Terry David John Pratchett. Mort
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...y. 'What?''My name is Mort,' said Mort. 'Or Mortimer. Most people call me Mort.
Did you want to talk to me about something?'
She was speechless for a moment, staring from his face to the shovel
and back again.
'Only I've been told to get on with this,' said Mort.
She exploded.
'Why are you here? Why did Father bring you here?'
'He hired me at the hiring fair,' said Mort. 'All the boys got hired.
And me.'
'And you wanted to be hired?' she snapped. 'He's Death, you know. The
Grim Reaper. He's very important. He's not something you become , he's
something you are .'
Mort gestured vaguely at the wheelbarrow.
'I expect it'll turn out for the best,' he said. 'My father always says
things generally do.'
He picked up the shovel and turned away, and grinned at the horse's
backside as he heard Ysabell snort and walk away.
Mort worked steadily through the sixteenths, eighths, quarters and
thirds, wheeling the barrow out through the yard to the heap by the apple
tree.
Death's garden was big, neat and well-tended. It was also very, very
black. The grass was black. The flowers were black. Black apples gleamed
among the black leaves of a black apple tree. Even the air looked inky.
Alter a while Mort thought he could see - no, he couldn't possibly
imagine he could see . . . different colours of black.
That's to say, not simply very dark tones of red and green and
whatever, but real shades of black. A whole spectrum of colours, all
different and all - well, black. He tipped out the last load, put the barrow
away, and went back to the house.
ENTER.
Death was standing behind a lectern, poring over a map. He looked at
Mort as if he wasn't entirely there.
YOU HAVEN'T HEARD OF THE BAY OF MANTE, HAVE YOU? he said.
'No, sir,' said Mort.
FAMOUS SHIPWRECK THERE.
'Was there?'
THERE WILL BE, said Death, IF I CAN FIND THE DAMN PLACE.
Mort walked around the lectern and peered at the map.
'You're going to sink the ship?' he said.
Death looked horrified.
CERTAINLY NOT. THERE WILL BE A COMBINATION OF BAD SEAMANSHIP, SHALLOW
WATER AND A CONTRARY WIND.
'That's horrible,' said Mort. 'Will there be many drowned?'
THAT'S UP TO FATE, said Death, turning to the bookcase behind him and
pulling out a heavy gazetteer. THERE'S NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT IT. WHAT IS
THAT SMELL?
'Me,' said Mort, simply.
AH, THE STABLES. Death paused, his hand on the spine of the book. AND
WHY DO YOU THINK I DIRECTED YOU TO THE STABLES? THINK CAREFULLY, NOW.
Mort hesitated. He had been thinking carefully, in between counting
wheelbarrows. He'd wondered if it had been to coordinate his hand and eye,
or teach him the habit of obedience, or bring home to him the importance, on
the human scale, of small tasks, or make him realize that even great men
must start at the bottom. None of these explanations seemed exactly right.
'I think . . .' he began.
YES?
'Well, I think it was because you were up to your knees in horseshit,
to tell you the truth.'
Death looked at him for a long time. Mort shifted uneasily from one
foot to the other.
ABSOLUTELY CORRECT, snapped Death. CLARITY OF THOUGHT. REALISTIC
APPROACH. VERY IMPORTANT IN A JOB LIKE OURS.
'Yes, sir. Sir?'
HMM? Death was struggling with the index.
'People die all the time, sir, don't they? Millions. You must be very
busy. But -'
Death gave Mort the look he was coming to be familiar with. It started
off as blank surprise, flickered briefly towards annoyance, called in for a
drink at recognition and settled finally on vague forbearance.
BUT?
'I'd have thought you'd have been, well, out and about a bit more. You
know. Stalking the streets. My granny's almanack's got a picture of you with
a scythe and stuff.'
I SEE. I AM AFRAID IT IS HARD TO EXPLAIN UNLESS YOU KNOW ABOUT POINT
INCARNATION AND NODE FOCUSING. I DON'T EXPECT YOU DO?
'I don't think so.'
GENERALLY I'M ONLY EXPECTED TO MAKE AN ACTUAL APPEARANCE ON SPECIAL
OCCASIONS.
'Like a king, I suppose,' said Mort. 'I mean, a king is reigning even
when he's doing something else or asleep, even. Is that it, sir?'
IT'LL DO, said Death, rolling up the maps. AND NOW, BOY, IF YOU'VE
FINISHED THE STABLE YOU CAN GO AND SEE IF ALBERT HAS ANY JOBS HE WANTS
DOING. IF YOU LIKE, YOU CAN COME OUT ON THE ROUND WITH ME THIS EVENING.
Mort nodded. Death went back to his big leather book, took up a pen,
stared at it for a moment, and then looked up at Mort with his skull on one
side.
HAVE YOU MET MY DAUGHTER? he said.
'Er. Yes, sir,' said Mort, his hand on the doorknob.
SHE IS A VERY PLEASANT GIRL, said Death, BUT I THINK SHE QUITE LIKES
HAVING SOMEONE OF HER OWN AGE AROUND TO TALK TO.
'Sir?'
AND, OF COURSE, ONE DAY ALL THIS WILL BELONG TO HER.
Something like a small blue supernova flared for a moment in the depths
of his eyesockets. It dawned on Mort that, with some embarrassment and
complete lack of expertise, Death was trying to wink.
In a landscape that owed nothing to time and space, which appeared on
no map, which existed only in those far reaches of the multiplexed cosmos
known to the few astrophysicists who have taken really bad acid, Mort spent
the afternoon helping Albert plant out broccoli. It was black, tinted with
purple.
'He tries, see,' said Albert, flourishing the dibber. 'It's just that
when it comes to colour, he hasn't got much imagination.'
'I'm not sure I understand all this,' said Mort. 'Did you say he made
all this?'
Beyond the garden wall the ground dropped towards a deep valley and
then rose into dark moorland that marched all the way to distant mountains,
jagged as cats' teeth.
'Yeah,' said Albert. 'Mind what you're doing with that watering can.'
'What was here before?'
