Mort tds-4

by Terry David John Pratchett

  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 aU 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 orientated 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 signalled 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, equins and gold thread to produce a garment of uch 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 wel
l, 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 colours 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 g
oing 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.