'— 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 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 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 candle-stick 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 Ist 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:
YOU HAD BETTER START NOW.
He stood up, appearing to grow larger as the room darkened.
DON'T BOTHER TO APOLOGISE, he added. Keli buried her head in Cutwell's ample chest.
I AM BACK. AND I AM ANGRY.
'Master, I —' Mort began.
SHUT 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.
IS THIS THE FACE THAT LAUNCHED A THOUSAND SHIPS, AND BURNED THE TOPLESS TOWERS OF PSEUDOPOLIS? wondered Death. Keli stared hypnotised at the red pinpoints miles deep in those dark sockets.
'Er, excuse me,' said Cutwell, holding his hat respectfully, Mexican fashion.
WELL? said Death, distracted.
'It isn't, sir. You must be thinking about another face.'
WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
'Cutwell, sir. I'm a wizard, sir.'
I'M A WIZARD, SIR, Death sneered. BE SILENT, WIZARD.
'Sir.' Cutwell stepped back.
Death turned to Ysabell.
DAUGHTER, EXPLAIN YOURSELF. WHY 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 —'
BE 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. YOU SEDUCE MY DAUGHTER FROM ME, YOU NEGLECT THE DUTY, YOU MAKE RIPPLES IN REALITY THAT WILL TAKE A CENTURY TO HEAL. YOUR ILL-TIMED ACTIONS HAVE DOOMED YOUR COMRADES TO OBLIVION. THE GODS WILL DEMAND NOTHING LESS.
ALL 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.
IT SPEAKS! WHAT DOES IT SAY?
'You could let them go,' said Mort. They just got involved. It wasn't their fault. You could rearrange this so —'
WHY SHOULD I DO THAT? THEY BELONG TO ME NOW.
'I'll fight you for them,' said Mort.
VERY NOBLE. MORTALS FIGHT ME ALL THE TIME. YOU 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.
AH. YOU 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 —'
IF YOU WIN, YOU WILL BE IN A POSITION TO DO WHATEVER YOU PLEASE, said Death. FOLLOW 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.
ALBERT.
'Master?'
FETCH 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.
BE 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.
MR WIZARD, 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.
NO.
'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. . . .
... Gutwell 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 greyness of fatigue poisons in his brain, two disadvantages that Death did not have to consider.
Death noticed.
YIELD, 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.
THUS 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 round 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.
STRIKE.
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, scythe-blade 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.
YOUR 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: WHY?
'You said that to tinker with the fate of one individual could destroy the whole world,' said Ysabell.
YES?
'You meddled with his. And mine.' She pointed a trembling finger at the splinters of glass on the floor. 'And those, too.'
WELL?
'What will the gods demand for that?'
FROM ME?
'Yes!'
Death looked surprised. THE 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. STAND ASIDE.
'No.'
YOU MUST BE AWARE THAT EVEN LOVE IS NO DEFENCE AGAINST ME. I AM SORRY.
Ysabell raised the sword. 'You 're sorry?'
STAND 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.
YOU WILL DO AS YOU ABE TOLD.
'I will not.'
YOU'RE MAKING THIS VERY DIFFICULT.
'Good.'
Death's fingers drummed impatiently on the scythe-blade, 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 aid.
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 Ist Grade (UU).'
Cutwell advanced on the regal 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 marvellous,' 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?'
'Shut up here she comes.'
'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. 'Its 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 —'
ALL 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.
TO MY OWN DAUGHTER'S WEDDING? ANYWAY, IT WAS THE FIRST TIME I'VE EVER HAD AN INVITATION TO ANYTHING. IT 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 —'
TO 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.'
VERY WISE. TOO 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.
YES, YES, I AM SURE. AN EXCELLENT DECISION. HOWEVER, I HAVE DECIDED NOT TO INTEREST MYSELF IN HUMAN AFFAIRS ANY FURTHER.
Really?'
EXCEPT OFFICIALLY, OF COURSE. IT 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.
YES.
'I shouldn't think they were very pleased.'
THE GODS ARE JUST. THEY ARE ALSO SENTIMENTALISTS. I HAVE NEVER BEEN ABLE TO MASTER IT, MYSELF. BUT YOU AREN'T FREE YET. YOU MUST SEE TO IT THAT HISTORY TAKES PLACE.