'I dunno,' said Albert, starting a fresh row. 'Firmament, I suppose.
That's the fancy name for raw nothing. It's not a very good job of work, to
tell the truth. I mean, the garden's okay, but the mountains are downright
shoddy. They're all fuzzy when you get up close. I went and had a look
once.'
Mort squinted hard at the trees nearest him. They seemed commendably
solid.
'What'd he do it all for?' he said.
Albert grunted. 'Do you know what happens to lads who ask too many
questions?'
Mort thought for a moment.
'No,' he said eventually, 'what?'
There was silence.
Then Albert straightened up and said, 'Damned if I know. Probably they
get answers, and serve 'em right.'
'He said I could go out with him tonight,' said Mort.
'You're a lucky boy then, aren't you,' said Albert vaguely, heading
back for the cottage.
'Did he really make all this?' said Mort, tagging along after him.
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'I suppose he wanted somewhere where he could feel at home.'
'Are you dead, Albert?'
'Me? Do I look dead?' The old man snorted when Mort started to give him
a slow, critical look, 'and you can stop that. I'm as alive as you are.
Probably more.'
'Sorry.'
'Right.' Albert pushed open the back door, and turned to regard Mort as
kindly as he could manage.
'It's best not to ask all these questions,' he said, 'it upsets people.
Now, how about a nice fry-up?'
The bell rang while they were playing dominoes. Mort sat to attention.
'He'll want the horse made ready,' said Albert. 'Come on.'
They went out to the stable in the gathering dusk, and Mort watched the
old man saddle up Death's horse.
'His name's Binky,' said Albert, fastening the girth. 'It just goes to
show, you never can tell.'
Binky tried to eat his scarf in an affectionate way.
Mort remembered the woodcut in his grandmother's almanack, between the
page on planting times and the phases of the moon section, showing Dethe the
Great Levyller Comes To Alle Menne. He'd stared at it hundreds of times when
learning his letters. It wouldn't have been half so impressive if it had
been generally known that the flame-breathing horse the spectre rode was
called Binky.
'I would have thought something like Fang or Sabre or Ebony,' Albert
continued, 'but the master will have his little fancies, you know. Looking
forward to it, are you?'
'I think so,' said Mort uncertainly. 'I've never seen Death actually at
work.'
'Not many have,' said Albert. 'Not twice, at any rate.'
Mort took a deep breath.
'About this daughter of his -' he began.
AH, GOOD EVENING, ALBERT, BOY.
'Mort,' said Mort automatically.
Death strode into the stable, stooping a little to clear the ceiling.
Albert nodded, not in any subservient way, Mort noticed, but simply out of
form. Mort had met one or two servants, on the rare occasions he'd been
taken into town, and Albert wasn't like any of them. He seemed to act as
though the house really belonged to him and its owner was just a passing
guest, something to be tolerated like peeling paintwork or spiders in the
lavatory. Death put up with it too, as though he and Albert had said
everything that needed to be said a long time ago and were simply content,
now, to get on with their jobs with the minimum of inconvenience all around.
To Mort it was rather like going for a walk after a really bad thunderstormy
thing was quite fresh, nothing was particularly unpleasant, but there was
the sense of vast energies just expended.
Finding out about Albert tagged itself on to the end of his list of
things to do.
HOLD THIS, said Death, and pushed a scythe into his hand while he swung
himself up on to Binky. The scythe looked normal enough, except for the
blade: it was so thin that Mort could see through it, a pale blue shimmer in
the air that could slice flame and chop sound. He held it very carefully.
RIGHT, BOY, said Death. COME ON UP. ALBERT. DON'T WAIT UP.
The horse trotted out of the courtyard and into the sky.
There should have been a flash or rush of stars. The air should have
spiralled and turned into speeding sparks such as normally happens in the
common, everyday trans-dimensional hyper-jumps. But this was Death, who has
mastered the art of going everywhere without ostentation and could slide
between dimensions as easily as he could slip through a locked door, and
they moved at an easy gallop through cloud canyons, past great billowing
mountains of cumulus, until the wisps parted in front of them and the Disc
lay below, basking in sunlight.
THAT'S BECAUSE TIME IS ADJUSTABLE, said Death, when Mort pointed this
out. IT'S NOT REALLY IMPORTANT.
'I always thought it was.'
PEOPLE THINK IT'S IMPORTANT ONLY BECAUSE THEY INVENTED IT, said Death
somberly. Mort considered this rather trite, but decided not to argue.
'What are we going to do now?' he said.
THERE'S A PROMISING WAR IN KLATCHISTAN, said Death. SEVERAL PLAGUE
OUTBREAKS. ONE RATHER IMPORTANT ASSASSINATION, IF YOU'D PREFER.
'What, a murder?'
AYE, A KING.
'Oh, kings,' said Mort dismissively. He knew about kings. Once a year a
band of strolling players, or at any rate ambling ones, came to Sheepridge
and the plays they performed were invariably about kings. Kings were always
killing one another, or being killed. The plots were quite complicated,
involving mistaken identity, poisons, battles, long-lost sons, ghosts,
witches and, usually, lots of daggers. Since it was clear that being a king
was no picnic it was amazing that half the cast were apparently trying to
become one. Mort's idea of palace life was a little hazy, but he imagined
that no one got much sleep.
'I'd quite like to see a real king,' he said. 'They wear crowns all the
time, my granny said. Even when they go to the lavatory.'
Death considered this carefully.
THERE'S NO TECHNICAL REASON WHY NOT, he conceded. IN MY EXPERIENCE,
HOWEVER, IT IS GENERALLY NOT THE CASE.
The horse wheeled, and the vast flat checkerboard of the Sto plain sped
underneath them at lightning speed. This was rich country, full of silt and
rolling cabbage fields and neat little kingdoms whose boundaries wriggled
like snakes as small, formal wars, marriage pacts, complex alliances and the
occasional bit of sloppy cartography changed the political shape of the
land.
'This king,' said Mort, as a forest zipped beneath them, 'is he good or
bad?'
