course, this was only a metaphor. “Well?” said the Senior Wrangler. “I can’t hear anything special. ” “That’s what I mean. Dozens of people die in Ankh-Morpork every day. If they’d all started coming back like poor old Windle, don’t you think we’d know about it? The place’d be in uproar. More uproar than usual, I mean. ” “There’s always a few undead around,” said the Dean, doubtfully. “Vampires and zombies and banshees and so on. ” “Yes, but they’re more naturally undead,” said the Archchancellor. “They know how to carry it off. They’re born to it. ” “You can’t be born to the undead,” the Senior Wrangler * pointed out. “I mean it’s traditional,” the Archchancellor snapped. “There were some very respectable vampires where I grew up. They’d been in their family for centuries. ” “Yes, but they drink blood,” said the Senior Wrangler. “That doesn’t sound very respectable to me. ” “I read where they don’t actually need the actual blood,” said the Dean, anxious to assist. “They just need something that’s in blood. Hemogoblins, I think it’s called. ” The other wizards looked at him. The Dean shrugged. “Search me,” he said. “Hemogoblins. That’s what it said. It’s all to do with people having iron in their blood. ” “I’m damn sure I’ve got no iron goblins in my blood,” said the Senior Wrangler. “At least they’re better than zombies,” said the Dean. “A much better class of people. Vampires don’t go shuffling around the whole time. ” “People can be turned into zombies, you know,” said the Lecturer of Recent Runes, in conversational tones. “You don’t even need magic. Just the liver of a certain rare fish and the extract of a particular kind of root. One spoonful, and when you wake up, you’re a zombie. ” “What type of fish?” said the Senior Wrangler. “How should I know?” “How should anyone know, then?” said the Senior Wrangler nastily. “Did someone wake up one morning and say, hey, here’s an idea, I’ll just turn someone into a zombie, all I’ll need is some rare fish liver and a piece of root, it’s just a matter of finding the right one? You can see the queue outside the hut, can’t you? No. 94, Red Stripefish liver and Maniac root…didn’t work. No. 95 Spikefish liver and Dum-dum root…didn’t work. No. 96—” “What are you talking about?” the Archchancellor demanded. “I was simply pointing out the intrinsic unlikelihood of—” “Shut up,” said the Archchancellor, matter-of-factly. “Seems to me…seems to me…look, death must be going on, right? Death has to happen. That’s what bein’ alive is all about. You’re alive, and then you’re dead. It can’t just stop happening. ” “But he didn’t turn up for Windle,” the Dean pointed out. “It goes on all the time,” said Ridcully, ignoring him. “All sorts of things die all the time. Even vegetables. ” “But I don’t think Death ever came for a potato,” said the Dean doubtfully. “Death comes for everything,” said the Archchancellor, firmly. The wizards nodded sagely. After a while the Senior Wrangler said, “Do you know, I read the other day that every atom in your body is changed every seven years? New ones keep getting attached and old ones keep on dropping off. It goes on all the time. Marvellous, really. ” The Senior Wrangler could do to a conversation what it takes quite thick treacle to do to the pedals of a precision watch. “Yes? What happens to the old ones?” said Ridcully, interested despite himself. “Dunno. They just float around in the air, I suppose, until they get attached to someone else. ” The Archchancellor looked affronted. “What, even wizards?” “Oh, yes. Everyone. It’s part of the miracle of existence. ” “Is it? Sounds like bad hygiene to me,” said the Archchancellor. “I suppose there’s no way of stopping it?” “I shouldn’t think so,” said the Senior Wrangler, doubtfully. “I don’t think you’re supposed to stop miracles of existence. ” “But that means everythin’ is made up of everythin’ else,” said Ridcully. “Yes. Isn’t it amazing? ” “It’s disgusting, is what it is,” said Ridcully, shortly. “Anyway, the point I’m making…the point I’m making …” He paused, trying to remember. “You can’t just abolish death, that’s the point. Death can’t die. That’s like asking a scorpion to sting itself. ” “As a matter of fact,” said the Senior Wrangler, always ready with a handy fact, “you can get a scorpion to—” “Shut up,” said the Archchancellor. “But we can’t have an undead wizard wandering around,” said the Dean. “There’s no telling what he might take it into his head to do. We’ve got to…put a stop to him. For his own good. ” “That’s right,” said Ridcully. “For his own good. Shouldn’t be too hard. There must be dozens of ways to deal with an undead. ” “Garlic,” said the Senior Wrangler flatly. “Undead don’t like garlic. ” “Don’t blame them. Can’t stand the stuff,” said the Dean. “Undead! Undead!” said the Bursar, pointing an accusing finger. They ignored him. “Yes, and then there’s sacred items,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Your basic undead crumbles into dust as soon as look at ’em. And they don’t like daylight. And if the worst comes to worst, you bury them at a crossroads. That’s surefire, that is. And you stick a stake in them to make sure they don’t get up again. ” “With garlic on it,” said the Bursar. “Well, yes. I suppose you could put garlic on it,” the Senior Wrangler conceded, reluctantly. “I don’t think you should put garlic on a good steak,” said the Dean. “Just a little oil and seasoning. ” “Red pepper is nice,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, happily. “Shut up,” said the Archchancellor. Plop. |
The cupboard door’s hinges finally gave way, spilling its contents into the room. Sergeant Colon of the Ankh-Morpork City Guard was on duty. He was guarding the Brass Bridge, the main link between Ankh and Morpork. From theft. When it came to crime prevention, Sergeant Colon found it safest to think big. There was a school of thought that believed the best way to get recognized as a keen guardian of the law in Ankh-Morpork would be to patrol the streets and alleys, bribe informants, follow suspects and so on. Sergeant Colon played truant from this particular school. Not, he would hasten to say, because trying to keep down crime in Ankh-Morpork was like trying to keep down salt in the sea and the only recognition any keen guardian of the law was likely to get was the sort that goes, “Hey, that body in the gutter, isn’t that old Sergeant Colon?” but because the modern, go-ahead, intelligent law officer ought to be always one jump ahead of the contemporary criminal. One day someone was bound to try to steal the Brass Bridge, and then they’d find Sergeant Colon right there waiting for them. In the meantime, it offered a quiet place out of the wind where he could have a relaxing smoke and probably not see anything that would upset him. He leaned with his elbows on the parapet, wondering vaguely about Life. A figure stumbled out of the mist. Sergeant Colon recognized the familiar pointy hat of a wizard. “Good evening, officer,” its wearer croaked. “Morning, y’honor. ” “Would you be kind enough to help me up onto the parapet, officer?” Sergeant Colon hesitated. But the chap was a wizard. A man could get into serious trouble not helping wizards. “Trying out some new magic, y’honor?” he said, brightly, helping the skinny but surprisingly heavy body up onto the crumbling stonework. “No. ” Windle Poons stepped off the bridge. There was a squelch. * Sergeant Colon looked down as the waters of the Ankh closed again, slowly. Those wizards. Always up to something. He watched for a while. After several minutes there was a disturbance in the scum and debris near the base of one of the pillars of the bridge, where a flight of greasy stairs led down to the water. A pointy hat appeared. Sergeant Colon heard the wizard slowly climb the stairs, swearing under his breath. Windle Poons reached the top of the bridge again. He was soaked. “You want to go and get changed,” Sergeant Colon volunteered. “You could catch your death, standing around like that. ” “Hah!” “Get your feet in front of a roaring fire, that’s what I’d do. ” “Hah!” Sergeant Colon looked at Windle Poons in his own private puddle. “You been trying some special kind of underwater magic, y’honor?” he ventured. “Not exactly, officer. ” “I’ve always wondered about what it’s like under water,” said Sergeant Colon, encouragingly. “The myst’ries of the deep, strange and wonderful creatures…my mum told me a tale once, about this little boy what turned into a mermaid, well, not a mer maid , and he had all these adventures under the s—” His voice drained away under Windle Poons’ dreadful stare. “It’s boring,” said Windle. He turned and started to lurch away into the mist. “Very, very boring. Very boring indeed. ” Sergeant Colon was left alone. He lit a fresh cigarette with a trembling hand, and started to walk hurriedly toward the Watch headquarters. “That face,” he told himself. “And those eyes…just like whatsisname…who’s that bloody dwarf who runs the delicatessen on Cable Street…” “Sergeant!” Colon froze. Then he looked down. A face was staring up at him from ground level. When he’d got a grip on himself, he made out the sharp features of his old friend Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, the Discworld’s walking, talking argument in favor of the theory that mankind had descended from a species of rodent. C. M. O. T. Dibbler liked to describe him as a merchant adventurer; everyone else liked to describe him as an itinerant pedlar whose moneymaking schemes were always let down by some small but vital flaw, such as trying to sell things he didn’t own or which didn’t work or, sometimes, didn’t even exist. Fairy gold is well known to evaporate by morning, but it was a reinforced concrete slab by comparison to some of Throat’s merchandise. He was standing at the bottom of some steps that led down to one of Ankh-Morpork’s countless cellars. “Hallo, Throat. ” “Would you step down here a minute, Fred? I could use a bit of legal aid. ” “Got a problem, Throat?” Dibbler scratched his nose. “Well, Fred…Is it a crime to be given something? I mean, without you knowing it?” “Someone been giving you things, Throat?” Throat nodded. “Dunno. You know I keep merchandise down here?” he said. “Yeah. ” “You see, I just come down to do a bit of stocktaking, and…” He waved a hand helplessly. “Well…take a look…” He opened the cellar door. In the darkness something went plop. Windle Poons lurched aimlessly along a dark alley in the Shades, arms extended in front of him, hands hanging down at the wrists. He didn’t know why. It just seemed the right way to go about it. Jumping off a building? No, that wouldn’t work, either. It was hard enough to walk as it was, and two broken legs wouldn’t help. Poison? He imagined it would be like having a very bad stomach ache. Noose? Hanging around would probably be more boring than sitting on the bottom of the river. He reached a noisome courtyard where several alleys met. Rats scampered away from him. A cat screeched and scurried off over the rooftops. As he stood wondering where he was, why he was, and what ought to happen next, he felt the point of a knife against his backbone. “Okay, grandad,” said a voice behind him, “it’s your money or your life. ” In the darkness Windle Poons’ mouth formed a horrible grin. “I’m not playing about, old man,” said the voice. “Are you Thieves’ Guild?” said Windle, without turning around. “No, we’re…freelances. Come on, let’s see the color of your money. ” “Haven’t got any,” said Windle. He turned around. There were two more muggers behind him. “Ye gods, look at his eyes, ” said one of them. Windle raised his arms above his head. “Ooooooooh,” he moaned. The muggers backed away. Unfortunately, there was a wall behind them. They flattened themselves against it. “OoooOOOOoooobuggeroffoooOOOooo” said Windle, who hadn’t realized that the only way of escape lay through him. He rolled his eyes for better effect. Maddened by terror, the would-be attackers dived under his arms, but not before one of them had sunk his knife up to the hilt in Windle’s pigeon chest. He looked down at it. “Hey! That was my best robe!” he said. “I wanted to be buried in—will you look at it? You know how difficult it is to darn silk? Come back here this—Look at it, right where it shows—” He listened. There was no sound but the distant and retreating scurry of footsteps. Windle Poons removed the knife. “Could have killed me,” he muttered, tossing it away. In the cellar, Sergeant Colon picked up one of the objects that lay in huge drifts on the floor. “There must be thousands of ’em,” said Throat, behind him. “What I want to know is, who put them there?” * Sergeant Colon turned the object around and around in his hands. “Never seen one of these before,” he said. He gave it a shake. His face lit up. “Pretty, ain’t they?” “The door was locked and everything,” said Throat. “And I’m paid up with the Thieves’ Guild. ” Colon shook the thing again. “Nice,” he said. “Fred?” Colon, fascinated, watched the little snowflakes fall inside the tiny glass globe. “Hmm?” “What am I supposed to do? ” “Dunno. I suppose they’re yours, Throat. Can’t imagine why anyone’d want to get rid of ’em, though. ” He turned toward the door. Throat stepped into his path. “Then that’ll be twelve pence,” he said smoothly. “What?” “For the one you just put in your pocket, Fred. ” Colon fished the globe out of his pocket. “Come on! ” he protested. “You just found them here! They didn’t cost you a penny!” “Yes, but there’s storage…packing…handling…” “Tuppence,” said Colon desperately. “Tenpence. ” “Threepence. |
” “Sevenpence—and that’s cutting my own throat, mark you. ” “Done,” said the sergeant, reluctantly. He gave the globe another shake. “Nice, ain’t they?” he said. “Worth every penny,” said Dibbler. He rubbed his hands together hopefully. “Should sell like hot cakes,” he said, picking up a handful and shoving them into a box. He locked the door behind them when they left. In the darkness something went plop. Ankh-Morpork has always had a fine tradition of welcoming people of all races, colors and shapes, if they have money to spend and a return ticket. According to the Guild of Merchants’ famous publication, Wellcome to Ankh-Morporke, Citie of One Thousand Surprises , “you the visitor will be assured of a Warm Wellcome in the countles Ins and hostelries of this Ancient Citie, where many specialize in catoring for the taste of guest from distant part. So if you a Manne, Trolle, Dwarfe, Goblin or Gnomm, Annk-Morporke will raise your Glass convivial and say: Cheer! Here looking, you Kid! Up, You Bottom!” Windle Poons didn’t know where undead went for a good time. All he knew, and he knew it for a certainty, was that if they could have a good time anywhere then they could probably have it in Ankh-Morpork. His labored footsteps led him deeper into the Shades. Only they weren’t so labored now. For more than a century Windle Poons had lived inside the walls of Unseen University. In terms of accumulated years, he may have lived a long time. In terms of experience, he was about thirteen. He was seeing, hearing and smelling things he’d never seen, heard or smelled before. The Shades was the oldest part of the city. If you could do a sort of relief map of sinfulness, wickedness and all-around immorality, rather like those representations of the gravitational field around a Black Hole, then even in Ankh-Morpork the Shades would be represented by a shaft. In fact the Shades was remarkably like the aforesaid well-known astronomical phenomenon: it had a certain strong attraction, no light escaped from it, and it could indeed become a gateway to another world. The next one. The Shades was a city within a city. The streets were thronged. Muffled figures slunk past on errands of their own. Strange music wound up from sunken stairwells. So did sharp and exciting smells. Poons passed goblin delicatessens and dwarf bars, from which came the sounds of singing and fighting, which dwarfs traditionally did at the same time. And there were trolls, moving through the crowds like…like big people moving among little people. They weren’t shambling, either. Windle had hitherto seen trolls only in the more select parts of the city, * where they moved with exaggerated caution in case they accidentally clubbed someone to death and