Mort (8 page)

“Have a care, Mort,” said her voice in his head. “You may want to hold on to your job, but will you ever be able to let go?”

Mort stood idiotically holding his cheek. The trees around the clearing trembled for a moment, there was the sound of laughter on the breeze, and then the freezing silence closed in again.

Duty called out to him through the pink mists in his head. He grabbed the second glass and stared at it. The sand was nearly all gone.

The glass itself was patterned with lotus petals. When Mort flicked it with his finger it went “Ommm.”

He ran across the crackling snow to Binky and hurled himself into the saddle. The horse threw up his head, reared, and launched itself towards the stars.

Great silent streamers of blue and green flame hung from the roof of the world. Curtains of octarine glow danced slowly and majestically over the Disc as the fire of the Aurora Coriolis, the vast discharge of magic from the Disc’s standing field, earthed itself in the green ice mountains of the. Hub.

The central spire of Cori Celesti, home of the gods, was a ten-mile-high column of cold coruscating fire.

It was a sight seen by few people, and Mort wasn’t one of them, because he lay low over Binky’s neck and clung on for his life as they pounded through the night sky ahead of a comet trail of steam.

There were other mountains clustered around Cori. By comparison they were no more than termite mounds, although in reality each one was a majestic assortment of cols, ridges, faces, cliffs, screes and glaciers that any normal mountain range would be happy to associate with.

Among the highest of them, at the end of a funnel-shaped valley, dwelt the Listeners.

They were one of the oldest of the Disc’s religious sects, although even the gods themselves were divided as to whether Listening was really a proper religion, and all that prevented their temple being wiped out by a few well-aimed avalanches was the fact that even the gods were curious as to what it was that the Listeners might Hear. If there’s one thing that really annoys a god, it’s not knowing something.

It’ll take Mort several minutes to arrive. A row of dots would fill in the time nicely, but the reader will already be noticing the strange shape of the temple—curled like a great white ammonite at the end of the valley—and will probably want an explanation.

The fact is that the Listeners are trying to work out precisely what it was that the Creator said when He made the universe.

The theory is quite straightforward.

Clearly, nothing that the Creator makes could ever be destroyed, which means that the echoes of those first syllables must still be around somewhere, bouncing and rebounding off all the matter in the cosmos but still audible to a really good listener.

Eons ago the Listeners had found that ice and chance had carved this one valley into the perfect acoustic opposite of an echo valley, and had built their multi-chambered temple in the exact position that the one comfy chair always occupies in the home of a rabid hi-fi fanatic. Complex baffles caught and amplified the sound that was funneled up the chilly valley, steering it ever inwards to the central chamber where, at any hour of the day or night, three monks always sat.

Listening.

There were certain problems caused by the fact that they didn’t hear only the subtle echoes of the first words, but every other sound made on the Disc. In order to recognize the sound of the Words, they had to learn to recognize all the other noises. This called for a certain talent, and a novice was only accepted for training if he could distinguish by sound alone, at a distance of a thousand yards, which side a dropped coin landed. He wasn’t actually accepted into the order until he could tell what color it was.

And although the Holy Listeners were so remote, many people took the extremely long and dangerous path to their temple, traveling through frozen, troll-haunted lands, fording swift icy rivers, climbing forbidding mountains, trekking across inhospitable tundra, in order to climb the narrow stairway that led into the hidden valley and seek with an open heart the secrets of being.

And the monks would cry unto them, “Keep the bloody noise down!”

Binky came through the mountain tops like a white blur, touching down in the snowy emptiness of a courtyard made spectral by the disco light from the sky. Mort leapt from his back and ran through the silent cloisters to the room where the 88th abbot lay dying, surrounded by his devout followers.

Mort’s footsteps boomed as he hurried across the intricate mosaic floor. The monks themselves wore woolen overshoes.

He reached the bed and waited for a moment, leaning on the scythe, until he could get his breath back.

