Mort (9 page)

‘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,
PEOPLE 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 hard-working 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, chequered 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 shovelling the lunch plates into the sink and tidying the laundry out of sight.

Eventually the door swung open, slowly and mysteriously.

‘You’d better pretend to be impreffed,’ said the doorknocker conversationally, but hampered somewhat by the ring. ‘He does it with pulleyf 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 scruffed 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, Traveller 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 grey-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-humoured.

‘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 philtre, yes? Something to encourage the young ladies?’