ate them. In the Shades they strode, unafraid, heads held so high they very nearly rose above their shoulder-blades. Windle Poons wandered through the crowds like a random shot on a pinball table. Here a blast of smoky sound from a bar spun him back into the street, there a discreet doorway promising unusual and forbidden delights attracted him like a magnet. Windle Poons’ life hadn’t included even very many usual and approved delights. He wasn’t even certain what they were. Some sketches outside one pink-lit, inviting doorway left him even more mystified but incredibly anxious to learn. He turned around and around in pleased astonishment. This place! Only ten minutes’ walk or fifteen minutes’ lurch from the University! And he’d never known it was there! All these people! All this noise! All this life ! Several people of various shapes and species jostled him. One or two started to say something, shut their mouths quickly, and hurried off. They were thinking…his eyes! Like gimlets! And then a voice from the shadows said: “Hallo, big boy. You want a nice time?” “Oh, yes !” said Windle Poons, lost in wonder. “Oh, yes! Yes!” He turned around. “Bloody hell!” There was the sound of someone hurrying away down an alley. Windle’s face fell. Life, obviously, was only for the living. Perhaps this back-to-your-body business had been a mistake after all. He’d been a fool to think otherwise. He turned and, hardly bothering to keep his own heart beating, went back to the University. Windle trudged across the quad to the Great Hall. The Archchancellor would know what to do— “There he is!” “It’s him!” “Get him!” Windle’s train of thought ran over a cliff. He looked around at five red, worried, and above all familiar faces. “Oh, hallo, Dean,” he said, unhappily. “And is that the Senior Wrangler? Oh, and the Archchancellor, this is—” “Grab his arm!” “Don’t look at his eyes!” “Grab his other arm!” “This is for your own good, Windle!” “It’s not Windle! It’s a creature of the Night!” “I assure you—” “Have you got his legs?” “Grab his leg!” “Grab his other leg!” “Have you grabbed everything?” roared the Archchancellor. The wizards nodded. Mustrum Ridcully reached into the massive recesses of his robe. “Right, fiend in human shape,” he growled, “what d’you think of this , then? Ah- ha !” Windle squinted at the small object that was thrust triumphantly under his nose. “Well, er…” he said diffidently, “I’d say…yes…hmm…yes, the smell is very distinctive, isn’t it…yes, quite definitely. Allium sativum. The common domestic garlic. Yes?” The wizards stared at him. They stared at the little white clove. They stared at Windle again. “I am right, aren’t I?” he said, and made an attempt at a smile. “Er,” said the Archchancellor. “Yes. Yes, that’s right. ” Ridcully cast around for something to add. “Well done,” he said. “Thank you for trying,” said Windle. “I really appreciate it. ” He stepped forward. The wizards might as well have tried to hold back a glacier. “And now I’m going to have a lie down,” he said. “It’s been a long day. ” He lurched into the building and creaked along the corridors until he reached his room. Someone else seemed to have moved some of their stuff into it, but Windle dealt with that by simply picking it all up in one sweep of his arms and throwing it out into the corridor. Then he lay down on the bed. Sleep. Well, he was tired. That was a start. But sleeping meant letting go of control, and he wasn’t too certain that all the systems were fully functional yet. Anyway, when you got right down to it, did he have to sleep at all? After all, he was dead. That was supposed to be just like sleeping, only even more so. They said that dying was just like going to sleep, although of course if you weren’t careful bits of you could rot and drop off. What were you supposed to do when you slept, anyway? Dreaming…wasn’t that all to do with sorting out your memories, or something? How did you go about it? He stared at the ceiling. “I never thought being dead would be so much trouble,” he said aloud. After a while a faint but insistent squeaking noise made him turn his head. Over the fireplace was an ornamental candlestick, fixed to a bracket on the wall. It was such a familiar piece of furniture that Windle hadn’t really seen it for fifty years. It was coming unscrewed. It spun around slowly, squeaking once a turn. After half a dozen turns it fell off and clattered to the floor. Inexplicable phenomena were not in themselves unusual on the Discworld. * It was just that they normally had more point, or at least were a bit more interesting. Nothing else seemed to be about to move. Windle relaxed, and went back to organizing his memories. There was stuff in there he’d completely forgotten about. There was a brief whispering outside, and then the door burst open— “Get his legs! Get his legs!” “Hold his arms!” Windle tried to sit up. “Oh, hallo, everyone,” he said. “What’s the matter?” The Archchancellor, standing at the foot of the bed, fumbled in a sack and produced a large, heavy object. He held it aloft. “Ah- ha !” he said. Windle peered at it. “Yes?” he said, helpfully. “Ah- ha ,” said the Archchancellor again, but with slightly less conviction. “It’s a symbolic double-handled axe from the cult of Blind Io,” said Windle. The Archchancellor gave him a blank look. |
“Er, yes,” he said, “that’s right. ” He threw it over his shoulder, almost removing the Dean’s left ear, and fished in the sack again. “Ah- ha !” “That’s a rather fine example of the Mystic Tooth of Offler the Crocodile God,” said Windle. “Ah-ha!” “And that’s a…let me see now…yes, that’s the matched set of sacred Flying Ducks of Ordpor the Tasteless. I say, this is fun!” “Ah-ha. ” “That’s…don’t tell me, don’t tell me…that’s the holy linglong of the notorious Sootee cult, isn’t it?” “Ah-ha?” “I think that one’s the three-headed fish of the Howanda three-headed fish religion,” said Windle. “This is ridiculous ,” said the Archchancellor, dropping the fish. The wizards sagged. Religious objects weren’t such a surefire undead cure after all. “I’m really sorry to be such a nuisance,” said Windle. The Dean suddenly brightened up. “Daylight!” he said excitedly. “That’ll do the trick!” “Get the curtain!” “Get the other curtain!” “One, two, three… now !” Windle blinked in the invasive sunlight. The wizards held their breath. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It doesn’t seem to work. ” They sagged again. “Don’t you feel anything ?” said Ridcully. “No sensation of crumbling into dust and blowing away?” said the Senior Wrangler hopefully. “My nose tends to peel if I’m out in the sun too long,” said Windle. “I don’t know if that’s any help. ” He tried to smile. The wizards looked at one another and shrugged. “Get out,” said the Archchancellor. They trooped out. Ridcully followed them. He paused at the door and waved a finger at Windle. “This uncooperative attitude, Windle, is not doing you any good,” he said, and slammed the door behind him. After a few seconds the four screws holding the door handle very slowly unscrewed themselves. They rose up and orbited near the ceiling for a while, and then fell. Windle thought about this for a while. Memories. He had lots of them. One hundred and thirty years of memories. When he was alive he hadn’t been able to remember one-hundredth of the things he knew but now he was dead, his mind uncluttered with everything except the single silver thread of his thoughts, he could feel them all there. Everything he’d ever read, everything he’d ever seen, everything he’d ever heard. All there, ranged in ranks. Nothing forgotten. Everything in its place. Three inexplicable phenomena in one day. Four, if you included the fact of his continued existence. That was really inexplicable. It needed explicating. Well, that was someone else’s problem. Everything was someone else’s problem now. The wizards crouched outside the door of Windle’s room. “Got everything?” said Ridcully. “Why can’t we get some of the servants to do it?” muttered the Senior Wrangler. “It’s undignified. ” “Because I want it done properly and with dignity,” snapped the Archchancellor. “If anyone’s going to bury a wizard at a crossroads with a stake hammered through him, then wizards ought to do it. After all, we’re his friends. ” “What is this thing, anyway?” said the Dean, inspecting the implement in his hands. “It’s called a shovel,” said the Senior Wrangler. “I’ve seen the gardeners use them. You stick the sharp end in the ground. Then it gets a bit technical. ” Ridcully squinted through the keyhole. “He’s lying down again” he said. He got up, brushing the dust off his knees, and grasped the door handle. “Right,” he said. “Take your time from me. One…two…” Modo the gardener was trundling a barrow load of hedge trimmings to a bonfire behind the new High Energy Magic research building when about half a dozen wizards went past at, for wizards, high speed. Windle Poons was being borne aloft between them. Modo heard him say, “Really, Archchancellor, are you quite sure this one will work—?” “We’ve got your best interests at heart,” said Ridcully. “I’m sure, but—” “We’ll soon have you feeling your old self again,” said the Bursar. “No, we won’t,” hissed the Dean. “That’s the whole point!” “We’ll soon have you not feeling your old self again, that’s the whole point,” stuttered the Bursar, as they rounded the corner. Modo picked up the handles of the barrow again and pushed it thoughtfully toward the secluded area where he kept his bonfire, his compost heaps, his leaf-mold pile, and the little shed he sat in when it rained. He used to be assistant gardener at the palace, but this job was a lot more interesting. You really got to see life. Ankh-Morpork society is street society. There is always something interesting going on. At the moment, the driver of a two-horse fruit wagon was holding the Dean six inches in the air by the scruff of the Dean’s robe and was threatening to push the Dean’s face through the back of the Dean’s head. “It’s peaches, right?” he kept bellowing. “You know what happens to peaches what lies around too long? They get bruised. Lots of things around here are going to get bruised. ” “I am a wizard, you know,” said the Dean, his pointy shoes dangling. “If it wasn’t for the fact that it would be against the rules for me to use magic in anything except a purely defensive manner, you would definitely be in a lot of trouble. ” “What you doing, anyway?” said the driver, lowering the Dean so he could look suspiciously over his shoulder. “Yeah,” said a man trying to control the team pulling a lumber wagon, “what’s going on? There’s people here being paid by the hour, you know!” “Move along at the front there!” The lumber driver turned in his seat and addressed the queue of carts behind him. “I’m trying to,” he said. “It’s not my fault, is it? There’s a load of wizards digging up the godsdamn street !” The Archchancellor’s muddy face peered over the edge of the hole. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Dean,” he said, “I told you to sort things out!” “Yes, I was just asking this gentleman to back up and go another way,” said the Dean, who was afraid he was beginning to choke. The fruiterer turned him around so that he could see along the crowded streets. “Ever tried to back up sixty carts all at once?” he demanded. “It’s not easy. Especially when everyone can’t move because you guys have got it so’s the carts are backed up all around the block and no one can move because everyone’s in someone else’s way, right?” The Dean tried to nod. He had wondered himself about the wisdom of digging the hole at the junction of the Street of Small Gods and Broad Way, two of the busiest streets in Ankh-Morpork. It had seemed logical at the time. Even the most persistent undead ought to stay decently buried under that amount of traffic. The only problem was that no one had thought seriously about the difficulty of digging up a couple of main streets during the busy time of day. “All right, all right, what’s going on here?” The crowd of spectators opened to admit the bulky figure of Sergeant Colon of the Watch. He moved through the people unstoppably, his stomach leading the way. When he saw the wizards, waist deep in a hole in the middle of the road, his huge red face brightened up. “What’s this, 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 to bend horsehoes around. “Right. ” The Bursar handed him a soggy green bundle. Ridcully took it. “Now, Windle,” he said, “I’d like you to imagine that what I have in my hand—” “It’s quite all right,” said Windle. “I’m not actually sure I can hammer—” “I don’t mind, I assure you,” said Windle. “You don’t?” “The principle is sound,” said Windle. “If you just hand me the celery but think hammering a stake, that’s probably sufficient. ” “That’s very decent of you,” said Ridcully. “That shows a very proper spirit. ” “Esprit de corpse,” said the Senior Wrangler. Ridcully glared at him, and thrust the celery dramatically toward Windle. “Take that!” he said. “Thank you,” said Windle. “And now let’s put the lid on and go and have some lunch,” said Ridcully. “Don’t worry, Windle. It’s bound to work. Today is the last day of the rest of your life. ” Windle lay in the darkness, listening to the hammering. There was a thump and a muffled imprecation against the Dean for not holding the end properly. And then the patter of soil on the lid, getting fainter and more distant. After a while a distant rumbling suggested that the commerce of the city was being resumed. He could even hear muffled voices. He banged on the coffin lid. “Can you keep it down?” he demanded. “There’s people down here trying to be dead!” He heard the voices stop. There was the sound of feet hurrying away. Windle lay there for some time. He didn’t know how long. He tried stopping all functions, but that just made things uncomfortable. Why was dying so difficult? Other people seemed to manage it, even without practice. Also, his leg itched. He tried to reach down to scratch it, and his hand touched something small and irregularly shaped. He managed to get his fingers around it. It felt like a bundle of matches. In a coffin? Did anyone think he’d smoke a quiet cigar to pass the time? After a certain amount of effort he managed to push one boot off with the other boot and ease it up until he could just grasp it. This gave him a rough surface to strike the match on— Sulphurous light filled his tiny oblong world. There was a tiny scrap of cardboard pinned to the inside of the lid. He read it. He read it again. The match went out. He lit another one, just to check that what he had read really did exist. The message was still as strange, even third time around: Dead? Depressed? Feel like starting it all again? Then why not come along to the FRESH START CLUB Thursdays, 12pm, 668 Elm Street EVERY BODY WELCOME The second match went out, taking the last of the oxygen with it. Windle lay in the dark for a while, considering his next move and finishing off the celery. Who’d have thought it? And it suddenly dawned on the late Windle Poons that there was no such thing as somebody else’s problem, and that just when you thought the world had pushed you aside it turned out to be full of strangeness. He knew from experience that the living never found out half of what was really happening, because they were too busy being the living. The onlooker sees most of the game, he told himself. It was the living who ignored the strange and wonderful, because life was too full of the boring and mundane. But It was strange. It had things in it like screws that unscrewed themselves, and little written messages to the dead. He resolved to find out what was going on. And then…if Death wasn’t going to come to him, he’d go to Death. He had his rights, after all. Yeah. He’d lead the biggest missing-person hunt of all time. Windle grinned in the darkness. Missing—believed Death. Today was the first day of the rest of his life. And Ankh-Morpork lay at his feet. Well, metaphorically. The only way was up. He reached up, felt for the card in the dark, and pulled it free. He stuck it between his teeth. Windle Poons braced his feet against the end of the box, pushed his hands past his head, and heaved. The soggy loam of Ankh-Morpork moved slightly. Windle paused out of habit to take a breath, and realized that there was no point. He pushed again. The end of the coffin splintered. Windle pulled it toward him and tore the solid pine like paper. He was left with a piece of plank which would have been a totally useless spade for anyone with un-zombie-like strength. Turning onto his stomach, tucking the earth around him with his impromptu spade and ramming it back with his feet, Windle Poons dug his way toward a fresh start. Picture a landscape, a plain with rolling curves. It’s late summer in the octarine grass country below the towering peaks of the high Ramtops, and the predominant colors are umber and gold. Heat sears the landscape. Grasshoppers sizzle, as in a frying pan. Even the air is too hot to move. It’s the hottest summer in living memory and, in these parts, that’s a long, long time. Picture a figure on horseback, moving slowly along a road that’s an inch deep in dust between fields of corn that already promise an unusually rich harvest. Picture a fence of baked, dead wood. There’s a notice pinned to it. The sun has faded the letters, but they are still readable. Picture a shadow, falling across the notice. You can almost hear it reading both the words. There’s a track leading off the road, toward a small group of bleached buildings. Picture dragging footsteps. Picture a door, open. Picture a cool, dark room, glimpsed through the open doorway. This isn’t a room that people live in a lot. It’s a room for people who live out-doors but have to come inside sometimes, when it gets dark. |