The abbot, who was small and totally bald and had more wrinkles than a sackful of prunes, opened his eyes.

“You’re late,” he whispered, and died.

Mort swallowed, fought for breath, and brought the scythe around in a slow arc. Nevertheless, it was accurate enough; the abbot sat up, leaving His corpse behind.

“Not a moment too soon,” he said, in a voice only Mort could hear. “You had me worried for a moment there.”

“Okay?” said Mort. “Only I’ve got to rush—”

The abbot swung himself off the bed and walked towards Mort through the ranks of his bereaved followers.

“Don’t rush off,” he said. “I always look forward to these talks. What’s happened to the usual fellow?”

“Usual fellow?” said Mort, bewildered.

“Tall chap. Black cloak. Doesn’t get enough to eat, by the look of him,” said the abbot.

“
Usual
fellow? You mean
Death
?” said Mort.

“That’s him,” said the abbot, cheerfully. Mort’s mouth hung open.

“Die a lot, do you?” he managed.

“A fair bit. A fair bit. Of course,” said the abbot, “once you get the hang of it, it’s only a matter of practice.”

“It is?”

“We must be off,” said the abbot. Mort’s mouth snapped shut.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say,” he said.

“So if you could just drop me off down in the valley,” the little monk continued placidly. He swept past Mort and headed for the courtyard. Mort stared at the floor for a moment, and then ran after him in a way which he knew to be extremely unprofessional and undignified.

“Now look—” he began.

“The other one had a horse called Binky, I remember,” said the abbot pleasantly. “Did you buy the round off him?”

“The round?” said Mort, now completely lost.

“Or whatever. Forgive me,” said the abbot, “I don’t really know how these things are organized, lad.”

“Mort,” said Mort, absently. “And I think you’re supposed to come back with me, sir. If you don’t mind,” he added, in what he hoped was a firm and authoritative manner. The monk turned and smiled pleasantly at him.

“I wish I could,” he said. “Perhaps one day. Now, if you could give me a lift as far as the nearest village, I imagine I’m being conceived about now.”

“Conceived? But you’ve just died!” said Mort.

“Yes, but, you see, I have what you might call a season ticket,” the abbot explained.

Light dawned on Mort, but very slowly.

“Oh,” he said, “I’ve read about this. Reincarnation, yes?”

“That’s the word. Fifty-three times so far. Or fifty-four.”

Binky looked up as they approached and gave a short neigh of recognition when the abbot patted his nose. Mort mounted up and helped the abbot up behind him.

“It must be very interesting,” he said, as Binky climbed away from the temple. On the absolute scale of small talk this comment must rate minus quite a lot, but Mort couldn’t think of anything better.

“No, it mustn’t,” said the abbot. “You think it must be because you believe I can remember all my lives, but of course I can’t. Not while I’m alive, anyway.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Mort conceded.

“Imagine toilet training fifty times.”

“Nothing to look back on, I imagine,” said Mort.

“You’re right. If I had my time all over again I wouldn’t reincarnate. And just when I’m getting the hang of things, the lads come down from the temple looking for a boy conceived at the hour the old abbot died. Talk about unimaginative. Stop here a moment, please.”

Mort looked down.

“We’re in mid-air,” he said doubtfully.

“I won’t keep you a minute.” The abbot slid down from Binky’s back, walked a few steps on thin air, and shouted.

It seemed to go on for a long time. Then the abbot climbed back again.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been looking forward to that,” he said.

There was a village in a lower valley a few miles from the temple, which acted as a sort of service industry. From the air it was a random scattering of small but extremely well-soundproofed huts.

“Anywhere will do,” the abbot said. Mort left him standing a few feet above the snow at a point where the huts appeared to be thickest.

“Hope the next lifetime improves,” he said. The abbot shrugged.

“One can always hope,” he said. “I get a nine-month break, anyway. The scenery isn’t much, but at least it’s in the warm.”

