Mort - Страница 12

“In a figurative sense,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“Well, it means no,” said Cutwell.

“But you said—”

“That was advertising,” said the wizard. “It’s a kind of magic I’ve been working on. What was it you were wanting, anyway?” He leered suggestively. “A love philtre, yes? Something to encourage the young ladies?”

“Is it possible to walk through walls?” said Mort desperately. Cutwell paused with his hand already halfway to a large bottle full of sticky liquid.

“Using magic?”

“Um,” said Mort, “I don’t think so.”

“Then pick very thin walls,” said Cutwell. “Better still, use the door. The one over there would be favourite, if you’ve just come here to waste my time.”

Mort hesitated, and then put the bag of gold coins on the table. The wizard glanced at them, made a little whinnying noise in the back of his throat, and reached out, Mort’s hand shot across and grabbed his wrist.

“I’ve walked through walls,” he said, slowly and deliberately.

“Of course you have, of course you have,” mumbled Cutwell, not taking his eyes off the bag. He flicked the cork out of the bottle of blue liquid and took an absent-minded swig.

“Only before I did it I didn’t know that I could, and when I was doing it I didn’t know I was, and now I’ve done it I can’t remember how it was done. And I want to do it again.”

“Why?”

“Because,” said Mort, “if I could walk through walls I could do anything.”

“Very deep,” agreed Cutwell. “Philosophical. And the name of the young lady on the other side of this wall?”

“She’s—” Mort swallowed. “I don’t know her name. Even if there is a girl,” he added haughtily, “and I’m not saying there is.”

“Right,” said Cutwell. He took another swig, and shuddered. “Fine. How to walk through walls. I’ll do some research. It might be expensive, though.”

Mort carefully picked up the bag and pulled out one small gold coin.

“A down payment,” he said, putting it on the table.

Cutwell picked up the coin as if he expected it to go bang or evaporate, and examined it carefully.

“I’ve never seen this sort of coin before,” he said accusingly. “What’s all this curly writing?”

“It’s gold, though, isn’t it?” said Mort. “I mean, you don’t have to accept it—”

“Sure, sure, it’s gold,” said Cutwell hurriedly. “It’s gold all right. I just wondered where it had come from, that’s all.”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” said Mort. “What time’s sunset around here?”

“We normally manage to fit it in between night and day,” said Cutwell, still staring at the coin and taking little sips from the blue bottle. “About now.”

Mort glanced out of the window. The street outside already had a twilight look to it.

“I’ll be back,” he muttered, and made for the door. He heard the wizard call out something, but Mort was heading down the street at a dead run.

He started to panic. Death would be waiting for him forty miles away. There would be a row. There would be a terrible—

AH, BOY.

A familiar figure stepped out from the flare around a jellied eel stall, holding a plate of winkles.

THE VINEGAR IS PARTICULARLY PIQUANT. HELP YOURSELF, I HAVE AN EXTRA PIN.

But, of course, just because he was forty miles away didn’t mean he wasn’t here as well…

And in his untidy room Cutwell turned the gold coin over and over in his fingers, muttering ‘walls’ to himself, and draining the bottle.

He appeared to notice what he was doing only when there was no more to drink, at which point his eyes focused on the bottle and, through a rising pink mist, read the label which said ‘Granny Weatherwax’s Ramrub Invigoratore and Passion’s Philtre, Onne Spoonful Onlie before bed and that Smalle’.

———

“By myself?” said Mort.

CERTAINLY. I HAVE EVERY FAITH IN YOU.

“Gosh!”

The suggestion put everything else out of Mort’s mind, and he was rather surprised to find that he didn’t feel particularly squeamish. He’d seen quite a few deaths in the last week or so, and all the horror went out of it when you knew you’d be speaking to the victim afterwards. Most of them were relieved, one or two of them were angry, but they were all glad of a few helpful words.

THINK YOU CAN DO IT?

“Well, sir. Yes. I think.”

THAT’S THE SPIRIT. I’VE LEFT BINKY BY THE HORSETROUGH ROUND THE CORNER. TAKE HIM STRAIGHT HOME WHEN YOU’VE FINISHED.

“You’re staying here, sir?”

Death looked up and down the street. His eye-sockets flared.