'I know,' said Mort. 'Uniting the kingdoms and everything.'
YOU 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.
FOR YOU AND YOUR LADY. A WEDDING PRESENT. A DOWRY.
'It's beautiful! We thought the silver toast rack was from you.'
THAT 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.
YES. WHEN SOMETHING IRRITATES AN OYSTER AND CAN'T BE REMOVED, THE POOR THING COATS IT WITH MUCUS AND TURNS IT INTO A PEARL. THIS IS A PEARL OF A DIFFERENT COLOUR. A PEARL OF REALITY. ALL THAT SHINY STUFF IS CONGEALED ACTUALITY. YOU 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.'
ONE 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?'
THE PRESSURE OF THIS REALITY KEEPS IT COMPRESSED. THERE MAY COME A TIME WHEN THE UNIVERSE ENDS AND REALITY DIES, AND THEN THIS ONE WILL EXPLODE AND . . . WHO KNOWS? KEEP IT SAFE. IT'S A FUTURE AS WELL AS A PRESENT.
Death put his skull on one side. IT'S A SMALL THING, he added. You 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.
THERE WAS ANOTHER THING, said Death. He reached under his robe again and pulled out an oblong shape inexpertly wrapped and tied with string.
IT'S FOR YOU, he said, PERSONALLY. YOU NEVER SHOWED ANY INTEREST IN IT BEFORE. DID 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 —'
YOU HAVE SUFFICIENT, said Death coldly. MATHEMATICS ISNT 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.
MY REGARDS TO YOUR GOOD LADY, he said. AND NOW I REALLY MUST BE OFF.
'Are you sure? You're welcome to stay.'
IT'S NICE OF YOU TO SAY SO, BUT DUTY CALLS. He extended a bony hand. YOU 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 —'
MANY THANKS FOR THE OFFER, said Death graciously. I SHALL THINK ABOUT IT MOST SERIOUSLY. AND NOW —
'Goodbye,' Mart said, and was surprised to find a lump in his throat. 'It's such an unpleasant word, isn't it?'
QUITE 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."
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 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 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 candle-stick 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 Ist 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:
YOU HAD BETTER START NOW.
He stood up, appearing to grow larger as the room darkened.
DON'T BOTHER TO APOLOGISE, he added. Keli buried her head in Cutwell's ample chest.
I AM BACK. AND I AM ANGRY.
'Master, I —' Mort began.
SHUT 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.
IS THIS THE FACE THAT LAUNCHED A THOUSAND SHIPS, AND BURNED THE TOPLESS TOWERS OF PSEUDOPOLIS? wondered Death. Keli stared hypnotised at the red pinpoints miles deep in those dark sockets.
'Er, excuse me,' said Cutwell, holding his hat respectfully, Mexican fashion.
WELL? said Death, distracted.
'It isn't, sir. You must be thinking about another face.'
WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
'Cutwell, sir. I'm a wizard, sir.'
I'M A WIZARD, SIR, Death sneered. BE SILENT, WIZARD.
'Sir.' Cutwell stepped back.
Death turned to Ysabell.
DAUGHTER, EXPLAIN YOURSELF. WHY 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 —'
BE 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. YOU SEDUCE MY DAUGHTER FROM ME, YOU NEGLECT THE DUTY, YOU MAKE RIPPLES IN REALITY THAT WILL TAKE A CENTURY TO HEAL. YOUR ILL-TIMED ACTIONS HAVE DOOMED YOUR COMRADES TO OBLIVION. THE GODS WILL DEMAND NOTHING LESS.
ALL 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.
IT SPEAKS! WHAT DOES IT SAY?
'You could let them go,' said Mort. They just got involved. It wasn't their fault. You could rearrange this so —'
WHY SHOULD I DO THAT? THEY BELONG TO ME NOW.
'I'll fight you for them,' said Mort.
VERY NOBLE. MORTALS FIGHT ME ALL THE TIME. YOU 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.
AH. YOU 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 —'
IF YOU WIN, YOU WILL BE IN A POSITION TO DO WHATEVER YOU PLEASE, said Death. FOLLOW 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.
ALBERT.
'Master?'
FETCH 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.
