Mort (30 page)

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 hiccuped.

‘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 a 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 floodwaters 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 clothes 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 candlestick 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 1st 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 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—’