I NEVER CONCERN MYSELF WITH SUCH THINGS, said Death. HE'S NO WORSE THAN
ANY OTHER KING, I IMAGINE.
'Does he have people put to death?' said Mort, and remembering who he
was talking to added, 'Saving y' honour's presence, of course.'
SOMETIMES. THERE ARE SOME THINGS YOU HAVE TO DO, WHEN YOU'RE A KING.
A city slid below them, clustered around a castle built on a rock
outcrop that poked up out of the plain like a geological pimple. It was one
huge rock from the distant Ramtops, Death said, left there by the retreating
ice in the legendary days when the Ice Giants waged war on the gods and rode
their glaciers across the land in an attempt to freeze the whole world.
They'd given up in the end, however, and driven their great glittering
flocks back to their hidden lands among the razor-backed mountains near the
Hub. No one on the plains knew why they had done this; it was generally
considered by the younger generation in the city of Sto Lat, the city around
the rock, that it was because the place was dead boring.
Binky trotted down over nothingness and touched down on the flagstones
of the castle's topmost tower. Death dismounted and told Mort to sort out
the nosebag.
'Won't people notice there's a horse up here?' he said, as they
strolled to a stairwell.
Death shook his head.
WOULD YOU BELIEVE THERE COULD BE A HORSE AT THE TOP OF THIS TOWER? he
said.
'No. You couldn't get one up these stairs,' said Mort.
WELL, THEN?
'Oh. I see. People don't want to see what can't possibly exist.'
WELL DONE.
Now they were walking along a wide corridor hung with tapestries. Death
reached into his robe and pulled out an hourglass, peering closely at it in
the dim light.
It was a particularly fine one, its glass cut into intricate facets and
imprisoned in an ornate framework of wood and brass. The words 'King Olerve
the Bastard' were engraved deeply into it.
The sand inside sparkled oddly. There wasn't a lot left.
Death hummed to himself and stowed the glass away in whatever
mysterious recess it had occupied.
They turned a corner and hit a wall of sound. There was a hall full of
people there, under a cloud of smoke and chatter that rose all the way up
into the banner-haunted shadows in the roof. Up in a gallery a trio of
minstrels were doing their best to be heard and not succeeding.
The appearance of Death didn't cause much of a stir. A footman by the
door turned to him, opened his mouth and then frowned in a distracted way
and thought of something else. A few courtiers glanced in their direction,
their eyes instantly unfocusing as common sense overruled the other five.
WE'VE GOT A FEW MINUTES, said Death, taking a drink from a passing
tray, LET'S MINGLE.
'They can't see me either!' said Mort. 'But I'm real!'
REALITY IS NOT ALWAYS WHAT IT SEEMS, said Death. ANYWAY, IF THEY DON'T
WANT TO SEE ME, THEY CERTAINLY DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU. THESE ARE ARISTOCRATS,
BOY. THEY'RE GOOD AT NOT SEEING THINGS. WHY IS THERE A CHERRY ON A STICK IN
THIS DRINK?
'Mort,' said Mort absentmindedly.
IT'S NOT AS IF IT DOES ANYTHING FOR THE FLAVOUR. WHY DOES ANYONE TAKE A
PERFECTLY GOOD DRINK AND THEN PUT IN A CHERRY ON A POLE?
'What's going to happen next?' said Mort. An elderly earl bumped into
his elbow, looked everywhere but directly at him, shrugged and walked away.
TAKE THESE THINGS, NOW, said Death, fingering a passing canape. I MEAN,
MUSHROOMS YES, CHICKEN YES, CREAM YES, I'VE NOTHING AGAINST ANY OF THEM, BUT
WHY IN THE NAME OF SANITY MINCE THEM ALL UP AND PUT THEM IN LITTLE PASTRY
CASES?
'Pardon?' said Mort.
THAT'S MORTALS FOR YOU, Death continued. THEY'VE ONLY GOT A FEW YEARS
IN THIS WORLD AND THEY SPEND THEM ALL IN MAKING THINGS COMPLICATED FOR
THEMSELVES. FASCINATING. HAVE A GHERKIN.
'Where's the king?' said Mort, craning to look over the heads of the
court.
CHAP WITH THE GOLDEN BEARD, said Death. He tapped a flunky on the
shoulder, and as the man turned and looked around in puzzlement deftly
piloted another drink from his tray.
Mort cast around until he saw the figure standing in a little group in
the centre of the crowd, leaning over slightly the better to hear what a
rather short courtier was saying to him. He was a tall, heavily-built man
with the kind of stolid, patient face that one would confidently buy a used
horse from.
'He doesn't look a bad king,' said Mort. 'Why would anyone want to kill
him?'
SEE THE MAN NEXT TO HIM? WITH THE LITTLE MOUSTACHE AND THE GRIN LIKE A
LIZARD? Death pointed with his scythe. 'Yes?' HIS COUSIN, THE DUKE OF STO
HELIT. NOT THE NICEST OF PEOPLE, said Death. A HANDY MAN WITH A BOTTLE OF
POISON. FIFTH IN LINE TO THE THRONE LAST YEAR, NOW SECOND IN LINE. BIT OF A
SOCIAL CLIMBER, YOU MIGHT SAY. He fumbled inside his robe and produced an
hourglass in which black sand coursed between a spiked iron latticework. He
gave it an experimental shake. AND DUE TO LIVE ANOTHER THIRTY, THIRTY-FIVE
YEARS, he said, with a sigh.
'And he goes around killing people?' said Mort. He shook his head.
There's no justice.'
Death sighed. NO, he said, handing his drink to a page who was
surprised to find he was suddenly holding an empty glass, THERE'S JUST ME.
He drew his sword, which had the same ice blue, shadow-thin blade as
the scythe of office, and stepped forward.
'I thought you used the scythe,' whispered Mort.
KINGS GET THE SWORD, said Death. IT'S A ROYAL, WHATSNAME, PREROGATIVE.
His free hand thrust its bony digits beneath his robe again and brought
out King Olerve's glass. In the top half the last few grains of sand were
huddling together.
