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'You just walked through a marble pillar,' observed Cutwell. 'How did you do it?'
'Did I?' Mort looked around. The pillar looked sound enough. He poked an arm towards it, and slightly bruised his elbow.
'I could have sworn you did,' said Cutwell. 'Wizards notice these things, you know.' He reached into the pocket of his robe.
'Then have you noticed the mist dome around the country?' said Mort.
Cutwell squeaked. The jar in his hand dropped and smashed on the tiles; there was the smell of slightly rancid salad dressing.
'Already?'
'I don't know about already,' said Mort, 'but there's this sort of crackling wall sliding over the land and no one else seems to worry about it and—'
'How fast was it moving?'
'— it changes things!'
'You saw it? How far away is it? How fast is it moving?'
'Of course I saw it. I rode through it twice. It was like —'
'But you're not a wizard, so why —'
'What are you doing here, anyway —'
Cutwell took a deep breath. 'Everyone shut up!' he screamed.
There was silence. Then the wizard grabbed Mort's arm. 'Come on,' he said, pulling him back along the corridor. 'I don't know who you are exactly and I hope I've got time to find out one day but something really horrible is going to happen soon and I think you're involved, somehow.'
'Something horrible? When?'
'That depends on how far away the interface is and how fast it's moving,' said Cutwell, dragging Mort down a side passage. When they were outside a small oak door he let go of his arm and fumbled in his pocket again, removing a small hard piece of cheese and an unpleasantly squashy tomato.
'Hold these, will you? Thank you.' He delved again, produced a key and unlocked the door.
'It's going to kill the princess, isn't it?' said Mort.
'Yes,' said Cutwell, 'and then again, no.' He paused with his hand on the doorhandle. 'That was pretty perspicacious of you. How did you know?'
'I —' Mort hesitated.
'She told me a very strange story,' said Cutwell.
'I expect she did,' said Mort. 'If it was unbelievable, it was true.'
'You're him, are you? Death's assistant?'
'Yes. Off duty at the moment, though.'
'Pleased to hear it.'
Cutwell shut the door behind them and fumbled for a candlestick. There was a pop, a flash of blue light and a whimper.
'Sorry,' he said, sucking his fingers. 'Fire spell. Never really got the hang of it.'
'You were expecting the dome thing, weren't you?' said Mort urgently. 'What will happen when it closes in?'
The wizard sat down heavily on the remains of a bacon sandwich.
'I'm not exactly sure,' he said. 'It'll be interesting to watch. But not from inside, I'm afraid. What I think will happen is that the last week will never have existed.'
'She'll suddenly die?'
'You don't quite understand. She will have been dead for a week. All this —' he waved his hands vaguely in the air — 'will not have happened. The assassin will have done his job. You will have done yours. History will have healed itself. Everything will be all right. From History's point of view, that is. There really isn't any other.'
Mort stared out of the narrow window. He could see across the courtyard into the glowing streets outside, where a picture of the princess smiled at the sky.
'Tell me about the pictures,' he said. That looks like some sort of wizard thing.'
'I'm not sure if it's working. You see, people were beginning to get upset and they didn't know why, and that made it worse. Their minds were in one reality and their bodies were in another. Very unpleasant. They couldn't get used to the idea that she was still alive. I thought the pictures might be a good idea but, you know, people just don't see what their mind tells them isn't there.'
'I could have told you that,' said Mort bitterly.
'I had the town criers out during the daytime,' Cutwell continued. 'I thought that if people could come to believe in her, then this new reality could become the real one.'
'Mmmph?' said Mort. He turned away from the window. 'What do you mean?'
'Well, you see — I reckoned that if enough people believed in her, they could change reality. It works for gods. If people stop believing in a god, he dies. If a lot of them believe in him, he grows stronger.'
'I didn't know that. I thought gods were just gods.'
'They don't like it talked about,' said Cutwell, shuffling through the heap of books and parchments on his worktable.
'Well, that might work for gods, because they're special,' said Mort. 'People are — more solid. It wouldn't work for people.'
'That's not true. Let's suppose you went out of here and prowled around the palace. One of the guards would probably see you and he'd think you were a thief and he'd fire his crossbow. I mean, in his reality you'd be a thief. It wouldn't actually be true but you'd be just as dead as if it was. Belief is powerful stuff. I'm a wizard. We know about these things. Look here.'
He pulled a book out of the debris in front of him and opened it at the piece of bacon he'd used as a bookmark. Mort looked over his shoulder, and frowned at the curly magical writing. It moved around on the page, twisting and writhing in an attempt not to be read by a non-wizard, and the general effect was unpleasant.
'What's this?' he said.
'It's the Book of the Magick of Alberto Malich the Mage,' said the wizard, 'a sort of book of magical theory. It's not a good idea to look too hard at the words, they resent it. Look, it says here —'
His lips moved soundlessly. Little beads of sweat sprang up on his forehead and decided to get together and go down and see what his nose was doing. His eyes watered.
Some people like to settle down with a good book. No one in possession of a complete set of marbles would like to settle down with a book of magic, because even the individual words have a private and vindictive life of their own and reading them, in short, is a kind of mental Indian wrestling. Many a young wizard has tried to read a grimoire that is too strong for him, and people who've heard the screams have found only his pointy shoes with the classic wisp of smoke coming out of them and a book which is, perhaps, just a little fatter. Things can happen to browsers in magical libraries that make having your face pulled off by tentacled monstrosities from the Dungeon Dimensions seem a mere light massage by comparison.
Fortunately Cutwell had an expurgated edition, with some of the more distressing pages clamped shut (although on quiet nights he could hear the imprisoned words scritching irritably inside their prison, like a spider trapped in a matchbox; anyone who has ever sat next to someone wearing a Walkman will be able to imagine exactly what they sounded like).
'This is the bit,' said Cutwell. 'It says here that even gods —'
'I've seen him before!'
'What?'
Mort pointed a shaking finger at the book.
'Him!'
Cutwell gave him an odd look and examined the left-hand page. There was a picture of an elderly wizard holding a book and a candlestick in an attitude of near-terminal dignity.
'That's not part of the magic,' he said testily, 'that's just the author.'
'What does it say under the picture?'
'Er, It says "Yff youe have enjoyed thiss Boke, youe maye be interestede yn othere Titles by —'
'No, right under the picture is what I meant!'
'That's easy. It's old Malich himself. Every wizard knows him. I mean, he founded the University.' Cutwell chuckled. There's a famous statue of him in the main hall, and during Rag Week once I climbed up it and put a —'
Mort stared at the picture.
'Tell me,' he said quietly, 'did the statue have a drip on the end of its nose?'
'I shouldn't think so,' said Cutwell. 'It was marble. But I don't know what you're getting so worked up about. Lots of people know what he looked like. He's famous.'
'He lived a long time ago, did he?'
'Two thousand years, I think. Look, I don't know why —'
'I bet he didn't die, though,' said Mort. 'I bet he just disappeared one day. Did he?'
Cutwell was silent for a moment.
'Funny you should say that,' he said slowly. There was a legend I heard. He got up to some weird things, they say. They say he blew himself into the Dungeon Dimensions while trying to perform the Rite of AshkEnte backwards. All they found was his hat. Tragic, really. The whole city in mourning for a day just for a hat. It wasn't even a particularly attractive hat; it had burn marks on it.'
'Alberto Malich,' said Mort, half to himself. 'Well. Fancy that.'
He drummed his fingers on the table, although the sound was surprisingly muted.
'Sorry,' said Cutwell. 'I can't get the hang of treacle sandwiches, either.'
'I reckon the interface is moving at a slow walking pace,' said Mort, licking his fingers absent-mindedly. 'Can't you stop it by magic?'
Cutwell shook his head. 'Not me. It'd squash me flat,' he said cheerfully.
'What'll happen to you when it arrives, then?'
'Oh, I'll go back to living in Wall Street. I mean, I never will have left. All this won't have happened. Pity, though. The cooking here is pretty good, and they do my laundry for free. How far away did you say it was, by the way?'
'About twenty miles, I guess.'.
Cutwell rolled his eyes heavenwards and moved his lips. Eventually he said: 'That means it'll arrive around midnight tomorrow, just in time for the coronation.'
'Whose?'
'Hers.'
'But she's queen already, isn't she?'