“Goodbye, then,” said Mort. “I’ve got to rush.”

“Au revoir,” said the abbot, sadly, and turned away.

The fires of the Hub Lights were still casting their flickering illumination across the landscape. Mort sighed, and reached for the third glass.

The container was silver, decorated with small crowns. There was hardly any sand left.

Mort, feeling that the night had thrown everything at him and couldn’t get any worse, turned it around carefully to get a glimpse of the name….

Princess Keli awoke.

There had been a sound like someone making no noise at all. Forget peas and mattresses—sheer natural selection had established over the years that the royal families that survived longest were those whose members could distinguish an assassin in the dark by the noise he was clever enough not to make, because, in court circles, there was always someone ready to cut the heir with a knife.

She lay in bed, wondering what to do next. There was a dagger under her pillow. She started to slide one hand up the sheets, while peering around the room with half-closed eyes in search of unfamiliar shadows. She was well aware that if she indicated in any way that she was not asleep she would never wake up again.

Some light came into the room from the big window at the far end, but the suits of armor, tapestries and assorted paraphernalia that littered the room could have provided cover for an army.

The knife had dropped down behind the bedhead. She probably wouldn’t have used it properly anyway.

Screaming for the guards, she decided, was not a good idea. If there was anyone in the room then the guards must have been overpowered, or at least stunned by a large sum of money.

There was a warming pan on the flagstones by the fire. Would it make a weapon?

There was a faint metallic sound.

Perhaps screaming wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all….

The window imploded. For an instant Keli saw, framed against a hell of blue and purple flames, a hooded figure crouched on the back of the largest horse she had ever seen.

There
was
someone standing by the bed, with a knife half raised.

In slow motion, she watched fascinated as the arm went up and the horse galloped at glacier speed across the floor. Now the knife was above her, starting its descent, and the horse was rearing and the rider was standing in the stirrups and swinging some sort of weapon and its blade tore through the slow air with a noise like a finger on the rim of a wet glass—

The light vanished. There was a soft thump on the floor, followed by a metallic clatter. Keli took a deep breath.

A hand was briefly laid across her mouth and a worried voice said, “If you scream, I’ll regret it. Please? I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

Anyone who could get that amount of bewildered pleading into their voice was either genuine or such a good actor they wouldn’t have to bother with assassination for a living. She said, “Who are you?”

“I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell you,” said the voice. “You are still alive, aren’t you?”

She bit down the sarcastic reply just in time. Something about the tone of the question worried her.

“Can’t you tell?” she said.

“It’s not easy….” There was a pause. She strained to see in the darkness, to put a face around that voice. “I may have done you some terrible harm,” it added.

“Haven’t you just saved my life?”

“I don’t know what I have saved, actually. Is there some light around here?”

“The maid sometimes leaves matches on the mantelpiece,” said Keli. She felt the presence beside her move away. There were a few hesitant footsteps, a couple of thumps, and finally a clang, although the word isn’t sufficient to describe the real ripe cacophony of falling metal that filled the room. It was even followed by the traditional little tinkle a couple of seconds after you thought it was all over.

The voice said, rather indistinctly, “I’m under a suit of armor. Where should I be?”

Keli slid quietly out of bed, felt her way towards the fireplace, located the bundle of matches by the faint light from the dying fire, struck one in a burst of sulfurous smoke, lit a candle, found the pile of dismembered armor, pulled its sword from its scabbard and then nearly swallowed her tongue.

Someone had just blown hot and wetly in her ear.

“That’s Binky,” said the heap. “He’s just trying to be friendly. I expect he’d like some hay, if you’ve got any.”

With royal self-control, Keli said, “This is the fourth floor. It’s a lady’s bedroom. You’d be amazed at how many horses we don’t get up here.”

“Oh. Could you help me up, please?”

She put the sword down and pulled aside a breastplate. A thin white face stared back at her.