PAY CAREFUL ATTENTION, said Death, YOU MAY BE ASKED QUESTIONS
AFTERWARDS.
'Wait,' said Mort, wretchedly. 'It's not fair. Can't you stop it?'
FAIR? said Death. WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT FAIR?
'Well, if the other man is such a -'
LISTEN, said Death, FAIR DOESN'T COME INTO IT. YOU CAN'T TAKE SIDES.
GOOD GRIEF. WHEN IT'S TIME, IT'S TIME. THAT'S ALL THERE IS TO IT, BOY.
'Mort,' moaned Mort, staring at the crowd.
And then he saw her. A random movement in the people opened up a
channel between Mort and a slim, red-haired girl seated among a group of
older women behind the king. She wasn't exactly beautiful, being
over-endowed in the freckle department and, frankly, rather on the skinny
side. But the sight of her caused a shock that hot-wired Mort's hindbrain
and drove it all the way to the pit of his stomach, laughing nastily.
IT'S TIME, said Death, giving Mort a nudge with a sharp elbow. FOLLOW
ME.
Death walked toward the king, weighing his sword in his hand. Mort
blinked, and started to follow. The girl's eyes met his for a second and
immediately looked away - then swivelled back, dragging her head around, her
mouth starting to open in an 'o' of horror.
Mort's backbone melted. He started to run towards the king.
'Look out!' he screamed. 'You're in great danger!'
And the world turned into treacle. It began to fill up with blue and
purple shadows, like a heatstroke dream, and sound faded away until the roar
of the court became distant and scritchy, like the music in someone else's
headphones. Mort saw Death standing companionably by the king, his eyes
turned up towards -
- the minstrel gallery.
Mort saw the bowman, saw the bow, saw the bolt now winging through the
air at the speed of a sick snail. Slow as it was, he couldn't outrun it. It
seemed like hours before he could bring his leaden legs under control, but
finally he managed to get both feet to touch the floor at the same time and
kicked away with all the apparent acceleration of continental drift.
As he twisted slowly through the air Death said, without rancour, IT
WON'T WORK, YOU KNOW. IT'S ONLY NATURAL THAT YOU SHOULD WANT TO TRY, BUT IT
WON'T WORK.
Dream-like, Mort drifted through a silent world. . . .
The bolt struck. Death brought his sword around in a double-handed
swing that passed gently through the king's neck without leaving a mark. To
Mort, spiralling gently through the twilight world, it looked as though a
ghostly shape had dropped away.
It couldn't be the king, because he was manifestly still standing
there, looking directly at Death with an expression of extreme surprise.
There was a shadowy something around his feet, and a long way away people
were reacting with shouts and screams.
A GOOD CLEAN JOB, said Death. ROYALTY ARE ALWAYS A PROBLEM. THEY TEND
TO WANT TO HANG ON. YOUR AVERAGE PEASANT, NOW, HE CAN'T WAIT.
'Who the hell are you?' said the king. 'What are you doing here? Eh?
Guards! I demand -' The insistent message from his eyes finally battered
through to his brain. Mort was impressed. King Olerve had held on to his
throne for many years and, even when dead, knew how to behave. 'Oh,' he
said, 'I see. I didn't expect to see you so soon.'
YOUR MAJESTY, said Death, bowing, FEW DO.
The king looked around. It was quiet and dim in this shadow world, but
outside there seemed to be a lot of excitement.
'That's me down there, is it?'
I AM AFRAID SO, SIRE.
'Clean job. Crossbow, was it?'
YES. AND NOW, SIRE, IF YOU WOULD -
'Who did it?' said the king. Death hesitated.
A HIRED ASSASSIN FROM ANKH-MORPORK, he said.
'Hmm. Clever. I congratulate Sto Helit. And here's me filling myself
with antidotes. No antidote to cold steel, eh? Eh?'
INDEED NOT, SIRE.
'The old rope ladder and fast horse by the drawbridge trick, eh?'
SO IT WOULD APPEAR, SIRE, said Death, taking the king's shade gently by
the arm. IF IT'S ANY CONSOLATION, THOUGH, THE HORSE NEEDS TO BE FAST.
'Eh?'
Death allowed his fixed grin to widen a little.
I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT WITH ITS RIDER TOMORROW IN ANKH, said Death. YOU
SEE, HE ALLOWED THE DUKE TO PROVIDE HIM WITH A PACKED LUNCH.
The king, whose eminent suitability for his job meant that he was not
automatically quick on the uptake, considered this for a moment and then
gave a short laugh. He noticed Mort for the first time.
'Who's this?' he said, 'He dead too?'
MY APPRENTICE, said Death. WHO WILL BE GETTING A GOOD TALKING-TO BEFORE
HE'S MUCH OLDER, THE SCALLYWAG.
'Mort,' said Mort automatically. The sound of their talking washed
around him, but he couldn't take his eyes off the scene around them. He felt
real. Death looked solid. The king looked surprisingly fit and well for
someone who was dead. But the rest of the world was a mass of sliding
shadows. Figures were bent over the slumped body, moving through Mort as if
they were no more substantial than a mist.
The girl was kneeling down, weeping.
'That's my daughter,' said the king. 'I ought to feel sad. Why don't
I?'
EMOTIONS GET LEFT BEHIND. IT'S ALL A MATTER OF GLANDS.
'Ah. That would be it, I suppose. She can't see us, can she?'
NO.
'I suppose there's no chance that I could -?'
NONE, said Death.
'Only she's going to be queen, and if I could only let her-'
SORRY.
The girl looked up and through Mort. He watched the duke walk up behind
her and lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. A fault smile hovered around
the man's lips. It was the sort of smile that lies on sandbanks waiting for
incautious swimmers.
'I can't make you hear me, Mort said. Don't trust him!
She peered at Mort, screwing up her eyes. He reached out, and watched
his hand pass straight through hers.
COME ALONG, BOY. NO LALLYGAGGING.
Mort felt Death's hand tighten on his shoulder, not in an unfriendly
fashion. He turned away reluctantly, following Death and the king.