It’s a room for harnesses and dogs, a room where oil-skins are hung up to dry. There’s a beer barrel by the door. There are flagstones on the floor and, along the ceiling beams, hooks for bacon. There’s a scrubbed table that thirty hungry men could sit down at. There are no men. There are no dogs. There is no beer. There is no bacon. There was silence after the knocking, and then the flap-flap of slippers on flagstones. Eventually a skinny old woman with a face the color and texture of a walnut peered around the door. “Yes?” she said. T HE NOTICE SAID “M AN W ANTED. ” “Did it? Did it? That’s been up there since before last winter!” I AM SORRY ? Y OU NEED NO HELP ? The wrinkled face looked at him thoughtfully. “I can’t pay more’n sixpence a week, mind,” it said. The tall figure looming against the sunlight appeared to consider this. Y ES , it said, eventually. “I wouldn’t even know where to start you workin,” either. We haven’t had any proper help here for three years. I just hire the lazy good-fornothin’s from the village when I want ’em. Y ES ? “You don’t mind, then?” I HAVE A HORSE. The old woman peered around the stranger. In the yard was the most impressive horse she’d ever seen. Her eyes narrowed. “And that’s your horse, is it?” Y ES. “With all that silver on the harness and everything?” Y ES. “And you want to work for sixpence a week?” Y ES. The old woman pursed her lips. She looked from the stranger to the horse to the dilapidation around the farm. She appeared to reach a decision, possibly on the lines that someone who owned no horses probably didn’t have much to fear from a horse thief. “You’re to sleep in the barn, understand?” she said. S LEEP ? Y ES. O F COURSE. Y ES , I WILL HAVE TO SLEEP. “Couldn’t have you in the house anyway. It wouldn’t be right. ” T HE BARN WILL BE QUITE ADEQUATE , I ASSURE YOU. “But you can come into the house for your meals. ” T HANK YOU. “My name’s Miss Flitworth. ” Y ES. She waited. “I expect you have a name, too,” she prompted. Y ES. T HAT’S RIGHT. She waited again. “Well?” I’ M SORRY ? “What is your name?” The stranger stared at her for a moment, and then looked around wildly. “Come on,” said Miss Flitworth. “I ain’t employing no one without no name. Mr…?” The figure stared upward. M R. S KY ? “No one’s called Mr. Sky. ” M R …. D OOR ? She nodded. “Could be. Could be Mr. Door. There was a chap called Doors I knew once. Yeah. Mr. Door. And your first name? Don’t tell me you haven’t got one of those too. You’ve got to be a Bill or a Tom or a Bruce or one of those names. ” Y ES. “What?” O NE OF THOSE. “Which one?” E R. T HE FIRST ONE ? “You’re a Bill?” Y ES ? Miss Flitworth rolled her eyes. “All right, Bill Sky…” she said. D OOR. “Yeah. Sorry. All right, Bill Door…” C ALL ME B ILL. “And you can call me Miss Flitworth. I expect you want some dinner?” I WOULD ? A H. Y ES. T HE MEAL OF THE EVENING. Y ES. “You look half starved, to tell the truth. More than half, really. ” She squinted at the figure. Somehow it was very hard to be certain what Bill Door looked like, or even remember the exact sound of his voice. Clearly he was there, and clearly he had spoken—otherwise why did you remember anything at all? “There’s a lot of people in these parts as don’t use the name they were born with,” she said. “I always say there’s nothing to be gained by going around asking pers’nal questions. I suppose you can work, Mr. Bill Door? I’m still getting the hay in off the high meadows and there’ll be a lot of work come harvest. Can you use a scythe?” Bill Door seemed to meditate on the question for some time. Then he said, I THINK THE ANSWER TO THAT IS A DEFINITE “ YES ,” M ISS F LITWORTH. Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler also never saw the sense in asking personal questions, at least insofar as they applied to him and were on the lines of “Are these things yours to sell?” But no one appeared to be coming forward to berate him for selling off their property, and that was good enough for him. He’d sold more than a thousand of the little globes this morning, and he’d had to employ a troll to keep up a flow from the mysterious source of supply in the cellar. People loved them. The principle of operation was laughably simple and easily graspable by the average Ankh-Morpork citizen after a few false starts. If you gave the globe a shake, a cloud of little white snowflakes swirled up in the liquid inside and settled, delicately, on a tiny model of a famous Ankh-Morpork landmark. In some globes it was the University, or the Tower of Art, or the Brass Bridge, or the Patrician’s Palace. The detail was amazing. And then there were no more left. Well, thought Throat, that’s a shame. Since they hadn’t technically belonged to him—although morally , of course, morally they were his—he couldn’t actually complain. Well, he could complain, of course, but only under his breath and not to anybody specific. Maybe it was all for the best, come to think of it. Stack ’em high, sell ’em cheap. Get ’em off your hands—it made it much easier to spread them in a gesture of injured innocence when you said “Who, me?” They were really pretty, though. Except, strangely enough, for the writing. It was on the bottom of each globe, in shaky, amateurish letters, as if done by someone who had never seen writing before and was trying to copy some down. On the bottom of every globe, below the intricate little snowflake-covered building, were the words: Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of Unseen University, was a shameless autocondimentor. * He had his own special cruet put in front of him at every meal. It consisted of salt, three types of pepper, four types of mustard, four types of vinegar, fifteen different kinds of chutney and his special favorite: Wow-Wow Sauce, a mixture of mature scumble, pickled cucumbers, capers, mustard, mangoes, figs, grated wahooni, anchovy essence, asafetida and, significantly, sulfur and saltpetre for added potency. Ridcully inherited the formula from his uncle who, after half a pint of sauce on a big meal one evening, had a charcoal biscuit to settle his stomach, lit his pipe and disappeared in mysterious circumstances, although his shoes were found on the roof the following summer. There was cold mutton for lunch. Mutton went well with Wow-Wow Sauce; on the night of Ridcully senior’s death, for example, it had gone at least three miles. Mustrum tied his napkin behind his neck, rubbed his hands together, and reached out. The cruet moved. He reached out again. It slid away. Ridcully sighed. “All right, you fellows,” he said. “No magic at Table, you know the rules. Who’s playing silly buggers?” The other senior wizards stared at him. “I, I, I don’t think we can play it anymore,” said the Bursar, who at the moment was only occasionally bouncing off the sides of sanity, “I, I, I think we lost some of the pieces…” He looked around, giggled, and went back to trying to cut his mutton with a spoon. The other wizards were keeping knives out of his way at present. The entire cruet floated up into the air and started to spin slowly. Then it exploded. The wizards, dripping vinegar and expensive spices, watched it owlishly. “It was probably the sauce,” the Dean ventured. “It was definitely going a bit critical last night. ” Something dropped on his head and landed in his lunch. It was a black iron screw, several inches long. Another one mildly concussed the Bursar. After a second or two, a third landed point down on the table by the Archchancellor’s hand and stuck there. The wizards turned their eyes upward. The Great Hall was lit in the evenings by one massive chandelier, although the word so often associated with glittering prismatic glassware seemed inappropriate for the huge, heavy, black, tallow-encrusted thing that hung from the ceiling like a threatening overdraft. It could hold a thousand candles. It was directly over the senior wizards’ table. Another screw tinkled onto the floor by the fireplace. The Archchancellor cleared his throat. “Run?” he suggested. The chandelier dropped. Bits of table and crockery smashed into the walls. |
Lumps of lethal tallow the size of a man’s head whirred through the windows. A whole candle, propelled out of the wreckage at a freak velocity, was driven several inches into a door. The Archchancellor disentangled himself from the remains of his chair. “Bursar!” he yelled. The Bursar was exhumed from the fireplace. “Um, yes, Archchancellor?” he quavered. “What was the meanin’ of that ?” Ridcully’s hat rose from his head. It was a basic floppy-brimmed, pointy wizarding hat, but adapted to the Archchancellor’s outgoing lifestyle. Fishing flies were stuck in it. A very small pistol crossbow was shoved in the hatband in case he saw something to shoot while out jogging, and Mustrum Ridcully had found that the pointy bit was just the right size for a small bottle of Bentinck’s Very Old Peculiar Brandy. He was quite attached to his hat. But it was no longer attached to him. It drifted gently across the room. There was a faint but distinct gurgling noise. The Archchancellor leapt to his feet. “Bugger that ,” he roared. “That stuff’s nine dollars a fifth!” He made a leap for the hat, missed, and kept on going until he drifted to a halt several feet above the ground. The Bursar raised a hand, nervously. “Possibly woodworm?” he said. “If there is any more of this,” growled Ridcully, “any more at all, d’you hear, I shall get very angry!” He was dropped to the floor at the same time as the big doors opened. One of the college porters bustled in, followed by a squad of the Patrician’s palace guard. The guard captain looked the Archchancellor up and down with the expression of one to whom the word “civilian” is pronounced in the same general tones as “cockroach. ” “You the head chap?” he said. The Archchancellor smoothed his robe and tried to straighten his beard. “I am the Archchancellor of this university, yes,” he said. The guard captain looked curiously around the hall. The students were all cowering down the far end. Splashed food covered most of the walls to ceiling height. Bits of furniture lay around the wreckage of the chandelier like trees around ground zero of a meteor strike. Then he spoke with all the distaste of someone whose own further education had stopped at age nine, but who’d heard stories… “Indulging in a bit of youthful high spirits, were we?” he said. “Throwin’ a few bread rolls around that kind of thing?” “May I ask the meaning of this intrusion?” said Ridcully, coldly. The guard captain leaned on his spear. “Well,” he said, “it’s like this. The Patrician is barricaded in his bedroom on account of the furniture in the palace is zooming around the place like you wouldn’t believe, the cooks won’t even go back in the kitchen on account of what’s happening in there…” The wizards tried not to look at the spear’s head. It was starting to unscrew itself. “Anyway,” the captain went on, oblivious to the faint metallic noises, “the Patrician calls through the keyhole, see, and says to me, ‘Douglas, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind nipping down to the University and asking the head man if he would be so good as to step up here, if he’s not too busy?’ But I can always go back and tell him you’re engagin’ in a bit of student humor, if you like. ” The spearhead was almost off the shaft. “You listening to me?” said the captain suspiciously. “Hmm? What?” said the Archchancellor, tearing his eyes away from the spinning metal. “Oh. Yes. Well, I can assure you, my man, that we are not the cause of—” “Aargh!” “Pardon?” “The spearhead fell on my foot !” “Did it?” said Ridcully, innocently. The guard captain hopped up and down. “Listen, are you bloody hocus-pocus merchants coming or not?” he said, between bounces. “The boss is not very happy. Not very happy at all. ” A great formless cloud of Life drifted across the Discworld, like water building up behind a dam when the sluice gates are shut. With no Death to take the life force away when it was finished with, it had nowhere else to go. Here and there it earthed itself in random poltergeist activity, like flickers of summer lightning before a big storm. Everything that exists, yearns to live. That’s what the cycle of life is all about. That’s the engine that drives the great biological pumps of evolution. Everything tries to inch its way up the tree, clawing or tentacling or sliming its way up to the next niche until it gets to the very top—which, on the whole, never seems to have been worth all that effort. Everything that exists, yearns to live. Even things that are not alive. Things that have a kind of sub-life, a metaphorical life, an almost life. And now, in the same way that a sudden hot spell brings forth unnatural and exotic blooms… There was something about the little globes. You had to pick them up and give them a shake, watch the pretty snowflakes swirl and glitter. And then take them home and put them on the mantelpiece. And then forget about them. The relationship between the University and the Patrician, absolute ruler and nearly benevolent dictator of Ankh-Morpork, was a complex and subtle one. The wizards held that, as servants of a higher truth, they were not subject to the mundane laws of the city. The Patrician said that, indeed, this was the case, but they would bloody well pay their taxes like everyone else. The wizards said that, as followers of the light of wisdom, they owed allegiance to no mortal man. The Patrician said that this may well be true but they also owed a city tax of two hundred dollars per head per annum, payable quarterly. The wizards said that the University stood on magical ground and was therefore exempt from taxation and anyway you couldn’t put a tax on knowledge. The Patrician said you could. It was two hundred dollars per capita; if per capita was a problem, de-capita could be arranged. The wizards said that the University had never paid taxes to the civil authority. The Patrician said he was not proposing to remain civil for long. The wizards said, what about easy terms? The Patrician said he was talking about easy terms. They wouldn’t want to know about the hard terms. The wizards said that there was a ruler back in, oh, it would be the Century of the Dragonfly, who had tried to tell the University what to do. The Patrician could come and have a look at him if he liked. The Patrician said that he would. He truly would. In the end it was agreed that while the wizards of course paid no taxes, they would nevertheless make an entirely voluntary donation of, oh, let’s say two hundred dollars per head, without prejudice, mutatis mutandis , no strings attached, to be used strictly for non-militaristic and environmentally-acceptable purposes. It was this dynamic interplay of power blocs that made Ankh-Morpork such an interesting, stimulating and above all bloody dangerous place in which to live. * Senior wizards did not often get out and about on what Wellcome to Ankh-Morporke probably called the thronged highways and intimate byways of the city, but it was instantly obvious that something was wrong. It wasn’t that cobblestones didn’t sometimes fly through the air, but usually someone had thrown them. They didn’t normally float by themselves. A door burst open and a suit of clothes came out, a pair of shoes dancing along behind it, a hat floating a few inches above the empty collar. Close behind them came a skinny man endeavoring to do with a hastily-snatched flannel what normally it took a whole pair of trousers to achieve. “You come back here!” he screamed, as they rounded the corner. “I still owe seven dollars for you!” A second pair of trousers scurried out into the street and hurried after them. The wizards clustered together like a frightened animal with five pointed heads and ten legs, wondering who was going to be the first to comment. “That’s bloody amazing!” said the Archchancellor. “Hmm?” said the Dean, trying to imply that he saw more amazing things than that all the time, and that in drawing attention to mere clothing running around by itself the Archchancellor was letting down the whole tone of wizardry. “Oh, come on. |
