Mort (12 page)

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 armour, 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 armour. 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 sulphurous smoke, lit a candle, found the pile of dismembered armour, 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 grey 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 manoeuvred 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 unravelling 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 colour. 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 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 once called. Little fat man. Squeaky voice. I only saw him 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—’