'In a way, but officially she's not queen until she's crowned.' Cutwell grinned, his face a pattern of shade in the candlelight, and added, 'If you want a way of thinking about it, then it's like the difference between stopping living and being dead.'
Twenty minutes earlier Mort had been feeling tired enough to take root. Now he could feel a fizzing in his blood. It was the kind of late-night, frantic energy that you knew you would pay for around midday tomorrow, but for now he felt he had to have some action or else his muscles would snap out of sheer vitality.
'I want to see her,' he said. 'If you can't do anything, there might be something I can do.'
There's guards outside her room,' said Cutwell. 'I mention this merely as an observation. I don't imagine for one minute that they'll make the slightest difference.'
It was midnight in Ankh-Morpork, but in the great twin city the only difference between night and day was, well, it was darker. The markets were thronged, the spectators were still thickly clustered around the whore pits, runners-up in the city's eternal and byzantine gang warfare drifted silently down through the chilly waters of the river with lead weights tied to their feet, dealers in various illegal and even illogical delights plied their sidelong trade, burglars burgled, knives flashed starlight in alleyways, astrologers started their day's work and in the Shades a nightwatch-man who had lost his way rang his bell and cried out: 'Twelve o'clock and all's arrrrrgghhhh, . . .'
However, the Ankh-Morpork Chamber of Commerce would not be happy at the suggestion that the only real difference between their city and a swamp is the number of legs on the alligators, and indeed in the more select areas of Ankh, which tend to be in the hilly districts where there is a chance of a bit of wind, the nights are gentle and scented with habiscine and Cecillia blossoms.
On this particular night they were scented with saltpetre, too, because it was the tenth anniversary of the accession of the Patrician[7] and he had invited a few friends round for a drink, five hundred of them in this case, and was letting off fireworks. Laughter and the occasional gurgle of passion filled the palace gardens, and the evening had just got to that interesting stage where everyone had drunk too much for their own good but not enough actually to fall over. It is the kind of state in which one does things that one will recall with crimson shame in later life, such as blowing through a paper squeaker and laughing so much that one is sick.
In fact some two hundred of the Patrician's guests were now staggering and kicking their way through the Serpent Dance, a quaint Morporkian folkway which consisted of getting rather drunk, holding the waist of the person in front, and then wobbling and giggling uproariously in a long crocodile that wound through as many rooms as possible, preferably ones with breakables in, while kicking one leg vaguely in time with the beat, or at least in time with some other beat. This dance had gone on for half an hour and had wound through every room in the palace, picking up two trolls, the cook, the Patrician's head torturer, three waiters, a burglar who happened to be passing and a small pet swamp dragon.
Somewhere around the middle of the dance was fat Lord Rodley of Quirm, heir to the fabulous Quirm estates, whose current preoccupation was with the thin fingers gripping his waist. Under its bath of alcohol his brain kept trying to attract his attention.
'I say,' he called over his shoulder, as they oscillated for the tenth hilarious time through the enormous kitchen, 'not so tight, please.'
I AM MOST TERRIBLY SORRY.
'No offence, old chap. Do I know you?' said Lord Rodley, kicking vigorously on the back beat.
I THINK IT UNLIKELY. TELL ME, PLEASE, WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS ACTIVITY?
'What?' shouted Lord Rodley, above the sound of someone kicking in the door of a glass cabinet amid shrieks of merriment.
WHAT IS THIS THING THAT WE DO? said the voice, with glacial patience.
'Haven't you been to a party before? Mind the glass, by the way.'
I AM AFRAID I DO NOT GET OUT AS MUCH AS I WOULD LIKE TO. PLEASE EXPLAIN THIS. DOES IT HAVE TO DO WITH SEX?
'Not unless we pull up sharp, old boy, if you know what I mean?' said his lordship, and nudged his unseen fellow guest with his elbow.
'Ouch,' he said. A crash up ahead marked the demise of the cold buffet.
NO.
'What?'
I DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN.
'Mind the cream there, it's slippery — look, it's just a dance, all right? You do it for fun.'
FUN.
'That's right. Dada, dada, da — kick!' There was an audible pause.
WHO IS THIS FUN?
'No, fun isn't anybody, fun is what you have.'
WE ARE HAVING FUN?
'I thought I was,' said his lordship uncertainly. The voice by his ear was vaguely worrying him; it appeared to be arriving directly into his brain.
WHAT IS THIS FUN?
'This is!'
TO KICK VIGOROUSLY IS FUN?
'Well, part of the fun. Kick!'
TO HEAR LOUD MUSIC IN HOT ROOMS IS FUN?
'Possibly.'
HOW IS THIS FUN MANIFEST?
'Well, it — look, either you're having fun or you're not, you don't have to ask me, you just know, all right? How did you get in here, anyway?' he added. 'Are you a friend of the Patrician?'
LET US SAY, HE PUTS BUSINESS MY WAY. I FELT I OUGHT TO LEARN SOMETHING OF HUMAN PLEASURES.
'Sounds like you've got a long way to go.'
I KNOW. PLEASE EXCUSE MY LAMENTABLE IGNORANCE. I WISH ONLY TO LEARN. ALL THESE PEOPLE, PLEASE — THEY ARE HAVING FUN?
'Yes!'
THEN THIS IS FUN.
'I'm glad we've got that sorted out. Mind the chair,' snapped Lord Rodley, who was now feeling very unfunny and unpleasantly sober.
A voice behind him said quietly: THIS IS FUN. TO DRINK EXCESSIVELY IS FUN. WE ARE HAVING FUN. HE IS HAVING FUN. THIS IS SOME FUN. WHAT FUN.
Behind Death the Patrician's small pet swamp dragon held on grimly to the bony hips and thought: guards or no guards, next time we pass an open window I'm going to run like buggery.
Keli sat bolt upright in bed.
'Don't move another step,' she said. 'Guards!'
'We couldn't stop him,' said the first guard, poking his head shame-facedly around the doorpost.
'He just pushed in . . .' said the other guard, from the other side of the doorway.
'And the wizard said it was all right, and we were told everyone must listen to him because…
'All right, all right. People could get murdered around here,' said Keli testily, and put the crossbow back on the bedside table without, unfortunately, operating the safety catch.
There was a click, the thwack of sinew against metal, a zip of air, and a groan. The groan came from Cutwell. Mort spun round to him.
'Are you all right?' he said. 'Did it hit you?'
'No,' said the wizard, weakly. 'No, it didn't. How do you feel?'
'A bit tired. Why?'
'Oh, nothing. Nothing. No draughts anywhere? No slight leaking feelings?'
'No. Why?'
'Oh, nothing, nothing.' Cutwell turned and looked closely at the wall behind Mort.
'Aren't the dead allowed any peace?' said Keli bitterly. 'I thought one thing you could be sure of when you were dead was a good night's sleep.' She looked as though she had been crying. With an insight that surprised him, Mort realized that she knew this, and that it was making her even angrier than before.
That's not really fair,' he said. 'I've come to help. Isn't that right, Cutwell?'
'Hmm?' said Cutwell, who had found the crossbow bolt buried in the plaster and was looking at it with deep suspicion. 'Oh, yes. He has. It won't work, though. Excuse me, has anyone got any string?'
'Help?' snapped Keli. 'Help? If it wasn't for you —'
'You'd still be dead,' said Mort. She looked at him with her mouth open.
'I wouldn't know about it, though,' she said. That's the worst part.'
'I think you two had better go,' said Cutwell to the guards, who were trying to appear inconspicuous. 'But I'll have that spear, please. Thank you.'
'Look,' said Mort, 'I've got a horse outside. You'd be amazed. I can take you anywhere. You don't have to wait around here.'
'You don't know much about monarchy, do you,' said Keli.
'Um. No?'
' She means better to be a dead queen in your own castle than a live commoner somewhere else,' said Cutwell, who had stuck the spear into the wall by the bolt and was trying to sight along it. 'Wouldn't work, anyway. The dome isn't centred on the palace, it's centred on her.'
'On who?' said Keli. Her voice could have kept milk fresh for a month.
'On her Highness,' said Cutwell automatically, squinting along the shaft.
'Don't you forget it.'
'I won't forget it, but that's not the point,' said he wizard. He pulled the bolt out of the plaster and tested the point with his finger.
'But if you stay here you'll die!' said Mort.