“First, you’d better tell me why I shouldn’t send for the guards anyway” she said. “Even being in my bedroom could get you tortured to death.”

She glared at him.

Finally he said, “Well—could you let my hand free, please? Thank you—firstly, the guards probably wouldn’t see me, secondly, you’ll never find out why I’m here and you look as though you’d hate not to know, and thirdly….”

“Thirdly what?” she said.

His mouth opened and shut. Mort wanted to say: thirdly, you’re so beautiful, or at least very attractive, or anyway far more attractive than any other girl I’ve ever met, although admittedly I haven’t met very many. From this it will be seen that Mort’s innate honesty will never make him a poet; if Mort ever compared a girl to a summer’s day, it would be followed by a thoughtful explanation of what day he had in mind and whether it was raining at the time. In the circumstances, it was just as well that he couldn’t find his voice.

Keli held up the candle and looked at the window.

It was whole. The stone frames were unbroken. Every pane, with its stained-glass representatives of the Sto Lat coat of arms, was complete. She looked back at Mort.

“Never mind thirdly,” she said, “let’s get back to secondly.”

An hour later dawn reached the city. Daylight on the Disc flows rather than rushes, because light is slowed right down by the world’s standing magical field, and it rolled across the flat lands like a golden sea. The city on the mound stood out like a sandcastle in the tide for a moment, until the day swirled around it and crept onwards.

Mort and Keli sat side by side on her bed. The hourglass lay between them. There was no sand left in the top bulb.

From outside came the sounds of the castle waking up.

“I still don’t understand this,” she said. “Does it mean I’m dead, or doesn’t it?”

“It means you ought to be dead,” he said, “according to fate or whatever. I haven’t really studied the theory.”

“And you should have killed me?”

“No! I mean, no, the assassin should have killed you. I did try to explain all that,” said Mort.

“Why didn’t you let him?”

Mort looked at her in horror.

“Did you
want
to die?”

“Of course I didn’t. But it looks as though what people want doesn’t come into it, does it? I’m trying to be sensible about this.”

Mort stared at his knees. Then he stood up.

“I think I’d better be going,” he said coldly.

He folded up the scythe and stuck it into its sheath behind the saddle. Then he looked at the window.

“You came through that,” said Keli, helpfully. “Look, when I said—”

“Does it open?”

“No. There’s a balcony along the passage. But people will see you!”

Mort ignored her, pulled open the door and led Binky out into the corridor. Keli ran after them. A maid stopped, curtsied, and frowned slightly as her brain wisely dismissed the sight of a very large horse walking along the carpet.

The balcony overlooked one of the inner courtyards. Mort glanced over the parapet, and then mounted.

“Watch out for the duke,” he said. “He’s behind all this.”

“My father always warned me about him,” said the princess. “I’ve got a foodtaster.”

“You should get a bodyguard as well,” said Mort. “I must go. I have important things to do. Farewell,” he added, in what he hoped was the right tone of injured pride.

“Shall I see you again?” said Keli. “There’s lots I want to—”

“That might not be a good idea, if you think about it,” said Mort haughtily. He clicked his tongue, and Binky leapt into the air, cleared the parapet and cantered up into the blue morning sky.

“I wanted to say thank you!” Keli yelled after him.

The maid, who couldn’t get over the feeling that something was wrong and had followed her, said, “Are you all right, ma’am?”

Keli looked at her distractedly.

“What?” she demanded.

“I just wondered if—everything was all right?”

Keli’s shoulders sagged.

“No,” she said. “Everything’s all wrong. There’s a dead assassin in my bedroom. Could you please have something done about it?

“And—” she held up a hand—“I don’t want you to say ‘Dead, ma’am?’ or ‘Assassin, ma’am?’ or scream or anything, I just want you to get something done about it. Quietly. I think I’ve got a headache. So just nod.”

The maid nodded, bobbed uncertainly, and backed away.