I don’t know many tailors around here who’d throw in a second pair of pants for a seven dollar suit,” said Ridcully. “Oh,” said the Dean. “If it comes past again, try to trip it up so’s I can have a look at the label. ” A bedsheet squeezed through an upper window and flapped away across the rooftops. “Y’know,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, trying to keep his voice calm and relaxed, “I don’t think this is magic. It doesn’t feel like magic. ” The Senior Wrangler fished in one of the deep pockets of his robe. There was a muffled clanking and rustling and the occasional croak. Eventually he produced a dark blue glass cube. It had a dial on the front. “You carry one of them around in your pocket?” said the Dean. “A valuable instrument like that?” “What the hell is it?” said Ridcully. “Amazingly sensitive magical measuring device,” said the Dean. “Measures the density of a magical field. A thaumometer. ” The Senior Wrangler proudly held the cube aloft and pressed a button on the side. A needle on the dial wobbled around a little bit and stopped. “See?” said the Senior Wrangler. “Just natural background, representing no hazard to the public. ” “Speak up,” said the Archchancellor. “I can’t hear you above the noise. ” Crashes and screams rose from the houses on either side of the street. Mrs. Evadne Cake was a medium, verging on small. It wasn’t a demanding job. Not many people who died in Ankh-Morpork showed much inclination to chat to their surviving relatives. Put as many mystic dimensions between you and them as possible, that was their motto. She filled in between engagements with dressmaking and church work—any church. Mrs. Cake was very keen on religion, at least on Mrs. Cake’s terms. Evadne Cake was not one of those bead-curtain-and-incense mediums, partly because she didn’t hold with incense but mainly because she was actually very good at her profession. A good conjuror can astound you with a simple box of matches and a perfectly ordinary deck of cards, if you would care to examine them, sir, you will see they are a perfectly ordinary deck of cards—he doesn’t need the finger-nipping folding tables and complicated collapsible top hats of lesser prestidigitators. And, in the same way, Mrs. Cake didn’t need much in the way of props. Even the industrial-grade crystal ball was only there as a sop to her customers. Mrs. Cake could actually read the future in a bowl of porridge. * She could have a revelation in a panful of frying bacon. She had spent a lifetime dabbling in the spirit world, except that in Evadne’s case dabbling wasn’t really apposite. She wasn’t the dabbling kind. It was more a case of stamping into the spirit world and demanding to see the manager. And, while making her breakfast and cutting up dogfood for Ludmilla, she started to hear voices. They were very faint. It wasn’t that they were on the verge of hearing, because they were the kind of voices that ordinary ears can’t hear. They were inside her head. … watch what you’re doing…where am I…quit shoving, there … And then they faded again. They were replaced by a squeaking noise from the next room. She pushed aside her boiled egg and waddled through the bead curtain. The sound was coming from under the severe, no-nonsense hessian cover of her crystal ball. Evadne went back into the kitchen and selected a heavy frying pan. She waved it through the air once or twice, getting the heft of it, and then crept toward the crystal under its hood. Raising the pan ready to swat anything unpleasant, she twitched aside the cover. The ball was turning slowly around and around on its stand. Evadne watched it for a while. Then she drew the curtains, eased her weight down on the chair, took a deep breath and said, “Is there anybody there?” Most of the ceiling fell in. After several minutes and a certain amount of struggle Mrs. Cake managed to get her head free. “Ludmilla!” There were soft footsteps in the passageway and then something came in from the backyard. It was clearly, even attractively female, in general shape, and wore a perfectly ordinary dress. It was also apparently suffering from a case of superfluous hair that not all the delicate pink razors in the world could erase. Also, teeth and fingernails were being worn long this season. You expected the whole thing to growl, but it spoke in a pleasant and definitely human voice. “Mother?” “Oi’m under ’ere. ” The fearsome Ludmilla lifted up a huge joist and tossed it lightly aside. “What happened? Didn’t you have your premonition switched on?” “Oi turned it off to speak to the baker. Cor, that gave me a turn. ” “I’ll make you a cup of tea, shall I?” “Now then, you know you always crushes teacups when it’s your Time. ” “I’m getting better at it,” said Ludmilla. “There’s a good girl, but I’ll do it myself, thanks all the same. ” Mrs. Cake stood up, brushed the plaster dust off her apron, and said: “They shouted! They shouted! All at once!” Modo the University gardener was weeding a rose bed when the ancient, velvet lawn beside him heaved and sprouted a hardy perennial Windle Poons, who blinked in the light. “Is that you, Modo?” “That’s right, Mr. Poons,” said the dwarf. “Shall I give you a hand up?” “I think I can manage, thank you. ” “I’ve got a shovel in the shed, if you like. ” “No, it’s perfectly all right. ” Windle pulled himself out of the grass and brushed the soil off the remains of his robe. “Sorry about your lawn,” he added, looking down at the hole. “Don’t mention it, Mr. Poons. ” “Did it take long to get it looking like that?” “About five hundred years, I think. ” “Gosh, I am sorry. I was aiming for the cellars, but I seem to have lost my bearings. ” “Don’t you worry about that, Mr. Poons,” said the dwarf cheerfully. “Everything’s growing like crazy anyway. I’ll fill it in this afternoon and put some more seed down and five hundred years will just zoom past, you wait and see. ” “The way things are going, I probably will,” said Windle moodily. He looked around. “Is the Archchancellor here?” he said. “I saw them all going up to the palace,” said the gardener. “Then I think I’ll just go and have a quick bath and a change of clothes. I wouldn’t want to disturb anyone. ” “I heard you wasn’t just dead but buried too,” said the gardener, as Windle lurched off. “That’s right. ” “Can’t keep a good man down, eh?” Windle turned back. “By the way…where’s Elm Street?” Modo scratched an ear. “Isn’t it that one off Treacle Mine Road?” “Oh, yes. I remember. ” Modo went back to his weeding. The circular nature of Windle Poons’ death didn’t bother him much. After all, trees looked dead in the winter, burst forth again every spring. Dried up old seeds went in the ground, fresh young plants sprang up. Practically nothing ever died for long. Take compost, for example. Modo believed in compost with the same passion that other people believed in gods. His compost heaps heaved and fermented and glowed faintly in the dark, perhaps because of the mysterious and possibly illegal ingredients Modo fed them, although nothing had ever been proved and, anyway, no one was about to dig into one to see what was in it. All dead stuff, but somehow alive. And it certainly grew roses. The Senior Wrangler had explained to Modo that his roses grew so big because it was a miracle of existence, but Modo privately thought that they just wanted to get as far away from the compost as possible. The heaps were in for a treat tonight. The weeds were really doing well. He’d never known plants to grow so fast and luxuriantly. It must be all the compost, Modo thought. By the time the wizards reached the palace it was in uproar. Pieces of furniture were gliding across the ceiling. A shoal of cutlery, like silvery minnows in mid-air, flashed past the Archchancellor and dived away down a corridor. The place seemed to be in the grip of a selective and tidy-minded hurricane. Other people had already arrived. They included a group dressed very like the wizards in many ways, although there were important differences to the trained eye. “Priests?” said the Dean. |
“Here? Before us ?” The two groups began very surreptitiously to adopt positions that left their hands free. “What good are they?” said the Senior Wrangler. There was a noticeable drop in metaphorical temperature. A carpet undulated past. The Archchancellor met the gaze of the enormous Chief Priest of Blind Io who, as senior priest of the senior god in the Discworld’s rambling pantheon, was the nearest thing Ankh-Morpork had to a spokesman on religious affairs. “Credulous fools,” muttered the Senior Wrangler. “Godless tinkerers,” said a small acolyte, peering out from behind the Chief Priest’s bulk. “Gullible idiots!” “Atheistic scum!” “Servile morons!” “Childish conjurors!” “Bloodthirsty priests!” “Interfering wizards!” Ridcully raised an eyebrow. The Chief Priest nodded very slightly. They left the two groups hurling imprecations at each other from a safe distance and strolled nonchalantly toward a comparatively quiet part of the room where, beside a statue of one of the Patrician’s predecessors, they turned and faced one another again. “So…how are things in the godbothering business?” said Ridcully. “We do our humble best. How is the dangerous meddling with things man was not meant to understand?” “Pretty fair. Pretty fair. ” Ridcully removed his hat and fished inside the pointy bit. “Can I offer you a drop of something?” “Alcohol is a snare for the spirit. Would you care for a cigarette? I believe you people indulge. ” “Not me. If I was to tell you what that stuff does to your lungs—” Ridcully unscrewed the very tip of his hat and poured a generous measure of brandy into it. “So,” he said, “what’s happening?” “We had an altar float up into the air and drop on us. ” “A chandelier unscrewed itself. Everything’s unscrewing itself. You know, I saw a suit of clothes run past on the way here? Two pairs of pants for seven dollars!” “Hmm. Did you see the label?” “Everything’s throbbing, too. Notice the way everything’s throbbing?” “We thought it was you people. ” “It’s not magic. I suppose the gods aren’t more than usually unhappy?” “Apparently not. ” Behind them, the priests and the wizards were screaming chin to chin. The Chief Priest moved a little closer. “I think I could be strong enough to master and defeat just a little snare,” he said. “I haven’t felt like this since Mrs. Cake was one of my flock. ” “Mrs. Cake? What’s a Mrs. Cake?” “You have…ghastly Things from the Dungeon Dimensions and things, yes? Terrible hazards of your ungodly profession?” said the Chief Priest. “Yes. ” “We have someone called Mrs. Cake. ” Ridcully gave him an enquiring look. “Don’t ask,” said the priest, shuddering. “Just be grateful you’ll never have to find out. ” Ridcully silently passed him the brandy. “Just between the two of us,” said the priest, “have you got any ideas about all this? The guards are trying to dig his lordship out. You know he’ll want answers. I’m not even certain I know the questions. ” “Not magic and not gods,” said Ridcully. “Can I have the snare back? Thank you. Not magic and not gods. That doesn’t leave us much, does it?” “I suppose there’s not some kind of magic you don’t know about?” “If there is, we don’t know about it. ” “Fair enough,” the priest conceded. “I suppose it’s not the gods up to a bit of ungodliness on the side?” said Ridcully, clutching at one last straw. “A couple of ’em had a bit of a tiff or something? Messing around with golden apples or something?” “It’s very quiet on the god front right now,” said the Chief Priest. His eyes glazed as he spoke, apparently reading from a script inside his head. “Hyperopia, goddess of shoes, thinks that Sandelfon, god of corridors, is the long-lost twin brother of Grune, god of unseasonal fruit. Who put the goat in the bed of Offler, the Crocodile God? Is Offler forging an alliance with Seven-handed Sek? Meanwhile, Hoki the Jokester is up to his old tricks—” “Yes, yes, all right,” said Ridcully. “I’ve never been able to get interested in all that stuff, myself. ” Behind them, the Dean was trying to prevent the Lecturer in Recent Runes from attempting to turn the priest of Offler the Crocodile God into a set of matching suitcases, and the Bursar had a bad nose-bleed from a lucky blow with a thurible. “What we’ve got to present here,” said Ridcully, “is a united front. Right?” “Agreed,” said the Chief Priest. “Right. For now. ” A small rug sinewaved past at eye level. The Chief Priest handed back the brandy bottle. “Incidentally, mother says you haven’t written lately,” he said. “Yeah…” The other wizards would have been surprised at their Archchancellor’s look of contrite embarrassment. “I’ve been busy. You know how it is. ” “She said to be sure to remind you she’s expecting both of us over for lunch on Hogswatchday. ” “I haven’t forgotten,” said Ridcully, glumly. “I’m looking forward to it. ” He turned to the mêlée behind them. “Cut it out, you fellows,” he said. “Brethren! Desist!” bellowed the Chief Priest. The Senior Wrangler released his grip on the head of the high priest of the Cult of Hinki. A couple of cu-rates stopped kicking the Bursar. There was a general adjustment of clothing, a finding of hats and a bout of embarrassed coughing. “That’s better,” said Ridcully. “Now then, his Eminence the Chief Priest and myself have decided—” The Dean glowered at a very small bishop. “He kicked me! You kicked me!” “Ooo! I never did, my son. ” “You bloody well did,” the Dean hissed. “Sideways, so they wouldn’t see!” “— have decided —” repeated Ridcully, glaring at the Dean, “to pursue a solution to the current disturbances in a spirit of brotherhood and goodwill and that includes you, Senior Wrangler. ” “I couldn’t help it! He pushed me. ” “Well! May you be forgiven!” said the Archdeacon of Thrume, stoutly. There was a crash from above. A chaise-longue cantered down the stairs and smashed through the hall door. “I think perhaps the guards are still trying to free the Patrician,” said the High Priest. “Apparently even his secret passages locked themselves. ” “All of them? I thought the sly devil had ’em everywhere,” said Ridcully. “All locked,” said the High Priest. “All of them. ” “Almost all of them,” said a voice behind him. Ridcully’s tones did not change as he turned around, except that a slight extra syrup was added. A figure had apparently stepped out of the wall. It was human, but only by default. Thin, pale, and clad all in dusty black, the Patrician always put Ridcully in mind of a predatory flamingo, if you could find a flamingo that was black and had the patience of a rock. “Ah, Lord Vetinari,” he said, “I am so glad you are unhurt. ” “I will see you gentlemen in the Oblong Office,” said the Patrician. Behind him, a panel in the wall slid back noiselessly. “I, um, I believe there are a number of guards upstairs trying to free—” the Chief Priest began. The Patrician waved a thin hand at him. “I wouldn’t dream of stopping them,” he said. “It gives them something to do and makes them feel important. Otherwise they just have to stand around all day looking fierce and controlling their bladders. Come this way. ” The leaders of the other Ankh-Morpork Guilds turned up in ones and twos, gradually filling the room. The Patrician sat gloomily staring at the paperwork on his desk as they argued. “Well, it’s not us,” said the head of the Alchemists. “Things are always flying through the air when you fellows are around,” said Ridcully. “Yes, but that’s only because of unforeseen exothermic reactions,” said the alchemist. “Things keep blowing up,” translated the deputy head alchemist, without looking up. “They may blow up , but they come down again. They don’t flutter around and, e. g. , start unscrewing themselves,” said his chief, giving him a warning frown. “Anyway, why’d we do it to ourselves? I tell you, it’s hell in my workshop! There’s stuff whizzing everywhere! Just before I came out, a huge and very expensive piece of glassware broke into splinters!” “Marry, ’twas a sharp retort,” said a wretched voice. |