They walked out through the wall. He was halfway after them before he
realized that walking through walls was impossible.
The suicidal logic of this nearly killed him. He felt the chill of the
stone around his limbs before a voice in his ear said:
LOOK AT IT THIS WAY. THE WALL CANT BE THERE. OTHERWISE YOU WOULDN'T BE
WALKING THROUGH IT. WOULD YOU, BOY?
'Mort,' said Mort.
WHAT?
'My name is Mort. Or Mortimer,' said Mort angrily, pushing forward. The
chill fell behind him.
THERE. THAT WASN'T SO HARD, WAS IT?
Mort looked up and down the length of the corridor, and slapped the
wall experimentally. He must have walked through it, but it felt solid
enough now. Little specks of mica glittered at him.
'How do you do that stuff?' he said. 'How do I do it? Is it magic?'
MAGIC IS THE ONE THING IT ISN'T, BOY. WHEN YOU CAN DO IT BY YOURSELF,
THERE WILL BE NOTHING MORE THAT I CAN TEACH YOU.
The king, who was considerably more diffuse now, said, 'It's
impressive, I'll grant you. By the way, I seem to be fading.'
IT'S THE MORPHOGENETIC FIELD WEAKENING, said Death.
The king's voice was no louder than a whisper. 'Is that what it is?'
IT HAPPENS TO EVERYONE. TRY TO ENJOY IT.
'How?' Now the voice was no more than a shape in the air.
JUST BE YOURSELF.
At that moment the king collapsed, growing smaller and smaller in the
air as the field finally collapsed into a tiny, brilliant pinpoint. It
happened so quickly that Mort almost missed it. From ghost to mote in half a
second, with a faint sigh.
Death gently caught the glittering thing and stowed it away somewhere
under his robe.
'What's happened to him?' said Mort.
ONLY HE KNOWS, said Death. COME.
'My granny says that dying is like going to sleep,' Mort added, a shade
hopefully.
I WOULDN'T KNOW. I HAVE DONE NEITHER.
Mort took a last look along the corridor. The big doors had been flung
back and the court was spilling out. Two older women were endeavouring to
comfort the princess, but she was striding ahead of them so that they
bounced along behind her like a couple of fussy balloons. They disappeared
up another corridor.
ALREADY A QUEEN, said Death, approvingly. Death liked style.
They were on the roof before he spoke again.
You TRIED TO WARN HIM, he said, removing Binky's nosebag.
'Yes, sir. Sorry.'
YOU CANNOT INTERFERE WITH FATE. WHO ARE YOU TO JUDGE WHO SHOULD LIVE
AND WHO SHOULD DIE?
Death watched Mort's expression carefully.
ONLY THE GODS ARE ALLOWED TO DO THAT, he added. To TINKER WITH THE FATE
OF EVEN ONE INDIVIDUAL COULD DESTROY THE WHOLE WORLD. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
Mort nodded miserably. 'Are you going to send me home?' he said. Death
reached down and swung him up behind the saddle. BECAUSE YOU SHOWED
COMPASSION? NO. I MIGHT HAVE DONE IF YOU HAD SHOWN PLEASURE. BUT YOU MUST
LEARN THE COMPASSION PROPER TO YOUR TRADE.
'What's that?'
A SHARP EDGE.
Days passed, although Mort wasn't certain how many. The gloomy sun of
Death's world rolled regularly across the sky, but the visits to mortal
space seemed to adhere to no particular system. Nor did Death visit only
kings and important battles; most of the personal visits were to quite
ordinary people.
Meals were served up by Albert, who smiled to himself a lot and didn't
say anything much. Ysabell kept to her room most of the time, or rode her
own pony on the black moors above the cottage. The sight of her with her
hair streaming in the wind would have been more impressive if she was a
better horse-woman, or if the pony had been rather larger, or if her hair
was the sort that streams naturally. Some hair has got it, and some hasn't.
Hers hadn't.
When he wasn't out on what Death referred to as THE DUTY Mort assisted
Albert, or found jobs in the garden or stable, or browsed through Death's
extensive library, reading with the speed and omnivorousness common to those
who discover the magic of the written word for the first time.
Most of the books in the library were biographies, of course.
They were unusual in one respect. They were writing themselves. People
who had already died, obviously, filled their books from cover to cover, and
those who hadn't been born yet had to put up with blank pages. Those in
between . . . Mort took note, marking the place and counting the extra
lines, and estimated that some books were adding paragraphs at the rate of
four or five every day. He didn't recognize the handwriting.
And finally he plucked up his courage.
A WHAT? said Death in astonishment, sitting behind his ornate desk and
turning his scythe-shaped paperknife over and over in his hands.
'An afternoon off,' repeated Mort. The room suddenly seemed to be
oppressively big, with himself very exposed in the middle of a carpet about
the size of a field.
BUT WHY? said Death. IT CANT BE TO ATTEND YOUR GRANDMOTHER'S FUNERAL,
he added. I WOULD KNOW.
'I just want to, you know, get out and meet people,' said Mort, trying
to outstare that unflinching blue gaze.
BUT YOU MEET PEOPLE EVERY DAY, protested Death.
'Yes, I know, only, well, not for very long,' said Mort. 'I mean, it'd
be nice to meet someone with a life expectancy of more than a few minutes.
Sir,' he added.
Death drummed his fingers on the desk, making a sound not unlike a
mouse tap-dancing, and gave Mort another few seconds of stare. He noticed
that the boy seemed rather less elbows than he remembered, stood a little
more upright and, bluntly, could use a word like 'expectancy'. It was all
that library.
ALL RIGHT, he said grudgingly. BUT IT SEEMS TO ME YOU HAVE EVERYTHING
YOU NEED RIGHT HERE. THE DUTY IS NOT ONEROUS, IS IT?
'No, sir.'
AND YOU HAVE GOOD FOOD AND A WARM BED AND RECREATION AND PEOPLE YOUR
OWN AGE.
'Pardon, sir?' said Mort.
