Mort (31 page)

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:

Y
OU HAD BETTER START NOW
.

He stood up, appearing to grow larger as the room darkened.

D
ON’T BOTHER TO APOLOGIZE
, he added.

Keli buried her head in Cutwell’s ample chest.

I
AM
BACK
. A
ND
I
AM
ANGRY
.

‘Master, I—’ Mort began.

S
HUT 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.

I
S THIS THE FACE THAT LAUNCHED A THOUSAND SHIPS
,
AND BURNED THE TOPLESS TOWERS OF
P
SEUDOPOLIS
? wondered Death. Keli stared hypnotized at the red pinpoints miles deep in those dark sockets.

‘Er, excuse me,’ said Cutwell, holding his hat respectfully, Mexican fashion.

W
ELL
? said Death, distracted.

‘It isn’t, sir. You must be thinking about another face.’

W
HAT IS YOUR NAME
?

‘Cutwell, sir. I’m a wizard, sir.’

I’
M A WIZARD, SIR
, Death sneered. B
E SILENT
,
WIZARD
.

‘Sir.’ Cutwell stepped back.

Death turned to Ysabell.

D
AUGHTER
,
EXPLAIN YOURSELF
. W
HY 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—’

B
E 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
. Y
OU SEDUCE MY DAUGHTER FROM ME, YOU NEGLECT THE DUTY, YOU MAKE RIPPLES IN REALITY THAT WILL TAKE A CENTURY TO HEAL
. Y
OUR ILL-TIMED ACTIONS HAVE DOOMED YOUR COMRADES TO OBLIVION
. T
HE GODS WILL DEMAND NOTHING LESS
.

A
LL 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.

I
T SPEAKS
! W
HAT DOES IT SAY
?

‘You could let them go,’ said Mort. ‘They just got involved. It wasn’t their fault. You could rearrange this so—’

W
HY SHOULD
I
DO THAT
? T
HEY BELONG TO ME NOW
.

‘I’ll fight you for them,’ said Mort.

V
ERY NOBLE
. M
ORTALS FIGHT ME ALL THE TIME
. Y
OU 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.

A
H
. Y
OU 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—’

I
F YOU WIN, YOU WILL BE IN A POSITION TO DO WHATEVER YOU PLEASE
, said Death. F
OLLOW ME
.

He stalked past Mort and out into the hall.

The other four looked at Mort.

‘Are you sure you know what you are 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.

A
LBERT
.

‘Master?’

F
ETCH 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.

B
E 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.

M
R 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 pre-eminent 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 . . .

. . . Cutwell 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 carefully 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.

Y
IELD
, 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.

T
HUS 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.