The press of bodies moved aside to reveal the General Secretary and Chief Butt of the Guild of Fools and Joculators. He flinched under the attention, but he generally flinched all the time anyway. He had the look of a man whose face has been Ground Zero for one custard pie too many, whose trousers have been too often awash with whitewash, whose nerves would disintegrate completely at the sound of just one more whoopee-cushion. The other Guild leaders tried to be nice to him, in the same way that people try to be kind to other people who are standing on the ledges of very high buildings. “What do you mean, Geoffrey?” said Ridcully, as kindly as he could. The Fool gulped. “Well, you see,” he mumbled, “we have sharp as in splinters, and retort as in large glass alchemical vessel, and thus we get a pun on ‘sharp retort’ which also means, well, a scathing answer. Sharp retort. You see? It’s a play on words. Um. It’s not very good, is it. ” The Archchancellor looked into eyes like two runny eggs. “Oh, a pun ,” he said. “Of course. Hohoho. ” He waved a hand encouragingly at the others. “Hohoho,” said the Chief Priest. “Hohoho,” said the leader of the Assassins’ Guild. “Hohoho,” said the head Alchemist. “And, you know, what makes it even funnier is that it was actually an alembic. ” “So what you’re telling me,” said the Patrician, as considerate hands led the Fool away, “is that none of you are responsible for these events?” He gave Ridcully a meaningful look as he spoke. The Archchancellor was about to answer when his eye was caught by a movement on the Patrician’s desk. There was a little model of the Palace in a glass globe. And next to it was a paper knife. The paperknife was slowly bending. “Well?” said the Patrician. “Not us,” said Ridcully, his voice hollow. The Patrician followed his gaze. The knife was already curved like a bow. The Patrician scanned the sheepish crowd until he found Captain Doxie of the City Guard Day Watch. “Can’t you do something?” he said. “Er. Like what, sir? The knife? Er. I suppose I could arrest it for being bent. ” Lord Vetinari threw his hands up in the air. “So! It’s not magic! It’s not gods! It’s not people! What is it? And who’s going to stop it? Who am I going to call?” Half an hour later the little globe had vanished. No one noticed. They never do. Mrs. Cake knew who she was going to call. “You there, One-Man-Bucket?” she said. Then she ducked, just in case. A reedy and petulant voice oozed out of the air. where have you been? can’t move in here! Mrs. Cake bit her lip. Such a direct reply meant her spirit guide was worried. When he didn’t have anything on his mind he spent five minutes talking about buffaloes and great white spirits, although if One-Man-Bucket had ever been near white spirit he’d drunk it and it was anyone’s guess what he’d do to a buffalo. And he kept putting “ums” and “hows” into the conversation. “What d’you mean?” there been a catastrophe or something? some kind of ten-second plague? “No. Don’t think so. ” there’s real pressure here, you know. what’s holding everything up? “What do you mean?” shutupshutupshutup I’m trying to talk to the lady! you lot over there, keep the noise down! oh yeah? sez you — Mrs. Cake was aware of other voices trying to drown him out. “One-Man-Bucket!” heathen savage, am I? so you know what this heathen savage says to you? yeah? listen, I’ve been over here for a hundred years, me! I don’t have to take talk like that from someone who’s still warm! right—that does it, you … His voice faded. Mrs. Cake set her jaw. His voice came back. — oh yeah? oh yeah? well, maybe you was big when you was alive, friend, but here and now you’re just a bedsheet with holes in it! oh, so you don’t like that, eh — “He’s going to start fighting again, mum,” said Ludmilla, who was curled up by the kitchen stove. “He always calls people ‘friend’ just before he hits them. ” Mrs. Cake sighed. “And it sounds as if he’s going to fight a lot of people,” said Ludmilla. “Oh, all right. Go and fetch me a vase. A cheap one, mind. ” It is widely suspected, but not generally known , that everything has an associated spirit form which, upon its demise, exists briefly in the drafty gap between the worlds of the living and the dead. This is important. “No, not that one. That belonged to your granny. ” This ghostly survival does not last for long without a consciousness to hold it together, but depending on what you have in mind it can last for just long enough. “That one’ll do. I never liked the pattern. ” Mrs. Cake took an orange vase with pink peonies on it from her daughter’s paws. “Are you still there, One-Man-Bucket?” she said. — I’ll make you regret the day you ever died, you whining — “Catch. ” She dropped the vase onto the stove. It smashed. A moment later, there was a sound from the Other Side. If a discorporate spirit had hit another discorporate spirit with the ghost of a vase, it would have sounded just like that. right, said the voice of One-Man-Bucket, and there’s more where that came from, okay? The Cakes, mother and hairy daughter, nodded at each other. When One-Man-Bucket spoke again, his voice dripped with smug satisfaction. just a bit of an altercation about seniority here, he said. just sorting out a bit of personal space. got a lot of problems here, Mrs. Cake. it’s like a waiting room — There was a shrill clamor of other disembodied voices. — could you get a message, please, to Mr. — —tell her there’s a bag of coins on the ledge up the chimney— —Agnes is not to have the silverware after what she said about our Molly— —I didn’t have time to feed the cat, could someone go— shutupshutup! That was One-Man-Bucket again. you’ve got no idea, have you? this is ghost talk, is it? feed the cat? whatever happened to “I am very happy here, and waiting for you to join me”? —listen, if anyone else joins us, we’ll be standing on one another’s heads— that’s not the point. that’s not the point, that’s all I’m saying. when you’re a spirit, there’s things you gotta say. Mrs. Cake? “Yes?” you got to tell someone about this. Mrs. Cake nodded. “Now you all go away,” she said. “I’m getting one of my headaches. ” The crystal ball faded. “Well!” said Ludmilla. “I ain’t going to tell no priests,” said Mrs. Cake firmly. It wasn’t that Mrs. Cake wasn’t a religious woman. She was, as has already been hinted, a very religious woman indeed. There wasn’t a temple, church, mosque or small group of standing stones anywhere in the city that she hadn’t attended at one time or another, as a result of which she was more feared than an Age of Enlightenment; the mere sight of Mrs. Cake’s small fat body on the threshold was enough to stop most priests dead in the middle of their invocation. Dead. That was the point. All the religions had very strong views about talking to the dead. And so did Mrs. Cake. They held that it was sinful. Mrs. Cake held that it was only common courtesy. This usually led to a fierce ecclesiastical debate which resulted in Mrs. Cake giving the chief priest what she called “a piece of her mind. ” There were so many pieces of Mrs. Cake’s mind left around the city now that it was quite surprising that there was enough left to power Mrs. Cake but, strangely enough, the more pieces of her mind she gave away the more there seemed to be left. There was also the question of Ludmilla. Ludmilla was a problem. The late Mr. Cake, gods-resthissoul, had never so much as even whistled at the full moon his whole life, and Mrs. Cake had dark suspicions that Ludmilla was a throwback to the family’s distant past in the mountains, or maybe had contracted genetics as a child. She was pretty certain her mother had once alluded circumspectly to the fact that Great-uncle Erasmus sometimes had to eat his meals under the table. Either way, Ludmilla was a decent upright young woman for three weeks in every four and a perfectly well-behaved hairy wolf thing for the rest of the time. Priests often failed to see it that way. Since by the time Mrs. |
Cake fell out with whatever priests * were currently moderating between her and the gods, she had usually already taken over the flower arrangements, altar dusting, temple cleaning, sacrificial stone scrubbing, honorary vestigial virgining, has-sock repairing and every other vital religious support role by sheer force of personality, her departure resulted in total chaos. Mrs. Cake buttoned up her coat. “It won’t work,” said Ludmilla. “I’ll try the wizards. They ought to be tole,” said Mrs. Cake. She was quivering with self-importance, like a small enraged football. “Yes, but you said they never listen,” said Ludmilla. “Got to try. Anyway, what are you doing out of your room?” “Oh, mother. You know I hate that room. There’s no need—” “You can’t be too careful. Supposin’ you was to take it into your head to go and chase people’s chickens? What would the neighbors say?” “I’ve never felt the least urge to chase a chicken, mother,” said Ludmilla wearily. “Or run after carts, barkin’. ” “That’s dogs , mother. ” “You just get back in your room and lock yourself in and get on with some sewing like a good girl. ” “You know I can’t hold the needles properly, mother. ” “Try for your mother. ” “ Yes , mother,” said Ludmilla. “And don’t go near the window. We don’t want people upset. ” “Yes, mother. And you make sure you put your premonition on, mum. You know your eyesight isn’t what it was. ” Mrs. Cake watched her daughter go upstairs. Then she locked the front door behind her and strode toward Unseen University where, she’d heard, there was too much nonsense of all sorts. Anyone watching Mrs. Cake’s progress along the street would have noticed one or two odd details. Despite her erratic gait, no one bumped into her. They weren’t avoiding her, she just wasn’t where they were. At one point she hesitated, and stepped into an alleyway. A moment later a barrel rolled off a cart that was unloading outside a tavern and smashed on the cobbles where she would have been. She stepped out of the alley and over the wreckage, grumbling to herself. Mrs. Cake spent a lot of the time grumbling. Her mouth was constantly moving, as if she was trying to dislodge a troublesome pip from somewhere in the back of her teeth. She reached the high black gates of the University and hesitated again, as if listening to some inner voice. Then she stepped aside and waited. Bill Door lay in the darkness of the hayloft and waited. Below, he could hear the occasional horsey sounds of Binky—a soft movement, the champ of a jaw. Bill Door. So now he had a name. Of course, he’d always had a name, but he’d been named for what he embodied, not for who he was. Bill Door. It had a good solid ring to it. Mr. Bill Door. William Door, Esq. Billy D—no. Not Billy. Bill Door cased himself further into the hay. He reached into his robe and pulled out the golden timer. There was, quite perceptibly, less sand in the top bulb. He put it back. And then there was this “sleep. ” He knew what it was. People did it for quite a lot of the time. They lay down and sleep happened. Presumably it served some purpose. He was watching out for it with interest. He would have to subject it to analysis. Night drifted across the world, coolly pursued by a new day. There was a stirring in the henhouse across the yard. “Cock-a-doo…er. ” Bill Door stared at the roof of the barn. “Cock-a-doodle…er. ” Gray light was filtering in between the cracks. Yet only moments ago there had been the red light of sunset! Six hours had vanished. Bill hauled out the timer. Yes. The level was definitely down. While he had been waiting to experience sleep, something had stolen part of his…of his life. He’d completely missed it, too— “Cock…cock-a…er…” He climbed down from the loft and stepped out into the thin mist of dawn. The elderly chickens watched him cautiously as he peered into their house. An ancient and rather embarrassed-looking cockerel glared at him and shrugged. There was a clanging noise from the direction of the house. An old iron barrel hoop was hanging by the door, and Miss Flitworth was hitting it vigorously with a ladle. He stalked over to investigate. W HAT FOR ARE YOU MAKING THE NOISE , M ISS F LITWORTH ? She spun around, ladle half-raised. “Good grief, you must walk like a cat!” she said. I MUST ? “I meant I didn’t hear you. ” She stood back and looked him up and down. “There’s still something about you I can’t put my finger on, Bill Door,” she said. “Wish I knew what it was. ” The seven-foot skeleton regarded her stoically. He felt there was nothing he could say. “What do you want for breakfast?” said the old woman. “Not that it’ll make any difference, ’cos it’s porridge. ” Later she thought: he must have eaten it, because the bowl is empty. Why can’t I remember? And then there was the matter of the scythe. He looked at it as if he’d never seen one before. She pointed out the grass nail and the handles. He looked at them politely. H OW DO YOU SHARPEN IT , M ISS F LITWORTH ? “It’s sharp enough, for goodness sake. ” H OW DO YOU SHARPEN IT MORE ? “You can’t. Sharp’s sharp. You can’t get sharper than that. ” He’d swished it aimlessly, and made a disappointed hissing noise. And there was the grass, too. The hay meadow was high on the hill behind the farm, overlooking the cornfield. She watched him for a while. It was the most interesting technique she had ever witnessed. She wouldn’t even have thought that it was technically possible. Eventually she said: “It’s good. You’ve got the swing and everything. ” T HANK YOU , M ISS F LITWORTH. “But why one blade of grass at a time?” Bill Door regarded the neat row of stalks for some while. T HERE IS ANOTHER WAY ? “You can do lots in one go, you know. ” N O. N O. O NE BLADE AT A TIME. O NE TIME , ONE BLADE. “You won’t cut many that way,” said Miss Flitworth. E VERY LAST ONE , M ISS F LITWORTH. “Yes?” T RUST ME ON THIS. Miss Flitworth left him to it and went back to the farmhouse. She stood at the kitchen window and watched the distant dark figure for a while, as it moved over the hillside. I wonder what he did? she thought. He’s got a Past. He’s one of them Men of Mystery, I expect. Perhaps he did a robbery and is Lying Low. He’s cut a whole row already. One at a time, but somehow faster than a man cutting swathe by swathe… Miss Flitworth’s only reading matter was the Farmer’s Almanac and Seed Catalogue , which could last a whole year in the privy if no one was ill. In addition to sober information about phases of the moon and seed sowings it took a certain grisly relish in recounting the various mass murders, vicious robberies and natural disasters that befell mankind, on the lines of “June 15, Year of the Impromptu Stoat: On this Day 150 yrs. since, a Man killed by Freak shower of Goulash in Quirm” or “14 die at hands of Chume, the Notorious Herring Thrower. ” The important thing about all these was that they happened a long way away, possibly by some kind of divine intervention. The only things that usually happened locally were the occasional theft of a chicken, and the occasional wandering troll. Of course, there were also robbers and bandits in the hills but they got on well with the actual residents and were essential to the local economy. Even so, she felt she’d certainly feel safer with someone else about the place. The dark figure on the hillside was well into the second row. Behind it, the cut grass withered in the sun. I HAVE FINISHED , M ISS F LITWORTH. “Go and feed the pig, then. She’s called Nancy. ” N ANCY , said Bill, turning the word around in his mouth as though he was trying to see it from all sides. “After my mother. ” I WILL GO AND FEED THE PIG N ANCY , M ISS F LITWORTH. It seemed to Miss Flitworth that mere seconds went by. I HAVE FINISHED , M ISS F LITWORTH. She squinted at him. Then, slowly and deliberately, she wiped her hands on a cloth, stepped out into the yard and headed for the pigsty. Nancy was eyeball-deep in the swill trough. Miss Flitworth wondered exactly what comment she should make. Finally she said, “Very good. Very good. |