MY DAUGHTER, said Death. YOU HAVE MET HER, I BELIEVE.
'Oh. Yes, sir.'
SHE HAS A VERY WARM PERSONALITY WHEN YOU GET TO KNOW HER.
'I am sure she has, sir.'
NEVERTHELESS, YOU WISH - Death launched the words with a spin of
distaste - AN AFTERNOON OFF? 'Yes, sir. If you please, sir.'
VERY WELL. So BE IT. You MAY HAVE UNTIL SUNSET.
Death opened his great ledger, picked up a pen, and began to write.
Occasionally he'd reach out and flick the beads of an abacus.
After a minute he looked up.
YOU'RE STILL HERE, he said. AND IN YOUR OWN TIME, TOO, he added sourly.
'Um,' said Mort, 'will people be able to see me, sir?'
I IMAGINE SO, I'M SURE, said Death. Is THERE ANYTHING ELSE I MIGHT BE
ABLE TO ASSIST YOU WITH BEFORE YOU LEAVE FOR THIS DEBAUCH?
'Well, sir, there is one thing, sir, I don't know how to get to the
mortal world, sir,' said Mort desperately.
Death sighed loudly, and pulled open a desk drawer.
JUST WALK THERE.
Mort nodded miserably, and took the long walk to the study door. As he
pulled it open Death coughed.
BOY! he called, and tossed something across the room.
Mort caught it automatically as the door creaked open.
The doorway vanished. The deep carpet underfoot became muddy cobbles.
Broad daylight poured over him like quick-silver.
'Mort,' said Mort, to the universe at large.
'What?' said a stallholder beside him. Mort stared around. He was in a
crowded market place, packed with people and animals. Every kind of thing
was being sold from needles to (via a few itinerant prophets) visions of
salvation. It was impossible to hold any conversation quieter than a shout.
Mort tapped the stallholder in the small of the back.
'Can you see me?' he demanded.
The stallholder squinted critically at him.
'I reckon so,' he said, 'or someone very much like you.'
Thank you,' said Mort, immensely relieved.
'Don't mention it. I see lots of people every day, no charge. Want to
buy any bootlaces?'
'I don't think so,' said Mort. 'What place is this?'
'You don't know?'
A couple of people at the next stall were looking at Mort thoughtfully.
His mind went into overdrive.
'My master travels a lot,' he said, truthfully. 'We arrived last night,
and I was asleep on the cart. Now I've got the afternoon off.'
'Ah,' said the stallholder. He leaned forward conspiratorially.
'Looking for a good time, are you? I could fix you up.'
'I'd quite enjoy knowing where I am,' Mort conceded.
The man was taken aback.
'This is Ankh-Morpork,' he said. 'Anyone ought to be able to see that.
Smell it, too.'
Mort sniffed. There was a certain something about the air in the city.
You got the feeling that it was air that had seen life. You couldn't help
noting with every breath that thousands of other people were very close to
you and nearly all of them had armpits.
The stallholder regarded Mort critically, noting the pale face,
well-cut clothes and strange presence, a sort of coiled spring effect.
'Look, I'll be frank,' he said. 'I could point you in the direction of
a great brothel.'
'I've already had lunch,' said Mort, vaguely. 'But you can tell me if
we're anywhere near, I think it's called Sto Lat?'
'About twenty miles Hubwards, but there's nothing there for a young man
of your kidney,' said the trader hurriedly. 'I know,
you're out by yourself, you want new experiences, you want excitement,
romance -'
Mort, meanwhile, had opened the bag Death had given him. It was full of
small gold coins, about the size of sequins.
An image formed again in his mind, of a pale young face under a head of
red hair who had somehow known he was there. The unfocused feelings that had
haunted his mind for the last few days suddenly sharpened to a point.
'I want,' he said firmly, 'a very fast horse.'
Five minutes later, Mort was lost.
This part of Ankh-Morpork was known as The Shades, an inner-city area
sorely in need either of governmental help or, for preference, a
flamethrower. It couldn't be called squalid because that would be stretching
the word to breaking point. It was beyond squalor and out the other side,
where by a sort of Einsteinian reversal it achieved a magnificent
horribleness that it wore like an architectural award. It was noisy and
sultry and smelled like a cowshed floor.
It didn't so much have a neighbourhood as an ecology, like a great
land-based coral reef. There were the humans, all right, humanoid
equivalents of lobsters, squid, shrimps and so on. And sharks.
Mort wandered hopelessly along the winding streets. Anyone hovering at
rooftop height would have noticed a certain pattern in the crowds behind
him, suggesting a number of men converging nonchalantly on a target, and
would rightly have concluded that Mort and his gold had about the same life
expectancy as a three-legged hedgehog on a six-lane motorway.
It is probably already apparent that The Shades was not the sort of
place to have inhabitants. It had denizens. Periodically Mort would try to
engage one in conversation, to find the way to a good horse dealer. The
denizen would usually mutter something and hurry away, since anyone wishing
to live in The Shades for longer than maybe three hours developed very
specialized senses indeed and would no more hang around near Mort than a
peasant would stand near a tall tree in thundery weather.
And so Mort came at last to the river Ankh, greatest of rivers. Even
before it entered the city it was slow and heavy with the silt of the
plains, and by the time it got to The Shades even an agnostic could have
walked across it. It was hard to drown in the Ankh, but easy to suffocate.
Mort looked at the surface doubtfully. It seemed to be moving. There
were bubbles in it. It had to be water.
He sighed, and turned away.
Three men had appeared behind him, as though extruded from the
stonework. They had the heavy, stolid look of those thugs whose appearance
in any narrative means that it's time for the hero to be menaced a bit,
although not too much, because it's also obvious that they're going to be
horribly surprised.
They were leering. They were good at it.
One of them had drawn a knife, which he waved in little circles in the
air. He advanced slowly towards Mort, while the other two hung back to
provide immoral support.
'Give us the money,' he rasped.
Mort's hand went to the bag on his belt.
'Hang on a minute,' he said. 'What happens then?'
'What?'