Then I shall have to show the Disc how a queen can die,' said Keli, looking as proud as was possible in a pink knitted bed jacket.
Mort sat down on the end of the bed with his head in his hands.
'I know how a queen can die,' he muttered. They die just like other people. And some of us would rather not see it happen.'
'Excuse me, I just want to look at this crossbow,' said Cutwell conversationally, reaching across them. 'Don't mind me.'
'I shall go proudly to meet my destiny,' said Keli, but there was the barest flicker of uncertainty in her voice.
'No you won't. I mean, I know what I'm talking about. Take it from me. There's nothing proud about it. You just die.'
'Yes, but it's how you do it. I shall die nobly, like Queen Ezeriel.'
Mort's forehead wrinkled. History was a closed book to him.
'Who's she?'
'She lived in Klatch and she had a lot of lovers and she sat on a snake,' said Cutwell, who was winding up the crossbow.
'She meant to! She was crossed in love!'
'All I can remember was that she used to take baths in asses' milk. Funny thing, history,' said Cutwell reflectively. 'You become a queen, reign for thirty years, make laws, declare war on people and then the only thing you get remembered for is that you smelled like yoghurt and were bitten in the—'
'She's a distant ancestor of mine,' snapped Keli. 'I won't listen to this sort of thing.'
'Will you both be quiet and listen to me!' shouted Mort.
Silence descended like a shroud.
Then Cutwell sighted carefully and shot Mort in the back.
The night shed its early casualties and journeyed onwards. Even the wildest parties had ended, their guests lurching home to their beds, or someone's bed at any rate. Shorn of these fellow travellers, mere daytime people who had strayed out of their temporal turf, the true survivors of the night got down to the serious commerce of the dark.
This wasn't so very different from Ankh-Morpork's daytime business, except that the knives were more obvious and people didn't smile so much.
The Shades were silent, save only for the whistled signals of thieves and the velvety hush of dozens of people going about their private business in careful silence.
And, in Ham Alley, Cripple Wa's famous floating crap game was just getting under way. Several dozen cowled figures knelt or squatted around the little circle of packed earth where Wa's three eight-sided dice bounced and spun their misleading lesson in statistical probability.
'Three!'
'Tuphal's Eyes, by lo!'
'He's got you there, Hummok! This guy knows how to roll his bones!'
IT'S A KNACK.
Hummok M'guk, a small flat-faced man from one of the Hublandish tribes whose skill at dice was famed wherever two men gathered together to fleece a third, picked up the dice and glared at them. He silently cursed Wa, whose own skill at switching dice was equally notorious among the cognoscenti but had, apparently, failed him, wished a painful and untimely death on the shadowy player seated opposite and hurled the dice into the mud.
'Twenty-one the hard way!'
Wa scooped up the dice and handed them to the stranger. As he turned to Hummok one eye flickered ever so slightly. Hummok was impressed — he'd barely noticed the blur in Wa's deceptively gnarled fingers, and he'd been watching for it.
It was disconcerting the way the things rattled in the stranger's hand and then flew out of it in a slow arc that ended with twenty-four little spots pointing at the stars.
Some of the more streetwise in the crowd shuffled away from the stranger, because luck like that can be very unlucky in Cripple Wa's floating crap game.
Wa's hand closed over the dice with a noise like the click of a trigger.
'All the eights,' he breathed. 'Such luck is uncanny, mister.'
The rest of the crowd evaporated like dew, leaving only those heavy-set, unsympathetic-looking men who, if Wa had ever paid tax, would have gone down on his return as Essential Plant and Business Equipment.
'Maybe it's not luck,' he added. 'Maybe it's wizarding?'
I MOST STRONGLY RESENT THAT.
'We had a wizard once who tried to get rich,' said Wa. 'Can't seem to remember what happened to him. Boys?'
'We give him a good talking-to —'
'— and left him in Pork Passage —'
'— and in Honey Lane —'
'— and a couple other places I can't remember.'
The stranger stood up. The boys closed in around him.
THIS IS UNCALLED FOR. I SEEK ONLY TO LEARN. WHAT PLEASURE CAN HUMANS FIND IN A MERE REITERATION OF THE LAWS OF CHANCE?
'Chance doesn't come into it. Let's have a look at him, boys.'
The events that followed were recalled by no living soul except the one belonging to a feral cat, one of the city's thousands, that was crossing the alley en route to a tryst. It stopped and watched with interest.
The boys froze in mid-stab. Painful purple light flickered around them. The stranger pushed his hood back and picked up the dice, and then pushed them into Wa's unresisting hand. The man was opening and shutting his mouth, his eyes unsuccessfully trying not to see what was in front of them. Grinning.
THROW.
Wa managed to look down at his hand.
'What are the stakes?' he whispered.
IF YOU WIN, YOU WILL REFRAIN FROM THESE RIDICULOUS ATTEMPTS TO SUGGEST THAT CHANCE GOVERNS THE AFFAIRS OF MEN.
'Yes. Yes. And . . . if I lose?'
YOU WILL WISH YOU HAD WON.
Wa tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry. 'I know I've had lots of people murdered —'
TWENTY-THREE, TO BE PRECISE.
'Is it too late to say I'm sorry?'
SUCH THINGS DO NOT CONCERN ME. NOW THROW THE DICE.
Wa shut his eyes and dropped the dice on to the ground, too nervous even to try the special flick-and-twist throw. He kept his eyes shut.
ALL THE EIGHTS. THERE, THAT WASN'T TOO DIFFICULT, WAS IT?
Wa fainted.
Death shrugged, and walked away, pausing only to tickle the ears of an alley cat that happened to be passing. He hummed to himself. He didn't quite know what had come over him, but he was enjoying it.
'You couldn't be sure it would work!'
Cutwell spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
'Well, no,' he conceded, 'but I thought, what have I got to lose?' He backed away.
'What have you got to lose?' shouted Mort.
He stamped forward and tugged the bolt out of one of the posts in the princess's bed.
'You're not going to tell me this went through me?' he snapped.
'I was particularly watching it,' said Cutwell.
'I saw it too,' said Keli. 'It was horrible. It came right out of where your heart is.'
'And I saw you walk through a stone pillar,' said Cutwell.
'And I saw you ride straight through a window.'
'Yes, but that was on business,' declared Mort, waving his hands in the air. 'That wasn't everyday, that's different. And —'
He paused. The way you're looking at me,' he said. They looked at me the same way in the inn this evening. What's wrong?'
'It was the way you waved your arm straight through the bedpost,' said Keli faintly.
Mort stared at his hand, and then rapped it on the wood.
'See?' he said. 'Solid. Solid arm, solid wood.'
'You said people looked at you in an inn?' said Cutwell. 'What did you do, then? Walk through the wall?'
'No! I mean, no, I just drank this drink, I think it was called scrumble —'
'Scumble?'
'Yes. Tastes like rotten apples. You'd have thought it was some sort of poison the way they kept staring.'
'How much did you drink, then?' said Cutwell.
'A pint, perhaps, I wasn't really paying much attention —'
'Did you know scumble is the strongest alcoholic drink between here and the Ramtops?' the wizard demanded.
'No. No one said,' said Mort. 'What's it got to do with—'
'No,' said Cutwell, slowly, 'you didn't know. Hmm. That's a clue, isn't it?'
'Has it got anything to do with saving the princess?'
'Probably not. I'd like to have a look at my books, though.'
'In that case it's not important,' said Mort firmly.
He turned to Keli, who was looking at him with the faint beginnings of admiration.
'I think I can help,' he said. 'I think I can lay my hands on some powerful magic. Magic will hold back the dome, won't it, Cutwell?'
'My magic won't. It'd have to be pretty strong stuff, and I'm not sure about it even then. Reality is tougher than —'
'I shall go,' said Mort. 'Until tomorrow, farewell!'
'It is tomorrow,' Keli pointed out.
Mort deflated slightly.
'All right, tonight then,' he said, slightly put out, and added, 'I will begone!'
'Begone what?'
'It's hero talk,' said Cutwell, kindly. 'He can't help it.' Mort scowled at him, smiled bravely at Keli and walked out of the room.
'He might have opened the door,' said Keli, after he had gone.
'I think he was a bit embarrassed,' said Cutwell. 'We all go through that stage.'
'What, of walking through things?'
'In a manner of speaking. Walking into them, anyway.'