You, you, you certainly work…fast. ” M ISS F LITWORTH , WHY DOES NOT THE COCKEREL CROW PROPERLY ? “Oh, that’s just Cyril. He hasn’t got a very good memory. Ridiculous, isn’t it? I wish he’d get it right. ” Bill Door found a piece of chalk in the farm’s old smithy, located a piece of board among the debris, and wrote very carefully for some time. Then he wedged the board in front of the henhouse and pointed Cyril toward it. T HIS YOU WILL READ , he said. Cyril peered myopically at the “Cock-A-Doodle-Doo” in heavy gothic script. Somewhere in his tiny mad chicken mind a very distinct and chilly understanding formed that he’d better learn to read very, very quickly. Bill Door sat back among the hay and thought about the day. It seemed to have been quite a full one. He’d cut hay and fed animals and mended a window. He’d found some old overalls hanging in the barn. They seemed far more appropriate for a Bill Door than a robe woven of absolute darkness, so he’d put them on. And Miss Flitworth had given him a broad-brimmed straw hat. And he’d ventured the half-mile walk into the town. It wasn’t even a one horse town. If anyone had a horse, they’d have eaten it. The residents appeared to make a living by stealing one another’s washing. There was a town square, which was ridiculous. It was really only an enlarged crossroads, with a clock tower. And there was a tavern. He’d gone inside. After the initial pause while everyone’s mind had refocused to allow him room, they’d been cautiously hospitable; news travels even faster on a vine with few grapes. “You’d be the new man up at Miss Flitworth’s,” said the barman. “A Mr. Door, I did hear. ” C ALL ME B ILL. “Ah? Used to be a tidy old farm, once upon a time. We never thought the old girl’d stay on. ” “Ah,” agreed a couple of old men by the fireplace. A H. “New to these parts, then?” said the barman. The sudden silence of the other men in the bar was like a black hole. N OT PRECISELY. “Been here before, have you?” J UST PASSING THROUGH. “They say old Miss Flitworth’s a loony,” said one of the figures on the benches around the smoke-blackened walls. “But sharp as a knife, mind,” said another hunched drinker. “Oh, yes. She’s sharp all right. But still a loony. ” “And they say she’s got boxes full of treasure in that old parlor of hers. ” “She’m tight with money, I know that. ” “That proves it. Rich folk are always tight with money. ” “All right. Sharp and rich. But still a loony. ” “You can’t be loony and rich. You’ve got to be eccentric if you’re rich. ” The silence returned and hovered. Bill Door sought desperately for something to say. He had never been very good at small talk. He’d never had much occasion to use it. What did people say at times like this? Ah. Yes. I WILL BUY EVERYONE A DRINK , he announced. Later on they taught him a game that consisted of a table with holes and nets around the edge, and balls carved expertly out of wood, and apparently balls had to bounce off one another and into the holes. It was called Pond. He played it well. In fact, he played it perfectly. At the start, he didn’t know how not to. But after he heard them gasp a few times he corrected himself and started making mistakes with painstaking precision; by the time they taught him darts he was getting really good at them. The more mistakes he made, the more people liked him. So he propelled the little feathery darts with cold skill, never letting one drop within a foot of the targets they urged on him. He even sent one ricocheting off a nail head and a lamp so that it landed in someone’s beer, which made one of the older men laugh so much he had to be taken outside into the fresh air. They’d called him Good Old Bill. No one had ever called him that before. What a strange evening. There had been one bad moment, though. He’d heard a small voice say: “That man is a skelington,” and had turned to see a small child in a nightdress watching him over the top of the bar, without terror but with a sort of fascinated horror. The landlord, who by now Bill Door knew to be called Lifton, had laughed nervously and apologized. “That’s just her fancy,” he said. “The things children say, eh? Get on with you back to bed, Sal. And say you’re sorry to Mr. Door. ” “He’s a skelington with clothes on,” said the child. “Why doesn’t all the drink fall through?” He’d almost panicked. His intrinsic powers were fading, then. People could not normally see him—he occupied a blind spot in their senses, which they filled in somewhere inside their heads with something they preferred to encounter. But the adults’ inability to see him clearly wasn’t proof against this sort of insistent declaration, and he could feel the puzzlement around him. Then, just in time, its mother had come in from the back room and had taken the child away. There’d been muffled complaints on the lines of “—a skelington, with all bones on—” disappearing around the bend in the stairs. And all the time the ancient clock over the fireplace had been ticking, ticking, chopping seconds off his life. There’d seemed so many of them, not long ago… There was a faint knocking at the barn door, below the hayloft. He heard it pushed open. “Are you decent, Bill Door?” said Miss Flitworth’s voice in the darkness. Bill Door analyzed the sentence for meaning within context. Y ES ? he ventured. “I’ve brought you a hot milk drink. ” Y ES ? “Come on, quick now. Otherwise it’ll go cold. ” Bill Door cautiously climbed down the wooden ladder. Miss Flitworth was holding a lantern, and had a shawl around her shoulders. “It’s got cinnamon on it. My Ralph always liked cinnamon. ” She sighed. Bill Door was aware of undertones and overtones in the same way that an astronaut is aware of weather patterns below him; they’re all visible, all there, all laid out for study and all totally divorced from actual experience. T HANK YOU , he said. Miss Flitworth looked around. “You’ve really made yourself at home here,” she said brightly. Y ES. She pulled the shawl around her shoulders. “I’ll be getting back to the house, then,” she said. “You can bring the mug back in the morning. ” She sped away into the night. Bill Door took the drink up to the loft. He put it on a low beam and sat and watched it long after it grew cold and the candle had gone out. After a while he was aware of an insistent hissing. He took out the golden timer and put it right at the other end of the loft, under a pile of hay. It made no difference at all. Windle Poons peered at the house numbers—a hundred Counting Pines had died for this street alone—and then realized he didn’t have to. He was being shortsighted out of habit. He improved his eyesight. Number 668 took some while to find because it was in fact on the first floor above a tailor’s shop. Entrance was via an alleyway. There was a wooden door at the end of the alley. On its peeling paintwork someone had pinned a notice which read, in optimistic lettering. “Come in! Come in!! The Fresh Start Club. Being Dead is only the Beginning!!!” The door opened onto a flight of stairs that smelled of old paint and dead flies. They creaked even more than Windle’s knees. Someone had been drawing on the walls. The phraseology was exotic but the general tone was familiar enough: Spooks of the world Arise, You have Nothing to lose but your Chains and The Silent Majority want Dead Rights and End vitalism now!!! At the top was a landing, with one door opening off it. Once upon a time someone had hung on oil lamp from the ceiling, but it looked as though it had never been lit for thousands of years. An ancient spider, possibly living on the remains of the oil, watched him warily from its eyrie. Windle looked at the card again, took a deep breath out of habit, and knocked. The Archchancellor strode back into College in a fury, with the others trailing desperately behind him. “Who is he going to call! We’re the wizards around here!” “Yes, but we don’t actually know what’s happening, do we?” said the Dean. “So we’re going to find out!” Ridcully growled. |
“I don’t know who he’s going to call, but I’m damn sure who I’m going to call. ” He halted abruptly. The rest of the wizards piled into him. “Oh, no,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Please, not that!” “Nothing to it,” said Ridcully. “Nothing to worry about. Read up on it last night, ’s’matterofact. You can do it with three bits of wood and—” “Four cc of mouse blood,” said the Senior Wrangler mournfully. “You don’t even need that. You can use two bits of wood and an egg. It has to be a fresh egg, though. ” “Why?” “I suppose the mouse feels happier about it. ” “No, I mean the egg. ” “Oh, who knows how an egg feels?” “Anyway,” said the Dean, “it’s dangerous. I’ve always felt that he only stays in the octogram for the look of the thing. I hate it when he peers at you and seems to be counting. ” “Yes,” said the Senior Wrangler. “We don’t need to do that. We get over most things. Dragons, monsters. Rats. Remember the rats last year? Seemed to be everywhere. Lord Vetinari wouldn’t listen to us, oh no. He paid that glib bugger in the red and yellow tights a thousand gold pieces to get rid of ’em. ” “It worked, though,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Of course it bloody worked,” said the Dean. “It worked in Quirm and Sto Lat as well. He’d have got away with it in Pseudopolis as well if someone hadn’t recognized him. Mr. so-called Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents!” “It’s no good trying to change the subject,” said Ridcully. “We’re going to do the Rite of AshKente. Right?” “And summon Death,” said the Dean. “Oh, dear. ” “Nothing wrong with Death,” said Ridcully. “Professional fellow. Job to do. Fair and square. Play a straight bat, no problem. He’ll know what’s happening. ” “Oh, dear,” said the Dean again. They reached the gateway. Mrs. Cake stepped forward, blocking the Archchancellor’s path. Ridcully raised his eyebrows. The Archchancellor was not the kind of man who takes a special pleasure in being brusque and rude to women. Or, to put it another way, he was brusque and rude to absolutely everyone, regardless of sex, which was equality of a sort. And if the following conversation had not been taking place between someone who listened to what people said several seconds before they said it, and someone who didn’t listen to what people said at all, everything might have been a lot different. Or perhaps it wouldn’t. Mrs. Cake led with an answer. “I’m not your good woman!” she snapped. “And who are you, my good woman?” said the Archchancellor. “Well, that’s no way to talk to a respectable person,” said Mrs. Cake. “There’s no need to be offended,” said Ridcully. “Oh blow, is that what I’m doin’?” said Mrs. Cake. “Madam, why are you answering me before I’ve even said something?” “What?” “What d’you mean?” “What do you mean?” “What?” They stared at one another, fixed in an unbreakable conversational deadlock. Then Mrs. Cake realized. “Oi’m prematurely premoniting again,” she said. She stuck a finger in her ear and wiggled it around with a squelching noise. “It’s all orlright now. Now, the reason—” But Ridcully had had enough. “Bursar,” he said, “give this woman a penny and send her about her business, will you?” “What?” said Mrs. Cake, suddenly enraged beyond belief. “There’s too much of this sort of thing these days,” said Ridcully to the Dean, as they strolled away. “It’s the pressures and stresses of living in a big city,” said the Senior Wrangler. “I read that somewhere. It takes people in a funny way. ” They stepped through the wicket gate in one of the big doors and the Dean shut it in Mrs. Cake’s face. “He might not come,” said the Senior Wrangler, as they crossed the quadrangle. “He didn’t come for poor old Windle’s farewell party. ” “He’ll come for the Rite,” said Ridcully. “It doesn’t just send him an invitation, it puts a bloody RSVP on it!” “Oh, good. I like sherry,” said the Bursar. “Shut up, Bursar. ” There was an alley, somewhere in the Shades, which was the most alley-ridden part of an alley-ridden city. Something small and shiny rolled into it, and vanished in the darkness. After a while, there were faint metallic noises. The atmosphere in the Archchancellor’s study was very cold. Eventually the Bursar quavered: “Maybe he’s busy?” “Shut up,” said the wizards, in unison. Something was happening. The floor inside the chalked magic octogram was going white with frost. “It’s never done that before,” said the Senior Wrangler. “This is all wrong, you know,” said the Dean. “We should have some candles and some cauldrons and some stuff bubbling in crucibles and some glitter dust and some colored smoke—” “The Rite doesn’t need any of that stuff,” said Ridcully sharply. “ It might not need them, but I do,” muttered the Dean. “Doing it without the right paraphernalia is like taking all your clothes off to have a bath. ” “That’s what I do,” said Ridcully. “Humph. Well, each to his own, of course, but some of us like to think that we’re maintaining standards. ” “Perhaps he’s on holiday?” said the Bursar. “Oh, yes,” sneered the Dean. “On a beach somewhere? A few iced drinks and a Kiss Me Quick hat?” “Hold on. Hold on. Someone’s coming,” hissed the Senior Wrangler. The faint outlines of a hooded figure appeared above the octogram. It wavered constantly, as if it was being seen through superheated air. “That’s him,” said the Dean. “No it isn’t,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “It’s just a gray ro—there’s nothing in—” He stopped. It turned, slowly. It was filled out, suggesting a wearer, but at the same time had a feeling of hollowness, as if it was merely a shape for something with no shape of its own. The hood was empty. The emptiness watched the wizards for a few seconds and then focused on the Archchancellor. It said, Who are you? Ridcully swallowed. “Er. Mustrum Ridcully. Archchancellor. ” The hood nodded. The Dean stuck a finger in his ear and waggled it around. The robe wasn’t talking. Nothing was being heard. It was just that, afterward, you had a sudden memory of what had just failed to be said and no knowledge of how it had got there. The hood said, You are a superior being on this world? Ridcully looked at the other wizards. The Dean glared. “Well…you know…yes…first among equals and all that sort of thing…yes…” Ridcully managed. He was told, We bring good news. “Good news? Good news?” Ridcully squirmed under the gazerless gaze. “Oh, good. That is good news. ” He was told, Death has retired. “Pardon?” He was told, Death has retired. “Oh? That is…news…” said Ridcully uncertainly. “Uh. How? Exactly…how?” He was told, We apologize for the recent lapse in standards. “Lapse?” said the Archchancellor, now totally mystified. “Well, uh, I’m not sure there’s been a…I mean, of course the fella was always knockin’ around, but most of the time we hardly…” He was told, It has all been most irregular. “It has? Has it? Oh, well, can’t have irregularity,” said the Archchancellor. He was told, It must have been terrible. “Well, I…that is…I suppose we…I’m not sure…must it?” He was told, But now the burden is removed. Rejoice. That is all. There will be a short transitional period before a suitable candidate presents itself, and then normal service will be resumed. In the meantime, we apologize for any unavoidable inconvenience caused by superfluous life effects. The figure wavered and began to fade. The Archchancellor waved his hands desperately. “Wait!” he said. “You can’t just go like that! I command you to stay! What service? What does it all mean? Who are you?” The hood turned back toward him and said, We are nothing. “That’s no help! What is your name?” We are oblivion. The figure vanished. The wizards fell silent. The frost in the octogram began to sublime back into air. “Oh-oh,” said the Bursar. “Short transitional period? Is that what this is?” said the Dean. The floor shook. “Oh-oh,” said the Bursar again. “That doesn’t explain why everything is living a life of its own,” said the Senior Wrangler. |