'I mean, is it my money or my life?' said Mort. 'That's the sort of
thing robbers are supposed to demand. Your money or your life. I read that
in a book once,' he added.
'Possibly, possibly,' conceded the robber. He felt he was losing the
initiative, but rallied magnificently. 'On the other hand, it could be your
money and your life. Pulling off the double, you might say.' The man looked
sideways at his colleagues, who sniggered on cue.
'In that case -' said Mort, and hefted the bag in one hand preparatory
to chucking it as far out into the Ankh as he could, even though there was a
reasonable chance it would bounce.
'Hey, what are you doing,'said the robber. He started to run forward,
but halted when Mort gave the bag a threatening jerk.
'Well,' said Mort, 'I look at it like this. If you're going to kill me
anyway, I might as well get rid of the money. It's entirely up to you.' To
illustrate his point he took one coin out of the bag and flicked it out
across the water, which accepted it with an unfortunate sucking noise. The
thieves shuddered.
The leading thief looked at the bag. He looked at his knife. He looked
at Mort's face. He looked at his colleagues.
'Excuse me,' he said, and they went into a huddle.
Mort measured the distance to the end of the alley. He wouldn't make
it. Anyway, these three looked as though chasing people was another thing
they were good at. It was only logic that left them feeling a little
stretched.
Their leader turned back to Mort. He gave a final glance at the other
two. They both nodded decisively.
'I think we kill you and take a chance on the money,' he said. 'We
don't want this sort of thing to spread.'
The other two drew their knives.
Mort swallowed. 'This could be unwise,' he said.
'Why?'
'Well, I won't like it, for one.'
'You're not supposed to like it, you're supposed to - die,' said the
thief, advancing.
'I don't think I'm due to die,' said Mort, backing away. 'I'm sure I
would have been told.'
'Yeah,' said the thief, who was getting fed up with this. 'Yeah, well,
you have been, haven't you? Great steaming elephant turds!'
Mort had just stepped backwards again. Through a wall.
The leading thief glared at the solid stone that had swallowed Mort,
and then threw down his knife.
'Well, f? me,' he said. 'A f?ing wizard. I hate f?ing wizards!'
'You shouldn't f? them, then,' muttered one of his henchmen,
effortlessly pronouncing a row of dashes.
The third member of the trio, who was a little slow of thinking, said,
'Hey, he walked through the wall!'
'And we bin following him for ages, too,' muttered the second one.
'Fine one you are, Pilgarlic. I said I thought he was a wizard, only
wizards'd walk round here by themselves. Dint I say he looked like a wizard?
I said -'
'You're saying a good deal too much,' growled the leader.
'I saw him, he walked right through the wall there -'
'Oh, yeah?'
'Yeah!'
'Right through it, dint you see ?'
'Think you're sharp, do you?'
'Sharp enough, come to that!'
The leader scooped his knife out of the dirt in one snaky movement.
'Sharp as this?'
The third thief lurched over to the wall and kicked it hard a few
times, while behind him there were the sounds of scuffle and some damp
bubbling noises.
'Yep, it's a wall okay,' he said. That's a wall if ever I saw one. How
d'you think they do it, lads?'
'Lads?'
He tripped over the prone bodies.
'Oh,' he said. Slow as his mind was, it was quick enough to realize
something very important. He was in a back alley in The Shades, and he was
alone. He ran for it, and got quite a long way.
Death walked slowly across tiles in the life-timer room, inspecting the
serried rows of busy hourglasses. Albert followed dutifully behind with the
great ledger open in his arms.
The sound roared around them, a vast grey waterfall of noise.
It came from the shelves where, stretching away into the infinite
distance, row upon row of hourglasses poured away the sands of mortal time.
It was a heavy sound, a dull sound, a sound that poured like sullen custard
over the bright roly-poly pudding of the soul.
VERY WELL, said Death at last. I MAKE IT THREE. A QUIET NIGHT.
'That'd be Goodie Hamstring, the Abbott Lobsang again, and this
Princess Keli,' said Albert.
Death looked at the three hourglasses in his hand.
I WAS THINKING OF SENDING THE LAD OUT, he said.
Albert consulted his ledger. 'Well, Goodie wouldn't be any trouble and
the Abbott is what you might call experienced,' he said. 'Shame about the
princess. Only fifteen. Could be tricky.'
YES. IT IS A PITY.
'Master?'
Death stood with the third glass in his hand, staring thoughtfully at
the play of light across its surface. He sighed.
ONE SO YOUNG. . . .
'Are you feeling all right, master?' said Albert, his voice full of
concern.
TIME LIKE AN EVER-ROLLING STREAM BEARS ALL ITS. . . .
'Master!'
WHAT? said Death, snapping out of it.
'You've been overdoing it, master, that's what it is-'
WHAT ARE YOU BLATHERING ABOUT, MAN?
'You had a bit of a funny turn there, master.'
NONSENSE. I HAVE NEVER FELT BETTER. NOW, WHAT WERE WE TALKING ABOUT?
Albert shrugged, and peered down at the entries in the book.
'Goodie's a witch,' he said. 'She might get a bit annoyed if you send
Mort.'
All practitioners of magic earned the right, once their own personal
sands had run out, of being claimed by Death himself rather than his minor
functionaries.
Death didn't appear to hear Albert. He was staring at Princess Keli's
hourglass again.
WHAT IS THAT SENSE INSIDE YOUR HEAD OF WISTFUL REGRET THAT THINGS ARE
THE WAY THEY APPARENTLY ARE?
'Sadness, master. I think. Now -'
I AM SADNESS.
Albert stood with his mouth open. Finally he got a grip on himself long
enough to blurt out, 'Master, we were talking about Mort!'
MORT WHO?
'Your apprentice, master,' said Albert patiently. Tall young lad.'
OF COURSE. WELL, WE'LL SEND HIM.
'Is he ready to go solo, master?' said Albert doubtfully.
Death thought about it. HE CAN DO IT, he said at last. HE'S KEEN, HE'S
QUICK TO LEARN AND, REALLY, he added, PEOPLE CAN'T EXPECT TO HAVE ME RUNNING
AROUND AFTER THEM ALL THE TIME.