'I'm going to get some sleep,' Keli said. 'Even the dead need some rest. Cutwell, stop fiddling with that crossbow, please. I'm sure it's not wizardly to be alone in a lady's boudoir.'
'Hmm? But I'm not alone, am I? You're here.'
'That,' she said, 'is the point, isn't it?'
'Oh. Yes. Sorry. Um. I'll see you in the morning, then.'
'Goodnight, Cutwell. Shut the door behind you.'
The sun crept over the horizon, decided to make a run for it, and began to rise.
But it would be some time before its slow light rolled across the sleeping Disc, herding the night ahead of it, and nocturnal shadows still ruled the city.
They clustered now around The Mended Drum in Filigree Street, foremost of the city's taverns. It was famed not for its beer, which looked like maiden's water and tasted like battery acid, but for its clientele. It was said that if you sat long enough in the Drum, then sooner or later every major hero on the Disc would steal your horse.
The atmosphere inside was still loud with talk and heavy with smoke although the landlord was doing all those things landlords do when they think it's time to close, like turn some of the lights out, wind up the clock, put a cloth over the pumps and, just in case, check the whereabouts of their club with the nails hammered in it. Not that the customers were taking the slightest bit of notice, of course. To most of the Drum's clientele even the nailed club would have been considered a mere hint.
However, they were sufficiently observant to be vaguely worried by the tall dark figure standing by the bar and drinking his way through its entire contents.
Lonely, dedicated drinkers always generate a mental field which ensures complete privacy, but this particular one was radiating a kind of fatalistic gloom that was slowly emptying the bar.
This didn't worry the barman, because the lonely figure was engaged in a very expensive experiment.
Every drinking place throughout the multiverse has them — those shelves of weirdly-shaped, sticky bottles that not only contain exotically-named liquid, which is often blue or green, but also odds and ends that bottles of real drink would never stoop to contain, such as whole fruits, bits of twig and, in extreme cases, small drowned lizards. No-one knows why barmen stock so many, since they all taste like treacle dissolved in turpentine. It has been speculated that they dream of a day when someone will walk in off the street unbidden and ask for a glass of Peach Corniche with A Hint Of Mint and overnight the place will become somewhere To Be Seen At.
The stranger was working his way along the row.
WHAT IS THAT GREEN ONE?
The landlord peered at the label.
'It says it's Melon Brandy,' he said doubtfully. 'It says it's bottled by some monks to an ancient recipe, 'he added.
I WILL TRY IT.
The man looked sideways at the empty glasses on the counter, some of them still containing bits of fruit salad, cherries on a stick and small paper umbrellas.
'Are you sure you haven't had enough?' he said. It worried him vaguely that he couldn't seem to make out the stranger's face.
The glass, with its drink crystallising out on the sides, disappeared into the hood and came out again empty.
NO. WHAT IS THE YELLOW ONE WITH THE WASPS IN IT?
'Spring Cordial, it says. Yes?'
YES. AND THEN THE BLUE ONE WITH THE GOLD FLECKS.
'Er. Old Overcoat?'
YES. AND THEN THE SECOND ROW.
'Which one did you have in mind?'
ALL OF THEM.
The stranger remained bolt upright, the glasses with their burdens of syrup and assorted vegetation disappearing into the hood on a production line basis.
This is it, the landlord thought, this is style, this is where I buy a red jacket and maybe put some monkey nuts and a few gherkins on the counter, get a few mirrors around the place, replace the sawdust. He picked up a beer-soaked cloth and gave the woodwork a few enthusiastic wipes, spreading the drips from the cordial glasses into a rainbow smear that took the varnish off. The last of the usual customers put on his hat and staggered out, muttering to himself.
I DON'T SEE THE POINT, the stranger said.
'Sorry?'
WHAT IS SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN?
'How many drinks have you had?'
FORTY-SEVEN.
'Just about anything, then,' said the barman and, because he knew his job and knew what was expected of him when people drank alone in the small hours, he started to polish a glass with the slops cloth and said, 'Your lady thrown you out, has she?'
PARDON?
'Drowning your sorrows, are you?'
I HAVE NO SORROWS.
'No, of course not. Forget I mentioned it.' He gave the glass a few more wipes. 'Just thought it helps to have someone to talk to,' he said.
The stranger was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he said: YOU WANT TO TALK TO ME?
'Yes. Sure. I'm a good listener.'
NO-ONE EVER WANTED TO TALK TO ME BEFORE.
'That's a shame.'
THEY NEVER INVITE ME TO PARTIES, YOU KNOW.
'Tch.'
THEY ALL HATE ME. EVERYONE HATES ME. I DONT HAVE A SINGLE FRIEND.
'Everyone ought to have a friend,' said the barman sagely.
I THINK —
'Yes?'
I THINK . . . I THINK I COULD BE FRIENDS WITH THE GREEN BOTTLE.
The landlord slid the octagon-bottle along the counter. Death took it and tilted it over the glass. The liquid tinkled on the rim.
I'M DRUNK YOU THINK, DON'T YOU?
'I serve anyone who can stand upright best out of three,' said the landlord.
YOURRRE ABSOROOTLY RIGHT. BUT I —
The stranger paused, one declamatory finger in the air.
WAS WHAT I SAYING?
'You said I thought you were drunk.'
AH. YES, BUT I CAN BE SHOBER ANY TIME I LIKE. THIS ISH AN EXPERIMENT. AND NOW I WOULD LIKES TO EXPERIMENT WITH THE ORANGE BRANDY AGAIN.
The landlord sighed, and glanced at the clock. There was no doubt that he was making a lot of money, especially since the stranger didn't seem inclined to worry about overcharging or short change. But it was getting late; in fact it was getting so late that it was getting early. There was also something about the solitary customer that unsettled him. People in The Mended Drum often drank as though there was no tomorrow, but this was the first time he'd actually felt they might be right.
I MEAN, WHAT HAVE I GOT TO LOOK FORWARD TO? WHERE'S THE SENSE IN IT ALL? WHAT IS IT REALLY ALL ABOUT?
'Can't say, my friend. I expect you'll feel better after a good night's sleep.'
SLEEP? SLEEP? I NEVER SLEEP. I'M WOSSNAME, PROVERBIAL FOR IT.
'Everyone needs their sleep. Even me,' he hinted.
THEY ALL HATE ME, YOU KNOW.
'Yes, you said. But it's a quarter to three.'
The stranger turned unsteadily and looked around the silent room.
THERE'S NO ONE IN THE PLACE BUT YOU AND I, he said.
The landlord lifted up the flap and came around the bar, helping the stranger down from his stool.
I HAVEN'T GOT A SINGLE FRIEND. EVEN CATS FIND ME AMUSING.
A hand shot out and grabbed a bottle of Amanita Liquor before the man managed to propel its owner to the door, wondering how someone so thin could be so heavy.
I DON'T HAVE TO BE DRUNK, I SAID. WHY DO PEOPLE LIKE TO BE DRUNK? IS IT FUN?
'Helps them forget about life, old chap. Now just you lean there while I get the door open —'
FORGET ABOUT LIFE. HA. HA.
'You come back any time you like, y'hear?'
YOU'D REALLY LIKE TO SEE ME AGAIN?
The landlord looked back at the small heap of coins on the bar. That was worth a little weirdness. At least this one was a quiet one, and seemed to be harmless.
'Oh, yes,' he said, propelling the stranger into the street and retrieving the bottle in one smooth movement. 'Drop in anytime.'
THAT'S THE NICEHEST THING —
The door slammed on the rest of the sentence.
Ysabell sat up in bed.
The knocking came again, soft and urgent. She pulled the covers up to her chin.
'Who is it?' she whispered.
'It's me, Mort,' came the hiss under the door. 'Let me in, please!'
'Wait!'
Ysabell scrambled frantically on the bedside table for the matches, knocking over a bottle of toilet water and dislodging a box of chocolates that was now mostly discarded wrappers. Once she'd got the candle alight she adjusted its position for maximum effect, tweaked the line of her nightdress into something more revealing, and said: 'It's not locked.'
Mort staggered into the room, smelling of horses and frost and scumble.
'I hope,' said Ysabell archly, 'that you have not forced your way in here in order to take advantage of your position in this household.'
Mort looked around him. Ysabell was heavily into frills. Even the dressing table seemed to be wearing a petticoat. The whole room wasn't so much furnished as lingeried.