“Hold on…hold on,” said Ridcully, “If people are coming to the end of their life and leaving their bodies and everything, but Death isn’t taking them away—” “Then that means they’re queueing up here,” said the Dean. “With nowhere to go. ” “Not just people,” said the Senior Wrangler. “It must be everything. Every thing that dies. ” “Filling up the world with life force,” said Ridcully. The wizards were speaking in a monotone, everyone’s mind running ahead of the conversation to the distant horror of the conclusion. “Hanging around with nothing to do,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Ghosts. ” “Poltergeist activity. ” “Good grief. ” 60 “Hang on, though,” said the Bursar, who had managed to catch up with events. “Why should that worry us? We don’t have anything to fear from the dead, do we? After all, they’re just people who are dead. They’re just ordinary people. People like us. ” The wizards thought about this. They looked at one another. They started to shout, all at once. No one remembered the bit about suitable candidates. Belief is one of the most powerful organic forces in the multiverse. It may not be able to move mountains, exactly. But it can create someone who can. People get exactly the wrong idea about belief. They think it works back to front. They think the sequence is, first object, then belief. In fact, it works the other way. Belief sloshes around in the firmament like lumps of clay spiraling into a potter’s wheel. That’s how gods get created, for example. They clearly must be created by their own believers, because a brief résumé of the lives of most gods suggests that their origins certainly couldn’t be divine. They tend to do exactly the things people would do if only they could, especially when it comes to nymphs, golden showers, and the smiting of your enemies. Belief creates other things. It created Death. Not death, which is merely a technical term for a state caused by prolonged absence of life, but Death, the personality. He evolved, as it were, along with life. As soon as a living thing was even dimly aware of the concept of suddenly becoming a non-living thing, there was Death. He was Death long before humans ever considered him; they only added the shape and all the scythe and robe business to a personality that was already millions of years old. And now he had gone. But belief doesn’t stop. Belief goes right on believing. And since the focal point of belief had been lost, new points sprang up. Small as yet, not very powerful. The private deaths of every species, no longer united but specific. In the stream, black-scaled, swam the new Death of Mayflies. In the forests, invisible, a creature of sound only, drifted the chop-chop-chop of the Death of Trees. Over the desert a dark and empty shell moved purposefully, half an inch above the ground…the Death of Tortoises. The Death of Humanity hadn’t been finished yet. Humans can believe some very complex things. It’s like the difference between off-the-peg and bespoke. The metallic sounds stopped coming from the alley. Then there was a silence. It was the particularly wary silence of something making no noise. And, finally, there was a very faint jangling sound, disappearing into the distance. “Don’t stand in the doorway, friend. Don’t block up the hall. Come on in. ” Windle Poons blinked in the gloom. When his eyes became accustomed to it, he realized that there was a semi-circle of chairs in an otherwise rather bare and dusty room. They were all occupied. In the center—at the focus, as it were, of the half circle—was a small table at which someone had been seated. They were now advancing toward him, with their hand out and a big smile on their face. “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” they said. “You’re a zombie, right?” “Er. ” Windle Poons had never seen anyone with such a pallid skin, such as there was of it, before. Or wearing clothes that looked as if they’d been washed in razor blades and smelled as though someone had not only died in them but was still in them. Or sporting a Glad To Be Gray badge. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose so. Only they buried me, you see, and there was this card—” He held it out, like a shield. “’Course there was. ’Course there was,” said the figure. He’s going to want me to shake hands, Windle thought. If I do, I just know I’m going to end up with more fingers than I started with. Oh, my goodness. Will I end up like that? “And I’m dead,” he said, lamely. “And fed up with being pushed around, eh?” said the greenish-skinned one. Windle shook his hand very carefully. “Well, not exactly fed—” “Shoe’s the name. Reg Shoe. ” “Poons. Windle Poons,” said Windle. “Er—” “Yeah, it’s always the same,” said Reg Shoe bitterly. “Once you’re dead, people just don’t want to know, right? They act as if you’ve got some horrible disease. Dying can happen to anyone, right?” “Everyone, I should have thought,” said Windle. “Er, I—” “Yeah, I know what it’s like. Tell someone you’re dead and they look at you as if they’ve seen a ghost,” Mr. Shoe went on. Windle realized that talking to Mr. Shoe was very much like talking to the Archchancellor. It didn’t actually matter what you said, because he wasn’t listening. Only in Mustrum Ridcully’s case it was because he just wasn’t bothering, while Reg Shoe was in fact supplying your side of the conversation somewhere inside his own head. “Yeah, right,” said Windle, giving in. “We were just finishing off, in fact,” said Mr. Shoe. “Let me introduce you. Everyone, this is—” He hesitated. “Poons. Windle Poons. ” “Brother Windle,” said Mr. Shoe. “Give him a big Fresh Start welcome!” There was an embarrassed chorus of “hallos. ” A large and rather hairy young man at the end of the row caught Windle’s eye and rolled his own yellow eyes in a theatrical gesture of fellow feeling. “This is Brother Arthur Winkings—” “Count Notfaroutoe,” said a female voice sharply. “And Sister Doreen—I mean Countess Notfaroutoe, of course—” “Charmed, I’m sure,” said the female voice, as the small dumpy woman sitting next to the small dumpy shape of the Count extended a be-ringed hand. The Count himself gave Windle a worried grin. He seemed to be wearing opera dress designed for a man several sizes larger. “And Brother Schleppel—” The chair was empty. But a deep-voice from the darkness underneath it said, “Evenin’. ” “And Brother Lupine. ” The muscular, hairy young man with the long canines and pointy ears gave Windle’s hand a hearty shake. “And Sister Drull. And Brother Gorper. And Brother Ixolite. ” Windle shook a number of variations on the theme of hand. Brother Ixolite handed him a small piece of yellow paper. On it was written one word: OoooEeeeOoooEeeeOoooEEEee. “I’m sorry there aren’t more here tonight,” said Mr. Shoe. “I do my best, but I’m afraid some people just don’t seem prepared to make the effort. ” “Er…dead people?” said Windle, still staring at the note. “Apathy, I call it,” said Mr. Shoe, bitterly. “How can the movement make progress if people are just going to lie around the whole time?” Lupine started making frantic “don’t get him started” signals behind Mr. Shoe’s head, but Windle wasn’t able to stop himself in time. “What movement?” he said. “Dead Rights,” said Mr. Shoe promptly. “I’ll give you one of my leaflets. ” “But, surely, er, dead people don’t have rights?” said Windle. In the corner of his vision he saw Lupine put his hand over his eyes. “You’re dead right there,” said Lupine, his face absolutely straight. Mr. Shoe glared at him. “Apathy,” he repeated. “It’s always the same. You do your best for people, and they just ignore you. Do you know people can say what they like about you and take away your property, just because you’re dead? And they—” “I thought that most people, when they died, just…you know… died ,” said Windle. “It’s just laziness,” said Mr. Shoe. “They just don’t want to make the effort. ” Windle had never seen anyone look so dejected. Reg Shoe seemed to shrink several inches. “How long have you been undead, Vindle?” said Doreen, with brittle brightness. |
“Hardly any time at all,” said Windle, relieved at the change of tone. “I must say it’s turning out to be different than I imagined. ” “You get used to it,” said Arthur Winkings, alias Count Notfaroutoe, gloomily. “That’s the thing about being undead. It’s as easy as falling off a cliff. We’re all undead here. ” Lupine coughed. “Except Lupine,” said Arthur. “I’m more what you might call honorary undead,” said Lupine. “Him being a werewolf,” explained Arthur. “I thought he was a werewolf as soon as I saw him,” said Windle, nodding. “Every full moon,” said Lupine. “Regular. ” “You start howling and growing hair,” said Windle. They all shook their heads. “Er, no,” said Lupine. “I more sort of stop howling and some of my hair temporarily falls out. It’s bloody embarrassing. ” “But I thought at the full moon your basic werewolf always—” “Lupine’s problem,” said Doreen, “is that he approaches it from ze ozzer way, you see. ” “I’m technically a wolf,” said Lupine. “Ridiculous, really. Every full moon I turn into a wolf-man. The rest of the time I’m just a…wolf. ” “Good grief,” said Windle. “That must be a terrible problem. ” “The trousers are the worst part,” said Lupine. “Er…they are?” “Oh, yeah. See, it’s all right for human werewolves. They just keep their own clothes on. I mean, they might get a bit ripped, but at least they’ve got them handy on, right? Whereas if I see the full moon, next minute I’m walking and talking and I’m definitely in big trouble on account of being very deficient in the trousery vicinity. So I have to keep a pair stashed somewhere. Mr. Shoe—” “—call me Reg—” “—lets me keep a pair where he works. ” “ I work at the mortuary on Elm Street,” said Mr. Shoe. “I’m not ashamed. It’s worth it to save a brother or sister. ” “Sorry?” said Windle. “Save?” “It’s me that pins the card on the bottom of the lid,” said Mr. Shoe. “You never know. It has to be worth a try. ” “Does it often work?” said Windle. He looked around the room. His tone must have suggested that it was a reasonably large room, and had only eight people in it; nine if you included the voice from under the chair, which presumably belonged to a person. Doreen and Arthur exchanged glances. “It vorked for Artore,” said Doreen. “Excuse me,” said Windle, “I couldn’t help wondering…are you two…er…vampires, by any chance?” “’S’right,” said Arthur. “More’s the pity. ” “Hah! You should not tvalk like zat,” said Doreen haughtily. “You should be prout of your noble lineage. ” “Prout?” said Arthur. “Did you get bitten by a bat or something?” said Windle quickly, anxious not to be the cause of any family friction. “No,” said Arthur, “by a lawyer. I got this letter, see? With a posh blob of wax on it and everything. Blahblahblah…great-great-uncle…blahblahblah…only surviving relative…blahblahblah…may we be the first to offer our heartiest…blahblahblah. One minute I’m Arthur Winkings, a coming man in the wholesale fruit and vegetable business, next minute I find I’m Arthur, Count Notfaroutoe, owner of fifty acres of cliff face a goat’d fall off of and a castle that even the cockroaches have abandoned and an invitation from the burgomaster to drop in down at the village one day and discuss three hundred years of back taxes. ” “I hate lawyers,” said the voice from under the chair. It had a sad, hollow sound. Windle tried to move his legs a little closer to his own chair. “It voss quite a good castle,” said Doreen. “A bloody heap of moldering stone is what it was,” said Arthur. “It had nice views. ” “Yeah, through every wall,” said Arthur, dropping a portcullis into that avenue of conversation. “I should have known even before we went to look at it. So I turned the carriage around, right? I thought, well, that’s four days wasted, right in the middle of our busy season. I don’t think anymore about it. Next thing, I wake up in the dark, I’m in a box, I finally find these matches, I light one, there’s this card six inches from my nose. It said—” “‘You Don’t Have to Take this Lying Down,’” said Mr. Shoe proudly. “That was one of my first ones. ” “It vasn’t my fault,” said Doreen, stiffly. “You had been lyink rigid for tree dace. ” “It gave the priest a shock, I can tell you,” said Arthur. “Huh! Priests!” said Mr. Shoe. “They’re all the same. Always telling you that you’re going to live again after you’re dead, but you just try it and see the look on their faces!” “Don’t like priests, either,” said the voice from under the chair. Windle wondered if anyone else was hearing it. “I won’t forget the look on the Reverend Welegare’s face in a hurry,” said Arthur gloomily. “I’ve been going to that temple for thirty years. I was respected in the community. Now if I even think of setting foot in a religious establishment I get a pain all down my leg. ” “Yes, but there was no need for him to say what he said when you pushed the lid off,” said Doreen. “And him a priest, too. They shouldn’t know those kind of words. ” “I enjoyed that temple,” said Arthur, wistfully. “It was something to do on a Wednesday. ” It dawned on Windle Poons that Doreen had miraculously acquired the ability to use her double-yous. “And you’re a vampire too, Mrs. Win…I do beg your pardon… Countess Notfaroutoe?” he inquired politely. The Countess smiled. “My vord, yes,” she said. “By marriage,” said Arthur. “Can you do that? I thought you had to be bitten,” said Windle. The voice under the chair sniggered. “I don’t see why I should have to go around biting my wife after thirty years of marriage, and that’s flat,” said the Count. “Every voman should share her husband’s hobbies,” said Doreen. “It iss vot keeps a marriage inter-vesting. ” “Who wants an interesting marriage? I never said I wanted an interesting marriage. That’s what’s wrong with people today, expecting things like marriage to be interesting. And it’s not a hobby, anyway,” moaned Arthur. “This vampiring’s not all it’s cracked up to be, you know. Can’t go out in daylight, can’t eat garlic, can’t have a decent shave—” “Why can’t you have a—” Windle began. “Can’t use a mirror ,” said Arthur. “I thought the turning-into-a-bat bit would be interesting, but the owls around here are murder. And as for the…you know…with the blood…well…” His voice trailed off. “Artore’s never been very good at meetink people,” said Doreen. “And the worst part is having to wear evening dress the whole time,” said Arthur. He gave Doreen a sideways glance. “I’m sure it’s not really compulsory. ” “It iss very important to maintain standerts,” said Doreen. Doreen, in addition to her here-one-minute-and-gone-the-next vampire accent, had decided to complement Arthur’s evening dress with what she considered appropriate for a female vampire: figure-hugging black dress, long dark hair cut into a widow’s peak, and very pallid makeup. Nature had designed her to be small and plump with frizzy hair and a hearty complexion. There were definite signs of conflict. “I should have stayed in that coffin,” said Arthur. “Oh, no,” said Mr. Shoe. “That’s taking the easy way out. The movement needs people like you, Arthur. We had to set an example. Remember our motto. ” “Which motto is that, Reg?” said Lupine wearily. “We have so many. ” “Undead yes—unperson no!” Reg said. “You see, he means well,” said Lupine, after the meeting had broken up. He and Windle were walking back through the gray dawn. The Notfaroutoes had left earlier to be back home before daylight heaped even more troubles on Arthur, and Mr. Shoe had gone off, he said, to address a meeting. “He goes down to the cemetery behind the Temple of Small Gods and shouts,” Lupine explained. “He calls it consciousness raising but I don’t reckon he’s onto much of a certainty. ” “Who was it under the chair?” said Windle. “That was Schleppel,” said Lupine. “We think he’s a bogeyman. ” “Are bogeymen undead?” “He won’t say. ” “You’ve never seen him? I thought bogeymen hid under things and, er, behind things and sort of leapt out at people. ” “He’s all right on the hiding. I don’t think he likes the leaping out,” said Lupine. Windle thought about this. |