BE 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.
MR WIZARD, 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.
NO.
'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. . . .
... Gutwell 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 greyness of fatigue poisons in his brain, two disadvantages that Death did not have to consider.
Death noticed.
YIELD, 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.
THUS 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 round 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.
STRIKE.
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, scythe-blade 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.
YOUR 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: WHY?
'You said that to tinker with the fate of one individual could destroy the whole world,' said Ysabell.
YES?
'You meddled with his. And mine.' She pointed a trembling finger at the splinters of glass on the floor. 'And those, too.'
WELL?
'What will the gods demand for that?'
FROM ME?
'Yes!'
Death looked surprised. THE 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. STAND ASIDE.
'No.'
YOU MUST BE AWARE THAT EVEN LOVE IS NO DEFENCE AGAINST ME. I AM SORRY.
Ysabell raised the sword. 'You 're sorry?'
STAND 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.
YOU WILL DO AS YOU ABE TOLD.
'I will not.'
YOU'RE MAKING THIS VERY DIFFICULT.
'Good.'
Death's fingers drummed impatiently on the scythe-blade, 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 aid.
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 Ist Grade (UU).'
Cutwell advanced on the regal 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 marvellous,' 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?'
'Shut up here she comes.'
'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. 'Its 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 —'
ALL 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.
TO MY OWN DAUGHTER'S WEDDING? ANYWAY, IT WAS THE FIRST TIME I'VE EVER HAD AN INVITATION TO ANYTHING. IT 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 —'
TO 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.'
VERY WISE. TOO 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.
YES, YES, I AM SURE. AN EXCELLENT DECISION. HOWEVER, I HAVE DECIDED NOT TO INTEREST MYSELF IN HUMAN AFFAIRS ANY FURTHER.
Really?'
EXCEPT OFFICIALLY, OF COURSE. IT 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.
YES.
'I shouldn't think they were very pleased.'
THE GODS ARE JUST. THEY ARE ALSO SENTIMENTALISTS. I HAVE NEVER BEEN ABLE TO MASTER IT, MYSELF. BUT YOU AREN'T FREE YET. YOU MUST SEE TO IT THAT HISTORY TAKES PLACE.
'I know,' said Mort. 'Uniting the kingdoms and everything.'
YOU 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.
FOR YOU AND YOUR LADY. A WEDDING PRESENT. A DOWRY.
'It's beautiful! We thought the silver toast rack was from you.'
THAT 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.
YES. WHEN SOMETHING IRRITATES AN OYSTER AND CAN'T BE REMOVED, THE POOR THING COATS IT WITH MUCUS AND TURNS IT INTO A PEARL. THIS IS A PEARL OF A DIFFERENT COLOUR. A PEARL OF REALITY. ALL THAT SHINY STUFF IS CONGEALED ACTUALITY. YOU 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.'
ONE 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?'
THE PRESSURE OF THIS REALITY KEEPS IT COMPRESSED. THERE MAY COME A TIME WHEN THE UNIVERSE ENDS AND REALITY DIES, AND THEN THIS ONE WILL EXPLODE AND . . . WHO KNOWS? KEEP IT SAFE. IT'S A FUTURE AS WELL AS A PRESENT.
Death put his skull on one side. IT'S A SMALL THING, he added. You 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.
THERE WAS ANOTHER THING, said Death. He reached under his robe again and pulled out an oblong shape inexpertly wrapped and tied with string.
IT'S FOR YOU, he said, PERSONALLY. YOU NEVER SHOWED ANY INTEREST IN IT BEFORE. DID 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 —'
YOU HAVE SUFFICIENT, said Death coldly. MATHEMATICS ISNT 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.
MY REGARDS TO YOUR GOOD LADY, he said. AND NOW I REALLY MUST BE OFF.
'Are you sure? You're welcome to stay.'
IT'S NICE OF YOU TO SAY SO, BUT DUTY CALLS. He extended a bony hand. YOU 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 —'
MANY THANKS FOR THE OFFER, said Death graciously. I SHALL THINK ABOUT IT MOST SERIOUSLY. AND NOW —
'Goodbye,' Mart said, and was surprised to find a lump in his throat. 'It's such an unpleasant word, isn't it?'
QUITE 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."