'Did I?' Mort looked around. The pillar looked sound enough. He poked an arm towards it, and slightly bruised his elbow.
'I could have sworn you did,' said Cutwell. 'Wizards notice these things, you know.' He reached into the pocket of his robe.
'Then have you noticed the mist dome around the country?' said Mort.
Cutwell squeaked. The jar in his hand dropped and smashed on the tiles; there was the smell of slightly rancid salad dressing.
'Already?'
'I don't know about already,' said Mort, 'but there's this sort of crackling wall sliding over the land and no one else seems to worry about it and—'
'How fast was it moving?'
'— it changes things!'
'You saw it? How far away is it? How fast is it moving?'
'Of course I saw it. I rode through it twice. It was like —'
'But you're not a wizard, so why —'
'What are you doing here, anyway —'
Cutwell took a deep breath. 'Everyone shut up!' he screamed.
There was silence. Then the wizard grabbed Mort's arm. 'Come on,' he said, pulling him back along the corridor. 'I don't know who you are exactly and I hope I've got time to find out one day but something really horrible is going to happen soon and I think you're involved, somehow.'
'Something horrible? When?'
'That depends on how far away the interface is and how fast it's moving,' said Cutwell, dragging Mort down a side passage. When they were outside a small oak door he let go of his arm and fumbled in his pocket again, removing a small hard piece of cheese and an unpleasantly squashy tomato.
'Hold these, will you? Thank you.' He delved again, produced a key and unlocked the door.
'It's going to kill the princess, isn't it?' said Mort.
'Yes,' said Cutwell, 'and then again, no.' He paused with his hand on the doorhandle. 'That was pretty perspicacious of you. How did you know?'
'I —' Mort hesitated.
'She told me a very strange story,' said Cutwell.
'I expect she did,' said Mort. 'If it was unbelievable, it was true.'
'You're him, are you? Death's assistant?'
'Yes. Off duty at the moment, though.'
'Pleased to hear it.'
Cutwell shut the door behind them and fumbled for a candlestick. There was a pop, a flash of blue light and a whimper.
'Sorry,' he said, sucking his fingers. 'Fire spell. Never really got the hang of it.'
'You were expecting the dome thing, weren't you?' said Mort urgently. 'What will happen when it closes in?'
The wizard sat down heavily on the remains of a bacon sandwich.
'I'm not exactly sure,' he said. 'It'll be interesting to watch. But not from inside, I'm afraid. What I think will happen is that the last week will never have existed.'
'She'll suddenly die?'
'You don't quite understand. She will have been dead for a week. All this —' he waved his hands vaguely in the air — 'will not have happened. The assassin will have done his job. You will have done yours. History will have healed itself. Everything will be all right. From History's point of view, that is. There really isn't any other.'
Mort stared out of the narrow window. He could see across the courtyard into the glowing streets outside, where a picture of the princess smiled at the sky.
'Tell me about the pictures,' he said. That looks like some sort of wizard thing.'
'I'm not sure if it's working. You see, people were beginning to get upset and they didn't know why, and that made it worse. Their minds were in one reality and their bodies were in another. Very unpleasant. They couldn't get used to the idea that she was still alive. I thought the pictures might be a good idea but, you know, people just don't see what their mind tells them isn't there.'
'I could have told you that,' said Mort bitterly.
'I had the town criers out during the daytime,' Cutwell continued. 'I thought that if people could come to believe in her, then this new reality could become the real one.'
'Mmmph?' said Mort. He turned away from the window. 'What do you mean?'
'Well, you see — I reckoned that if enough people believed in her, they could change reality. It works for gods. If people stop believing in a god, he dies. If a lot of them believe in him, he grows stronger.'
'I didn't know that. I thought gods were just gods.'
'They don't like it talked about,' said Cutwell, shuffling through the heap of books and parchments on his worktable.
'Well, that might work for gods, because they're special,' said Mort. 'People are — more solid. It wouldn't work for people.'
'That's not true. Let's suppose you went out of here and prowled around the palace. One of the guards would probably see you and he'd think you were a thief and he'd fire his crossbow. I mean, in his reality you'd be a thief. It wouldn't actually be true but you'd be just as dead as if it was. Belief is powerful stuff. I'm a wizard. We know about these things. Look here.'
He pulled a book out of the debris in front of him and opened it at the piece of bacon he'd used as a bookmark. Mort looked over his shoulder, and frowned at the curly magical writing. It moved around on the page, twisting and writhing in an attempt not to be read by a non-wizard, and the general effect was unpleasant.
'What's this?' he said.
'It's the Book of the Magick of Alberto Malich the Mage,' said the wizard, 'a sort of book of magical theory. It's not a good idea to look too hard at the words, they resent it. Look, it says here —'
His lips moved soundlessly. Little beads of sweat sprang up on his forehead and decided to get together and go down and see what his nose was doing. His eyes watered.
Some people like to settle down with a good book. No one in possession of a complete set of marbles would like to settle down with a book of magic, because even the individual words have a private and vindictive life of their own and reading them, in short, is a kind of mental Indian wrestling. Many a young wizard has tried to read a grimoire that is too strong for him, and people who've heard the screams have found only his pointy shoes with the classic wisp of smoke coming out of them and a book which is, perhaps, just a little fatter. Things can happen to browsers in magical libraries that make having your face pulled off by tentacled monstrosities from the Dungeon Dimensions seem a mere light massage by comparison.
Fortunately Cutwell had an expurgated edition, with some of the more distressing pages clamped shut (although on quiet nights he could hear the imprisoned words scritching irritably inside their prison, like a spider trapped in a matchbox; anyone who has ever sat next to someone wearing a Walkman will be able to imagine exactly what they sounded like).
'This is the bit,' said Cutwell. 'It says here that even gods —'
'I've seen him before!'
'What?'
Mort pointed a shaking finger at the book.
'Him!'
Cutwell gave him an odd look and examined the left-hand page. There was a picture of an elderly wizard holding a book and a candlestick in an attitude of near-terminal dignity.
'That's not part of the magic,' he said testily, 'that's just the author.'
'What does it say under the picture?'
'Er, It says "Yff youe have enjoyed thiss Boke, youe maye be interestede yn othere Titles by —'
'No, right under the picture is what I meant!'
'That's easy. It's old Malich himself. Every wizard knows him. I mean, he founded the University.' Cutwell chuckled. There's a famous statue of him in the main hall, and during Rag Week once I climbed up it and put a —'
Mort stared at the picture.
'Tell me,' he said quietly, 'did the statue have a drip on the end of its nose?'
'I shouldn't think so,' said Cutwell. 'It was marble. But I don't know what you're getting so worked up about. Lots of people know what he looked like. He's famous.'
'He lived a long time ago, did he?'
'Two thousand years, I think. Look, I don't know why —'
'I bet he didn't die, though,' said Mort. 'I bet he just disappeared one day. Did he?'
Cutwell was silent for a moment.
'Funny you should say that,' he said slowly. There was a legend I heard. He got up to some weird things, they say. They say he blew himself into the Dungeon Dimensions while trying to perform the Rite of AshkEnte backwards. All they found was his hat. Tragic, really. The whole city in mourning for a day just for a hat. It wasn't even a particularly attractive hat; it had burn marks on it.'
'Alberto Malich,' said Mort, half to himself. 'Well. Fancy that.'
He drummed his fingers on the table, although the sound was surprisingly muted.
'Sorry,' said Cutwell. 'I can't get the hang of treacle sandwiches, either.'
'I reckon the interface is moving at a slow walking pace,' said Mort, licking his fingers absent-mindedly. 'Can't you stop it by magic?'
Cutwell shook his head. 'Not me. It'd squash me flat,' he said cheerfully.
'What'll happen to you when it arrives, then?'
'Oh, I'll go back to living in Wall Street. I mean, I never will have left. All this won't have happened. Pity, though. The cooking here is pretty good, and they do my laundry for free. How far away did you say it was, by the way?'
'About twenty miles, I guess.'.
Cutwell rolled his eyes heavenwards and moved his lips. Eventually he said: 'That means it'll arrive around midnight tomorrow, just in time for the coronation.'
'Whose?'
'Hers.'
'But she's queen already, isn't she?'