An agoraphobic bogeyman seemed to complete the full set. “Fancy that,” he said, vaguely. “We only go along to the club to keep Reg happy,” said Lupine. “Doreen said it’d break his heart if we stopped. You know the worst bit?” “Go on,” said Windle. “Sometimes he brings a guitar along and makes us sing songs like ‘The Streets of Ankh-Morpork’ and ‘We Shall Overcome. ’ * It’s terrible. ” “Can’t sing, eh?” said Windle. “Sing? Never mind sing. Have you ever seen a zombie try to play a guitar? It’s helping him find his fingers afterward that’s so embarrassing. ” Lupine sighed. “By the way, Sister Drull is a ghoul. If she offers you any of her meat patties, don’t accept. ” Windle remembered a vague, shy old lady in a shapeless gray dress. “Oh, dear,” he said. “You mean she makes them out of human flesh?” “What? Oh. No. She just can’t cook very well. ” “Oh. ” “And Brother Ixolite is probably the only banshee in the world with a speech impediment, so instead of sitting on roofs and screaming when people are about to die he just writes them a note and slips it under the door—” Windle recalled a long, sad face. “He gave me one, too. ” “We try to encourage him,” said Lupine. “He’s very self-conscious. ” His arm shot out and flung Windle against a wall. “Quiet!” “What?” Lupine’s ears swiveled. His nostrils flared. Motioning Windle to remain where he was, the wereman slunk silently along the alley until he reached its junction with another, even smaller and nastier one. He paused for a moment, and then thrust a hairy hand around the corner. There was a yelp. Lupine’s hand came back holding a struggling man. Huge hairy muscles moved under Lupine’s torn shirt as the man was hoisted up to fang level. “You were waiting to attack us, weren’t you,” said Lupine. “Who, me—?” “I could smell you,” said Lupine, evenly. “I never—” Lupine sighed. “Wolves don’t do this sort of thing, you know,” he said. The man dangled. “Hey, is that a fact,” he said. “It’s all head-on combat, fang against fang, claw against claw,” said Lupine. “You don’t find wolves lurking behind rocks ready to mug a passing badger. ” “Get away?” “Would you like me to tear your throat out?” The man stared eye to yellow eye. He estimated his chances against a seven-foot man with teeth like that. “Do I get a choice?” he said. “My friend here,” said Lupine, indicating Windle, “is a zombie—” “Well, I don’t know about actual zombie , I think you have to eat some sort of fish and root to be a zom—” “—and you know what zombies do to people, don’t you?” The man tried to nod, even though Lupine’s fist was right under his neck. “Yeggg,” he managed. “Now, he’s going to take a very good look at you, and if he ever sees you again—” “I say, hang on,” murmured Windle. “—he’ll come after you. Won’t you, Windle?” “Eh? Oh, yes. That’s right. Like a shot,” said Windle, unhappily. “Now run along, there’s a good chap. Okay?” “OggAy,” said the prospective mugger. He was thinking: Ig eyes! Ike imlets! Lupine let go. The man hit the cobbles, gave Windle one last terrified glance, and ran for it. “Er, what do zombies do to people?” said Windle. “I suppose I’d better know. ” “They tear them apart like a sheet of dry paper,” said Lupine. “Oh? Right,” said Windle. They strolled on in silence. Windle was thinking: why me? Hundreds of people must die in this city every day. I bet they don’t have this trouble. They just shut their eyes and wake up being born as someone else, or in some sort of heaven or, I suppose, possibly some sort of hell. Or they go and feast with the gods in their hall, which has never seemed a particularly great idea—gods are all right in their way, but not the kind of people a decent man would want to have a meal with. The Yen buddhists think you just become very rich. Some of the Klatchian religions say you go to a lovely garden full of young women, which doesn’t sound very religious to me … Windle found himself wondering how you applied for Klatchian nationality after death. And at that moment the cobblestones came up to meet him. This is usually a poetic way of saying that someone fell flat on their face. In this case, the cobblestones really came up to meet him. They fountained up, circled silently in the air above the alley for a moment, and then dropped like stones. Windle stared at them. So did Lupine. “That’s something you don’t often see,” said the wereman, after a while. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen stones flying before. ” “Or dropping like stones,” said Windle. He nudged one with the toe of his boot. It seemed perfectly happy with the role gravity had chosen for it. “You’re a wizard—” “ Were a wizard,” said Windle. “You were a wizard. What caused all that?” “I think it was probably an inexplicable phenomenon,” said Windle. “There’s a lot of them about, for some reason. I wish I knew why. ” He prodded a stone again. It showed no inclination to move. “I’d better be getting along,” said Lupine. “What’s it like, being a wereman?” said Windle. Lupine shrugged. “Lonely,” he said. “Hmm?” “You don’t fit in, you see. When I’m a wolf I remember what it’s like to be a man, and vice versa. Like…I mean…sometimes…sometimes, right, when I’m wolf-shaped, I run up into the hills…in the winter, you know, when there’s a crescent moon in the sky and a crust on the snow and the hills go on forever…and the other wolves, well, they feel what it’s like, of course, but they don’t know like I do. To feel and know at the same time. No one else knows what that’s like. No one else in the whole world could know what that’s like. That’s the bad part. Knowing there’s no one else…” Windle became aware of teetering on the edge of a pit of sorrows. He never knew what to say in moments like this. Lupine brightened up. “Come to that…what’s it like, being a zombie?” “It’s okay. It’s not too bad. ” Lupine nodded. “See you around,” he said, and strode off. The streets were beginning to fill up as the population of Ankh-Morpork began its informal shift change between the night people and the day people. All of them avoided Windle. People didn’t bump into a zombie if they could help it. He reached the University gates, which were now open, and made his way to his bedroom. He’d need money, if he was moving out. He’d saved quite a lot over the years. Had he made a will? He’d been fairly confused the past ten years or so. He might have made one. Had he been confused enough to leave all his money to himself? He hoped so. There’d been practically no known cases of anyone successfully challenging their own will— He levered up the floorboard by the end of his bed, and lifted out a bag of coins. He remembered he’d been saving up for his old age. There was his diary. It was a five-year diary, he recalled, so in a technical sense Windle had wasted about—he did a quick calculation—yes, about three-fifths of his money. Or more, when you came to think about it. After all, there wasn’t much on the pages. Windle hadn’t done anything worth writing down for years, or at least anything he’d been able to remember by the evening. There were just phases of the moon, lists of religious festivals, and the occasional sweet stuck to a page. There was something else down there under the floor, too. He fumbled around in the dusty space and found a couple of smooth spheres. He pulled them out and stared at them, mystified. He shook them, and watched the tiny snowfalls. He read the writing, noting how it wasn’t so much writing as a drawing of writing. He reached down and picked up the third object; it was a little bent metal wheel. Just one little metal wheel. And, beside it, a broken sphere. Windle stared at them. Of course, he had been a bit non-compos mentis in his last thirty years or so, and maybe he’d worn his underwear outside his clothes and dribbled a bit, but…he’d collected souvenirs? And little wheels? There was a cough behind him. Windle dropped the mysterious objects back into the hole and looked around. The room was empty, but there seemed to be a shadow behind the open door. “Hallo?” he said. |
A deep, rumbling, but very diffident voice said, “’S’only me, Mr. Poons. ” Windle wrinkled his forehead with the effort of recollection. “Schleppel?” he said. “That’s right. ” “The bogeyman?” “That’s right?” “Behind my door?” “That’s right. ” “Why?” “It’s a friendly door. ” Windle walked over to the door and gingerly shut it. There was nothing behind it but old plaster, although he did fancy that he felt an air movement. “I’m under the bed now, Mr. Poons,” said Schleppel’s voice from, yes, under the bed. “You don’t mind, do you?” “Well, no. I suppose not. But shouldn’t you be in a closet somewhere? That’s where bogeymen used to hide when I was a lad. ” “A good closet is hard to find, Mr. Poons. ” Windle sighed. “All right. The underside of the bed’s yours. Make yourself at home, or whatever. ” “I’d prefer going back to lurking behind the door, Mr. Poons, if it’s all the same to you. ” “Oh, all right. ” “Do you mind shutting your eyes a moment?” Windle obediently shut his eyes. There was another movement of air. “You can look now, Mr. Poons. ” Windle opened his eyes. “Gosh,” said Schleppel’s voice, “you’ve even got a coat hook and everything behind here. ” Windle watched the brass knobs on the end of his bedstead unscrew themselves. A tremor shook the floor. “What’s going on, Schleppel?” he said. “Build up of life force, Mr. Poons. ” “You mean you know ?” “Oh, yes. Hey, wow, there’s a lock and a handle and a brass finger plate and everything behind here—” “What do you mean, a build up of life force?” “—and the hinges, there’s a really good rising butts here, never had a door with—” “Schleppel!” “Just life force, Mr. Poons. You know. It’s a kind of force what you get in things that are alive? I thought you wizards knew about this sort of thing. ” Windle Poons opened his mouth to say something like “Of course we do,” before proceeding diplomatically to find out what the hell the bogeyman was talking about, and then remembered that he didn’t have to act like that now. That’s what he would have done if he was alive, but despite what Reg Shoe proclaimed, it was quite hard to be proud when you were dead. A bit stiff, perhaps, but not proud. “Never heard of it,” he said. “What’s it building up for?” “Don’t know. Very unseasonal. It ought to be dying down around now,” said Schleppel. The floor shook again. Then the loose floorboard that had concealed Windle’s little fortune creaked, and started to put out shoots. “What do you mean, unseasonal?” he said. “You get a lot of it in the spring,” said the voice from behind the door. “Shoving the daffodils up out of the ground and that kind of stuff. ” “Never heard of it,” said Windle, fascinated. “I thought you wizards knew everything about everything. ” Windle looked at his wizarding hat. Burial and tunnelling had not been kind to it, but after more than a century of wear it hadn’t been the height of haute couture to start with. “There’s always something new to learn,” he said. It was another dawn. Cyril the cockerel stirred on his perch. The chalked words glowed in the half light. He concentrated. He took a deep breath. “Dock-a-loodle-fod!” Now that the memory problem was solved, there was only the dyslexia to worry about. Up in the high fields the wind was strong and the sun was close and strong. Bill Door strode back and forth through the stricken grass of the hillside like a shuttle across a green weave. He wondered if he’d ever felt wind and sunlight before. Yes, he’d felt them, he must have done. But he’d never experienced them like this; the way wind pushed at you, the way the sun made you hot. The way you could feel Time passing. Carrying you with it. There was a timid knocking at the barn door. Y ES ? “Come on down here, Bill Door?” He climbed down in the darkness and opened the door cautiously. Miss Flitworth was shielding a candle with one hand. “Um,” she said. I AM SORRY ? “You can come into the house, if you like. For the evening. Not for the night, of course, I mean, I don’t like to think of you all alone out here of an evening, when I’ve got a fire and everything. ” Bill Door was no good at reading faces. It was a skill he’d never needed. He stared at Miss Flitworth’s frozen, worried, pleading smile like a baboon looking for meaning in the Rosetta Stone. T HANK YOU , he said. She scuttled off. When he arrived at the house she wasn’t in the kitchen. He followed a rustling, scraping noise out into a narrow hallway and through a low doorway. Miss Flitworth was down on her hands and knees in the little room beyond, feverishly lighting the fire. She looked up, flustered, when he rapped politely on the open door. “Hardly worth putting a match to it for one,” she mumbled, by way of embarrassed explanation. “Sit down. I’ll make us some tea. ” Bill Door folded himself into one of the narrow chairs by the fire, and looked around the room. It was an unusual room. Whatever its functions were, being lived in wasn’t apparently one of them. Whereas the kitchen was a sort of roofed-over outside space and the hub of the farm’s activities, this room resembled nothing so much as a mausoleum. Contrary to general belief, Bill Door wasn’t very familiar with funereal decor. Deaths didn’t normally take place in tombs, except in rare and unfortunate cases. The open air, the bottoms of rivers, halfway down sharks, any amount of bedrooms, yes—tombs, no. His business was the separation of the wheat-germ of the soul from the chaff of the mortal body, and that was usually concluded long before any of the rites associated with, when you got right down to it, a reverential form of garbage disposal. But this room looked like the tombs of those kings who wanted to take it all with them. Bill Door sat with his hands on his knees, looking around. First, there were the ornaments. More teapots than one might think possible. China dogs with staring eyes. Strange cake stands. Miscellaneous statues and painted plates with cheery little messages on them: A Present from Quirm, Long Life and Happiness. They covered every flat surface in a state of total democracy, so that a rather valuable antique silver candlestick was next to a bright colored china dog with a bone in its mouth and an expression of culpable idiocy. Pictures hid the walls. Most of them were painted in shades of mud and showed depressed cattle standing on wet moorland in a fog. In fact the ornaments almost concealed the furniture, but this was no loss. Apart from two chairs groaning under the weight of accumulated antimacassars, the rest of the furniture seemed to have no use whatsoever apart from supporting ornaments. There were spindly tables everywhere. The floor was layered in rag rugs. Someone had really liked making rag rugs. And, above all, and around all, and permeating all, was the smell. It smelled of long, dull afternoons. On a cloth-draped sideboard were two small wooden chests flanking a larger one. They must be the famous boxes full of treasure, he thought. He became aware of ticking. There was a clock on the wall. Someone had once had what they must have thought was the jolly idea of making a clock like an owl. When the pendulum swung, the owl’s eyes went backward and forward in what the seriously starved of entertainment probably imagined was a humorous way. After a while, your own eyes started to oscillate in sympathy. Miss Flitworth bustled in with a loaded tray. There was a blur of activity as she performed the alchemical ceremony of making tea, buttering scones, arranging biscuits, hooking sugar tongs on the basin… She sat back. Then, as if she had been in a state of repose for twenty minutes, she trilled slightly breathlessly: “Well…isn’t this nice. ” Y ES , M ISS F LITWORTH. “Don’t often have occasion to open up the parlor these days. ” N O. “Not since I lost my dad. ” For a moment Bill Door wondered if she’d lost the late Mr. Flitworth in the parlor. Perhaps he’d taken a wrong turning among the ornaments. Then he recalled the funny little ways humans put things. A H. “He used to sit in that very chair, reading the almanac. |
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