Mort stared blankly at the velvet wall hangings a few inches from his
eyes.
I've walked through a wall, he thought. And that's impossible.
He gingerly moved the hangings aside to see if a door was lurking
somewhere, but there was nothing but crumbling plaster which had cracked
away in places to reveal some dampish but emphatically solid brickwork.
He prodded it experimentally. It was quite clear that he wasn't going
back out that way.
'Well,' he said to the wall. 'What now?'
A voice behind him said, 'Um. Excuse please?'
He turned around slowly.
Grouped around a table in the middle of the room was a Klatchian family
of father, mother and half a dozen children of dwindling size. Eight pairs
of round eyes were fixed on Mort. A ninth pair belonging to an aged
grandparent of indeterminate sex weren't, because their owner had taken
advantage of the interruption to get some elbow room at the communal rice
bowl, taking the view that a boiled fish in the hand was worth any amount of
unexplained manifestations, and the silence was punctuated by the sound of
determined mastication.
In one corner of the crowded room was a little shrine to Offler, the
six-armed Crocodile God of Klatch. It was grinning just like Death, except
of course Death didn't have a flock of holy birds that brought him news of
his worshippers and also kept his teeth clean.
Klatchians prize hospitality above all other virtues. As Mort stared
the woman took another plate off the shelf behind her and silently began to
fill it from the big bowl, snatching a choice cut of catfish from the
ancient's hands after a brief struggle. Her kohl-rimmed eyes remained
steadily on Mort, however.
It was the father who had spoken. Mort bowed nervously.
'Sorry,' he said. 'Er, I seem to have walked through this wall.' It was
rather lame, he had to admit.
'Please?' said the man. The woman, her bangles jangling, carefully
arranged a few slices of pepper across the plate and sprinkled it with a
dark green sauce that Mort was afraid he recognized. He'd tried it a few
weeks before, and although it was a complicated recipe one taste had been
enough to know that it was made out of fish entrails marinated for several
years in a vat of shark bile. Death had said that it was an acquired taste.
Mort had decided not to make the effort.
He tried to sidle around the edge of the room towards the bead-hung
doorway, all the heads turning to watch him. He tried a grin.
The woman said: 'Why does the demon show his teeth, husband of my
life?'
The man said: 'It could be hunger, moon of my desire. Pile on more
fish!'
And the ancestor grumbled: 'I was eating that, wretched child. Woe unto
the world when there is no respect for age!'
Now the fact is that while the words entered Mort's ear in their spoken
Klatchian, with all the curlicues and subtle diphthongs of a language so
ancient and sophisticated that it had fifteen words meaning 'assassination'
before the rest of the world had caught on to the idea of bashing one
another over the head with rocks, they arrived in his brain as clear and
understandable as his mother tongue.
'I'm no demon! I'm a human!' he said, and stopped in shock as his words
emerged in perfect Klatch.
'You're a thief?' said the father. 'A murderer? To creep in thus, are
you a tax-gatherer ?' His hand slipped under the table and came up holding a
meat cleaver honed to paper thinness. His wife screamed and dropped the
plate and clutched the youngest children to her.
Mort watched the blade weave through the air, and gave in.
'I bring you greetings from the uttermost circles of hell,' he
hazarded.
The change was remarkable. The cleaver was lowered and the family broke
into broad smiles.
'There is much luck to us if a demon visits,' beamed the father. 'What
is your wish, O foul spawn of Offler's loins?'
'Sorry?' said Mort.
'A demon brings blessing and good fortune on the man that helps it,'
said the man. 'How may we be of assistance, O evil dog's-breath of the
nether pit?'
'Well, I'm not very hungry,' said Mort, 'but if you know where I can
get a fast horse, I could be in Sto Lat before sunset.'
The man beamed and bowed. 'I know the very place, noxious extrusion of
the bowels, if you would be so good as to follow me.'
Mort hurried out after him. The ancient ancestor watched them go with a
critical expression, its jowls rhythmically chewing.
'That was what they call a demon around here?' it said. 'Offler rot
this country of dampness, even their demons are third-rate, not a patch on
the demons we had in the Old Country.'
The wife placed a small bowl of rice in the folded middle pair of hands
of the Offler statue (it would be gone in the morning) and stood back.
'Husband did say that last month at the Curry Gardens he served a
creature who was not there,' she said. 'He was impressed.'
Ten minutes later the man returned and, in solemn silence, placed a
small heap of gold coins on the table. They represented enough wealth to
purchase quite a large part of the city.
'He had a bag of them,' he said.
The family stared at the money for some time. The wife sighed.
'Riches bring many problems,' she said. 'What are we to do?'
'We return to Klatch,' said the husband firmly, 'where our children can
grow up in a proper country, true to the glorious traditions of our ancient
race and men do not need to work as waiters for wicked masters but can stand
tall and proud. And we must leave right now, fragrant blossom of the date
palm.'
'Why so soon, O hard-working son of the desert?'
'Because,' said the man, 'I have just sold the Patrician's champion
racehorse.'
The horse wasn't as fine or as fast as Binky, but it swept the miles
away under its hooves and easily outdistanced a few mounted guards who, for
some reason, appeared anxious to talk to Mort. Soon the shanty suburbs of
Morpork were left behind and the road ran out into rich black earth country
of the Sto plain, constructed over eons by the periodic flooding of the
great slow Ankh that brought to the region prosperity, security and chronic
arthritis.
It was also extremely boring. As the light distilled from silver to
gold Mort galloped across a flat, chilly landscape, chequered with cabbage
fields from edge to edge. There are many things to be said about cabbages.
One may talk at length about their high vitamin content, their vital iron
contribution, the valuable roughage and commendable food value. In the mass,
however, they lack a certain something; despite their claim to immense
nutritional and moral superiority over, say, daffodils, they have never been
a sight to inspire the poet's muse. Unless he was hungry, of course. It was
only twenty miles to Sto Lat, but i...