'In a way, but officially she's not queen until she's crowned.' Cutwell grinned, his face a pattern of shade in the candlelight, and added, 'If you want a way of thinking about it, then it's like the difference between stopping living and being dead.'
Twenty minutes earlier Mort had been feeling tired enough to take root. Now he could feel a fizzing in his blood. It was the kind of late-night, frantic energy that you knew you would pay for around midday tomorrow, but for now he felt he had to have some action or else his muscles would snap out of sheer vitality.
'I want to see her,' he said. 'If you can't do anything, there might be something I can do.'
There's guards outside her room,' said Cutwell. 'I mention this merely as an observation. I don't imagine for one minute that they'll make the slightest difference.'
It was midnight in Ankh-Morpork, but in the great twin city the only difference between night and day was, well, it was darker. The markets were thronged, the spectators were still thickly clustered around the whore pits, runners-up in the city's eternal and byzantine gang warfare drifted silently down through the chilly waters of the river with lead weights tied to their feet, dealers in various illegal and even illogical delights plied their sidelong trade, burglars burgled, knives flashed starlight in alleyways, astrologers started their day's work and in the Shades a nightwatch-man who had lost his way rang his bell and cried out: 'Twelve o'clock and all's arrrrrgghhhh, . . .'
However, the Ankh-Morpork Chamber of Commerce would not be happy at the suggestion that the only real difference between their city and a swamp is the number of legs on the alligators, and indeed in the more select areas of Ankh, which tend to be in the hilly districts where there is a chance of a bit of wind, the nights are gentle and scented with habiscine and Cecillia blossoms.
On this particular night they were scented with saltpetre, too, because it was the tenth anniversary of the accession of the Patrician[7] and he had invited a few friends round for a drink, five hundred of them in this case, and was letting off fireworks. Laughter and the occasional gurgle of passion filled the palace gardens, and the evening had just got to that interesting stage where everyone had drunk too much for their own good but not enough actually to fall over. It is the kind of state in which one does things that one will recall with crimson shame in later life, such as blowing through a paper squeaker and laughing so much that one is sick.
In fact some two hundred of the Patrician's guests were now staggering and kicking their way through the Serpent Dance, a quaint Morporkian folkway which consisted of getting rather drunk, holding the waist of the person in front, and then wobbling and giggling uproariously in a long crocodile that wound through as many rooms as possible, preferably ones with breakables in, while kicking one leg vaguely in time with the beat, or at least in time with some other beat. This dance had gone on for half an hour and had wound through every room in the palace, picking up two trolls, the cook, the Patrician's head torturer, three waiters, a burglar who happened to be passing and a small pet swamp dragon.
Somewhere around the middle of the dance was fat Lord Rodley of Quirm, heir to the fabulous Quirm estates, whose current preoccupation was with the thin fingers gripping his waist. Under its bath of alcohol his brain kept trying to attract his attention.
'I say,' he called over his shoulder, as they oscillated for the tenth hilarious time through the enormous kitchen, 'not so tight, please.'
I AM MOST TERRIBLY SORRY.
'No offence, old chap. Do I know you?' said Lord Rodley, kicking vigorously on the back beat.
I THINK IT UNLIKELY. TELL ME, PLEASE, WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS ACTIVITY?
'What?' shouted Lord Rodley, above the sound of someone kicking in the door of a glass cabinet amid shrieks of merriment.
WHAT IS THIS THING THAT WE DO? said the voice, with glacial patience.
'Haven't you been to a party before? Mind the glass, by the way.'
I AM AFRAID I DO NOT GET OUT AS MUCH AS I WOULD LIKE TO. PLEASE EXPLAIN THIS. DOES IT HAVE TO DO WITH SEX?
'Not unless we pull up sharp, old boy, if you know what I mean?' said his lordship, and nudged his unseen fellow guest with his elbow.
'Ouch,' he said. A crash up ahead marked the demise of the cold buffet.
NO.
'What?'
I DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN.
'Mind the cream there, it's slippery — look, it's just a dance, all right? You do it for fun.'
FUN.
'That's right. Dada, dada, da — kick!' There was an audible pause.
WHO IS THIS FUN?
'No, fun isn't anybody, fun is what you have.'
WE ARE HAVING FUN?
'I thought I was,' said his lordship uncertainly. The voice by his ear was vaguely worrying him; it appeared to be arriving directly into his brain.
WHAT IS THIS FUN?
'This is!'
TO KICK VIGOROUSLY IS FUN?
'Well, part of the fun. Kick!'
TO HEAR LOUD MUSIC IN HOT ROOMS IS FUN?
'Possibly.'
HOW IS THIS FUN MANIFEST?
'Well, it — look, either you're having fun or you're not, you don't have to ask me, you just know, all right? How did you get in here, anyway?' he added. 'Are you a friend of the Patrician?'
LET US SAY, HE PUTS BUSINESS MY WAY. I FELT I OUGHT TO LEARN SOMETHING OF HUMAN PLEASURES.
'Sounds like you've got a long way to go.'
I KNOW. PLEASE EXCUSE MY LAMENTABLE IGNORANCE. I WISH ONLY TO LEARN. ALL THESE PEOPLE, PLEASE — THEY ARE HAVING FUN?
'Yes!'
THEN THIS IS FUN.
'I'm glad we've got that sorted out. Mind the chair,' snapped Lord Rodley, who was now feeling very unfunny and unpleasantly sober.
A voice behind him said quietly: THIS IS FUN. TO DRINK EXCESSIVELY IS FUN. WE ARE HAVING FUN. HE IS HAVING FUN. THIS IS SOME FUN. WHAT FUN.
Behind Death the Patrician's small pet swamp dragon held on grimly to the bony hips and thought: guards or no guards, next time we pass an open window I'm going to run like buggery.
Keli sat bolt upright in bed.
'Don't move another step,' she said. 'Guards!'
'We couldn't stop him,' said the first guard, poking his head shame-facedly around the doorpost.
'He just pushed in . . .' said the other guard, from the other side of the doorway.
'And the wizard said it was all right, and we were told everyone must listen to him because…
'All right, all right. People could get murdered around here,' said Keli testily, and put the crossbow back on the bedside table without, unfortunately, operating the safety catch.
There was a click, the thwack of sinew against metal, a zip of air, and a groan. The groan came from Cutwell. Mort spun round to him.
'Are you all right?' he said. 'Did it hit you?'
'No,' said the wizard, weakly. 'No, it didn't. How do you feel?'
'A bit tired. Why?'
'Oh, nothing. Nothing. No draughts anywhere? No slight leaking feelings?'
'No. Why?'
'Oh, nothing, nothing.' Cutwell turned and looked closely at the wall behind Mort.
'Aren't the dead allowed any peace?' said Keli bitterly. 'I thought one thing you could be sure of when you were dead was a good night's sleep.' She looked as though she had been crying. With an insight that surprised him, Mort realized that she knew this, and that it was making her even angrier than before.
That's not really fair,' he said. 'I've come to help. Isn't that right, Cutwell?'
'Hmm?' said Cutwell, who had found the crossbow bolt buried in the plaster and was looking at it with deep suspicion. 'Oh, yes. He has. It won't work, though. Excuse me, has anyone got any string?'
'Help?' snapped Keli. 'Help? If it wasn't for you —'
'You'd still be dead,' said Mort. She looked at him with her mouth open.
'I wouldn't know about it, though,' she said. That's the worst part.'
'I think you two had better go,' said Cutwell to the guards, who were trying to appear inconspicuous. 'But I'll have that spear, please. Thank you.'
'Look,' said Mort, 'I've got a horse outside. You'd be amazed. I can take you anywhere. You don't have to wait around here.'
'You don't know much about monarchy, do you,' said Keli.
'Um. No?'
' She means better to be a dead queen in your own castle than a live commoner somewhere else,' said Cutwell, who had stuck the spear into the wall by the bolt and was trying to sight along it. 'Wouldn't work, anyway. The dome isn't centred on the palace, it's centred on her.'
'On who?' said Keli. Her voice could have kept milk fresh for a month.
'On her Highness,' said Cutwell automatically, squinting along the shaft.
'Don't you forget it.'
'I won't forget it, but that's not the point,' said he wizard. He pulled the bolt out of the plaster and tested the point with his finger.
'But if you stay here you'll die!' said Mort.
Then I shall have to show the Disc how a queen can die,' said Keli, looking as proud as was possible in a pink knitted bed jacket.
Mort sat down on the end of the bed with his head in his hands.
'I know how a queen can die,' he muttered. They die just like other people. And some of us would rather not see it happen.'
'Excuse me, I just want to look at this crossbow,' said Cutwell conversationally, reaching across them. 'Don't mind me.'
'I shall go proudly to meet my destiny,' said Keli, but there was the barest flicker of uncertainty in her voice.
'No you won't. I mean, I know what I'm talking about. Take it from me. There's nothing proud about it. You just die.'
'Yes, but it's how you do it. I shall die nobly, like Queen Ezeriel.'
Mort's forehead wrinkled. History was a closed book to him.
'Who's she?'
'She lived in Klatch and she had a lot of lovers and she sat on a snake,' said Cutwell, who was winding up the crossbow.
'She meant to! She was crossed in love!'
'All I can remember was that she used to take baths in asses' milk. Funny thing, history,' said Cutwell reflectively. 'You become a queen, reign for thirty years, make laws, declare war on people and then the only thing you get remembered for is that you smelled like yoghurt and were bitten in the—'
'She's a distant ancestor of mine,' snapped Keli. 'I won't listen to this sort of thing.'
'Will you both be quiet and listen to me!' shouted Mort.
Silence descended like a shroud.
Then Cutwell sighted carefully and shot Mort in the back.
The night shed its early casualties and journeyed onwards. Even the wildest parties had ended, their guests lurching home to their beds, or someone's bed at any rate. Shorn of these fellow travellers, mere daytime people who had strayed out of their temporal turf, the true survivors of the night got down to the serious commerce of the dark.
This wasn't so very different from Ankh-Morpork's daytime business, except that the knives were more obvious and people didn't smile so much.
The Shades were silent, save only for the whistled signals of thieves and the velvety hush of dozens of people going about their private business in careful silence.
And, in Ham Alley, Cripple Wa's famous floating crap game was just getting under way. Several dozen cowled figures knelt or squatted around the little circle of packed earth where Wa's three eight-sided dice bounced and spun their misleading lesson in statistical probability.
'Three!'
'Tuphal's Eyes, by lo!'
'He's got you there, Hummok! This guy knows how to roll his bones!'
IT'S A KNACK.
Hummok M'guk, a small flat-faced man from one of the Hublandish tribes whose skill at dice was famed wherever two men gathered together to fleece a third, picked up the dice and glared at them. He silently cursed Wa, whose own skill at switching dice was equally notorious among the cognoscenti but had, apparently, failed him, wished a painful and untimely death on the shadowy player seated opposite and hurled the dice into the mud.
'Twenty-one the hard way!'
Wa scooped up the dice and handed them to the stranger. As he turned to Hummok one eye flickered ever so slightly. Hummok was impressed — he'd barely noticed the blur in Wa's deceptively gnarled fingers, and he'd been watching for it.
It was disconcerting the way the things rattled in the stranger's hand and then flew out of it in a slow arc that ended with twenty-four little spots pointing at the stars.
Some of the more streetwise in the crowd shuffled away from the stranger, because luck like that can be very unlucky in Cripple Wa's floating crap game.
Wa's hand closed over the dice with a noise like the click of a trigger.
'All the eights,' he breathed. 'Such luck is uncanny, mister.'
The rest of the crowd evaporated like dew, leaving only those heavy-set, unsympathetic-looking men who, if Wa had ever paid tax, would have gone down on his return as Essential Plant and Business Equipment.
'Maybe it's not luck,' he added. 'Maybe it's wizarding?'
I MOST STRONGLY RESENT THAT.
'We had a wizard once who tried to get rich,' said Wa. 'Can't seem to remember what happened to him. Boys?'
'We give him a good talking-to —'
'— and left him in Pork Passage —'
'— and in Honey Lane —'
'— and a couple other places I can't remember.'
The stranger stood up. The boys closed in around him.
THIS IS UNCALLED FOR. I SEEK ONLY TO LEARN. WHAT PLEASURE CAN HUMANS FIND IN A MERE REITERATION OF THE LAWS OF CHANCE?
'Chance doesn't come into it. Let's have a look at him, boys.'
The events that followed were recalled by no living soul except the one belonging to a feral cat, one of the city's thousands, that was crossing the alley en route to a tryst. It stopped and watched with interest.
The boys froze in mid-stab. Painful purple light flickered around them. The stranger pushed his hood back and picked up the dice, and then pushed them into Wa's unresisting hand. The man was opening and shutting his mouth, his eyes unsuccessfully trying not to see what was in front of them. Grinning.
THROW.
Wa managed to look down at his hand.
'What are the stakes?' he whispered.
IF YOU WIN, YOU WILL REFRAIN FROM THESE RIDICULOUS ATTEMPTS TO SUGGEST THAT CHANCE GOVERNS THE AFFAIRS OF MEN.
'Yes. Yes. And . . . if I lose?'
YOU WILL WISH YOU HAD WON.
Wa tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry. 'I know I've had lots of people murdered —'
TWENTY-THREE, TO BE PRECISE.
'Is it too late to say I'm sorry?'
SUCH THINGS DO NOT CONCERN ME. NOW THROW THE DICE.
Wa shut his eyes and dropped the dice on to the ground, too nervous even to try the special flick-and-twist throw. He kept his eyes shut.
ALL THE EIGHTS. THERE, THAT WASN'T TOO DIFFICULT, WAS IT?
Wa fainted.
Death shrugged, and walked away, pausing only to tickle the ears of an alley cat that happened to be passing. He hummed to himself. He didn't quite know what had come over him, but he was enjoying it.
'You couldn't be sure it would work!'
Cutwell spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
'Well, no,' he conceded, 'but I thought, what have I got to lose?' He backed away.
'What have you got to lose?' shouted Mort.
He stamped forward and tugged the bolt out of one of the posts in the princess's bed.
'You're not going to tell me this went through me?' he snapped.
'I was particularly watching it,' said Cutwell.
'I saw it too,' said Keli. 'It was horrible. It came right out of where your heart is.'
'And I saw you walk through a stone pillar,' said Cutwell.
'And I saw you ride straight through a window.'
'Yes, but that was on business,' declared Mort, waving his hands in the air. 'That wasn't everyday, that's different. And —'
He paused. The way you're looking at me,' he said. They looked at me the same way in the inn this evening. What's wrong?'
'It was the way you waved your arm straight through the bedpost,' said Keli faintly.
Mort stared at his hand, and then rapped it on the wood.
'See?' he said. 'Solid. Solid arm, solid wood.'
'You said people looked at you in an inn?' said Cutwell. 'What did you do, then? Walk through the wall?'
'No! I mean, no, I just drank this drink, I think it was called scrumble —'
'Scumble?'
'Yes. Tastes like rotten apples. You'd have thought it was some sort of poison the way they kept staring.'
'How much did you drink, then?' said Cutwell.
'A pint, perhaps, I wasn't really paying much attention —'
'Did you know scumble is the strongest alcoholic drink between here and the Ramtops?' the wizard demanded.
'No. No one said,' said Mort. 'What's it got to do with—'
'No,' said Cutwell, slowly, 'you didn't know. Hmm. That's a clue, isn't it?'
'Has it got anything to do with saving the princess?'
'Probably not. I'd like to have a look at my books, though.'
'In that case it's not important,' said Mort firmly.
He turned to Keli, who was looking at him with the faint beginnings of admiration.
'I think I can help,' he said. 'I think I can lay my hands on some powerful magic. Magic will hold back the dome, won't it, Cutwell?'
'My magic won't. It'd have to be pretty strong stuff, and I'm not sure about it even then. Reality is tougher than —'
'I shall go,' said Mort. 'Until tomorrow, farewell!'
'It is tomorrow,' Keli pointed out.
Mort deflated slightly.
'All right, tonight then,' he said, slightly put out, and added, 'I will begone!'
'Begone what?'
'It's hero talk,' said Cutwell, kindly. 'He can't help it.' Mort scowled at him, smiled bravely at Keli and walked out of the room.
'He might have opened the door,' said Keli, after he had gone.
'I think he was a bit embarrassed,' said Cutwell. 'We all go through that stage.'
'What, of walking through things?'
'In a manner of speaking. Walking into them, anyway.'
'I'm going to get some sleep,' Keli said. 'Even the dead need some rest. Cutwell, stop fiddling with that crossbow, please. I'm sure it's not wizardly to be alone in a lady's boudoir.'
'Hmm? But I'm not alone, am I? You're here.'
'That,' she said, 'is the point, isn't it?'
'Oh. Yes. Sorry. Um. I'll see you in the morning, then.'
'Goodnight, Cutwell. Shut the door behind you.'
The sun crept over the horizon, decided to make a run for it, and began to rise.
But it would be some time before its slow light rolled across the sleeping Disc, herding the night ahead of it, and nocturnal shadows still ruled the city.
They clustered now around The Mended Drum in Filigree Street, foremost of the city's taverns. It was famed not for its beer, which looked like maiden's water and tasted like battery acid, but for its clientele. It was said that if you sat long enough in the Drum, then sooner or later every major hero on the Disc would steal your horse.
The atmosphere inside was still loud with talk and heavy with smoke although the landlord was doing all those things landlords do when they think it's time to close, like turn some of the lights out, wind up the clock, put a cloth over the pumps and, just in case, check the whereabouts of their club with the nails hammered in it. Not that the customers were taking the slightest bit of notice, of course. To most of the Drum's clientele even the nailed club would have been considered a mere hint.
However, they were sufficiently observant to be vaguely worried by the tall dark figure standing by the bar and drinking his way through its entire contents.
Lonely, dedicated drinkers always generate a mental field which ensures complete privacy, but this particular one was radiating a kind of fatalistic gloom that was slowly emptying the bar.
This didn't worry the barman, because the lonely figure was engaged in a very expensive experiment.
Every drinking place throughout the multiverse has them — those shelves of weirdly-shaped, sticky bottles that not only contain exotically-named liquid, which is often blue or green, but also odds and ends that bottles of real drink would never stoop to contain, such as whole fruits, bits of twig and, in extreme cases, small drowned lizards. No-one knows why barmen stock so many, since they all taste like treacle dissolved in turpentine. It has been speculated that they dream of a day when someone will walk in off the street unbidden and ask for a glass of Peach Corniche with A Hint Of Mint and overnight the place will become somewhere To Be Seen At.
The stranger was working his way along the row.
WHAT IS THAT GREEN ONE?
The landlord peered at the label.
'It says it's Melon Brandy,' he said doubtfully. 'It says it's bottled by some monks to an ancient recipe, 'he added.
I WILL TRY IT.
The man looked sideways at the empty glasses on the counter, some of them still containing bits of fruit salad, cherries on a stick and small paper umbrellas.
'Are you sure you haven't had enough?' he said. It worried him vaguely that he couldn't seem to make out the stranger's face.
The glass, with its drink crystallising out on the sides, disappeared into the hood and came out again empty.
NO. WHAT IS THE YELLOW ONE WITH THE WASPS IN IT?
'Spring Cordial, it says. Yes?'
YES. AND THEN THE BLUE ONE WITH THE GOLD FLECKS.
'Er. Old Overcoat?'
YES. AND THEN THE SECOND ROW.
'Which one did you have in mind?'
ALL OF THEM.
The stranger remained bolt upright, the glasses with their burdens of syrup and assorted vegetation disappearing into the hood on a production line basis.
This is it, the landlord thought, this is style, this is where I buy a red jacket and maybe put some monkey nuts and a few gherkins on the counter, get a few mirrors around the place, replace the sawdust. He picked up a beer-soaked cloth and gave the woodwork a few enthusiastic wipes, spreading the drips from the cordial glasses into a rainbow smear that took the varnish off. The last of the usual customers put on his hat and staggered out, muttering to himself.
I DON'T SEE THE POINT, the stranger said.
'Sorry?'
WHAT IS SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN?
'How many drinks have you had?'
FORTY-SEVEN.
'Just about anything, then,' said the barman and, because he knew his job and knew what was expected of him when people drank alone in the small hours, he started to polish a glass with the slops cloth and said, 'Your lady thrown you out, has she?'
PARDON?
'Drowning your sorrows, are you?'
I HAVE NO SORROWS.
'No, of course not. Forget I mentioned it.' He gave the glass a few more wipes. 'Just thought it helps to have someone to talk to,' he said.
The stranger was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he said: YOU WANT TO TALK TO ME?
'Yes. Sure. I'm a good listener.'
NO-ONE EVER WANTED TO TALK TO ME BEFORE.
'That's a shame.'
THEY NEVER INVITE ME TO PARTIES, YOU KNOW.
'Tch.'
THEY ALL HATE ME. EVERYONE HATES ME. I DONT HAVE A SINGLE FRIEND.
'Everyone ought to have a friend,' said the barman sagely.
I THINK —
'Yes?'
I THINK . . . I THINK I COULD BE FRIENDS WITH THE GREEN BOTTLE.
The landlord slid the octagon-bottle along the counter. Death took it and tilted it over the glass. The liquid tinkled on the rim.
I'M DRUNK YOU THINK, DON'T YOU?
'I serve anyone who can stand upright best out of three,' said the landlord.
YOURRRE ABSOROOTLY RIGHT. BUT I —
The stranger paused, one declamatory finger in the air.
WAS WHAT I SAYING?
'You said I thought you were drunk.'
AH. YES, BUT I CAN BE SHOBER ANY TIME I LIKE. THIS ISH AN EXPERIMENT. AND NOW I WOULD LIKES TO EXPERIMENT WITH THE ORANGE BRANDY AGAIN.
The landlord sighed, and glanced at the clock. There was no doubt that he was making a lot of money, especially since the stranger didn't seem inclined to worry about overcharging or short change. But it was getting late; in fact it was getting so late that it was getting early. There was also something about the solitary customer that unsettled him. People in The Mended Drum often drank as though there was no tomorrow, but this was the first time he'd actually felt they might be right.
I MEAN, WHAT HAVE I GOT TO LOOK FORWARD TO? WHERE'S THE SENSE IN IT ALL? WHAT IS IT REALLY ALL ABOUT?
'Can't say, my friend. I expect you'll feel better after a good night's sleep.'
SLEEP? SLEEP? I NEVER SLEEP. I'M WOSSNAME, PROVERBIAL FOR IT.
'Everyone needs their sleep. Even me,' he hinted.
THEY ALL HATE ME, YOU KNOW.
'Yes, you said. But it's a quarter to three.'
The stranger turned unsteadily and looked around the silent room.
THERE'S NO ONE IN THE PLACE BUT YOU AND I, he said.
The landlord lifted up the flap and came around the bar, helping the stranger down from his stool.
I HAVEN'T GOT A SINGLE FRIEND. EVEN CATS FIND ME AMUSING.
A hand shot out and grabbed a bottle of Amanita Liquor before the man managed to propel its owner to the door, wondering how someone so thin could be so heavy.
I DON'T HAVE TO BE DRUNK, I SAID. WHY DO PEOPLE LIKE TO BE DRUNK? IS IT FUN?
'Helps them forget about life, old chap. Now just you lean there while I get the door open —'
FORGET ABOUT LIFE. HA. HA.
'You come back any time you like, y'hear?'
YOU'D REALLY LIKE TO SEE ME AGAIN?
The landlord looked back at the small heap of coins on the bar. That was worth a little weirdness. At least this one was a quiet one, and seemed to be harmless.
'Oh, yes,' he said, propelling the stranger into the street and retrieving the bottle in one smooth movement. 'Drop in anytime.'
THAT'S THE NICEHEST THING —
The door slammed on the rest of the sentence.
Ysabell sat up in bed.
The knocking came again, soft and urgent. She pulled the covers up to her chin.
'Who is it?' she whispered.
'It's me, Mort,' came the hiss under the door. 'Let me in, please!'
'Wait!'
Ysabell scrambled frantically on the bedside table for the matches, knocking over a bottle of toilet water and dislodging a box of chocolates that was now mostly discarded wrappers. Once she'd got the candle alight she adjusted its position for maximum effect, tweaked the line of her nightdress into something more revealing, and said: 'It's not locked.'
Mort staggered into the room, smelling of horses and frost and scumble.
'I hope,' said Ysabell archly, 'that you have not forced your way in here in order to take advantage of your position in this household.'
Mort looked around him. Ysabell was heavily into frills. Even the dressing table seemed to be wearing a petticoat. The whole room wasn't so much furnished as lingeried.