I THOUGHT I MIGHT STROLL AROUND A BIT, he said mysteriously. I DON’T SEEM TO FEEL QUITE RIGHT. I COULD DO WITH THE FRESH AIR. He seemed to remember something, reached into the mysterious shadows of his cloak, and pulled out three hourglasses.

ALL STRAIGHTFORWARD, he said. ENJOY YOURSELF.

He turned and strode off down the street, humming.

“Um. Thank you,” said Mort. He held the hourglasses up to the light, noting the one that was on its very last few grains of sand.

“Does this mean I’m in charge?” he called, but Death had turned the corner.

Binky greeted him with a faint whinny of recognition. Mort mounted up, his heart pounding with apprehension and responsibility. His fingers worked automatically, taking the scythe out of its sheath and adjusting and locking the blade (which flashed steely blue in the night, slicing the starlight like salami). He mounted carefully, wincing at the stab from his saddlesores, but Binky was like riding a pillow. As an afterthought, drunk with delegated authority, he pulled Death’s riding cloak out of its saddlebag and fastened it by its silver brooch.

He took another look at the first hourglass, and nudged Binky with his knees. The horse sniffed the chilly air, and began to trot.

Behind them Cutwell burst out of his doorway, accelerating down the frosty street with his robes flying out behind him.

Now the horse was cantering, widening the distance between its hooves and the cobbles. With a swish of its tail it cleared the housetops and floated up into the chilly sky.

Cutwell ignored it. He had more pressing things on his mind. He took a flying leap and landed full length in the freezing waters of the horsetrough, lying back gratefully among the bobbing ice splinters. After a while the water began to steam. Mort kept low for the sheer exhilaration of the speed. The sleeping countryside roared soundlessly underneath. Binky moved at an easy gallop, his great muscles sliding under his skin as easily as alligators off a sandbank, his mane whipping in Mort’s face. The night swirled away from the speeding edge of the scythe, cut into two curling halves.

They sped under the moonlight as silent as a shadow, visible only to cats and people who dabbled in things men were not meant to wot of.

Mort couldn’t remember afterwards, but very probably he laughed.

Soon the frosty plains gave way to the broken lands around the mountains, and then the marching ranks of the Ramtops themselves raced across the world towards them. Binky put his head down and opened his stride, aiming for a pass between two mountains as sharp as goblins’ teeth in the silver light. Somewhere a wolf howled.

Mort took another look at the hourglass. Its frame was carved with oak leaves and mandrake roots, and the sand inside, even by moonlight, was pale gold. By turning the glass this way and that, he could just make out the name ‘Ammeline Hamstring’ etched in the faintest of lines.

Binky slowed to a canter. Mort looked down at the roof of a forest, dusted with snow that was either early or very, very late; it could have been either, because the Ramtops hoarded their weather and doled it out with no real reference to the time of year.

A gap opened up beneath them. Binky slowed again, wheeled around and descended towards a clearing that was white with drifted snow. It was circular, with a tiny cottage in the exact middle. If the ground around it hadn’t been covered in snow, Mort would have noticed that there were no tree stumps to be seen; the trees hadn’t been cut down in the circle, they’d simply been discouraged from growing there. Or had moved away.

Candlelight spilled from one downstairs window, making a pale orange pool on the snow.

Binky touched down smoothly and trotted across the freezing crust without sinking. He left no hoofprints, of course.

Mort dismounted and walked towards the door, muttering to himself and making experimental sweeps with the scythe.

The cottage roof had been built with wide eaves, to shed snow and cover the logpile. No dweller in the high Ramtops would dream of starting a winter without a logpile on three sides of the house. But there wasn’t a logpile here, even though spring was still a long way off.

There was, however, a bundle of hay in a net by the door. It had a note attached, written in big, slightly shaky capitals: FOR THEE HORS.

It would have worried Mort if he’d let it. Someone was expecting him. He’d learned in recent days, though, that rather than drown in uncertainty it was best to surf right over the top of it. Anyway, Binky wasn’t worried by moral scruples and bit straight in.

It did leave the problem of whether to knock. Somehow, it didn’t seem appropriate. Supposing no-one answered, or told him to go away?

So he lifted the thumb latch and pushed at the door. It swung inwards quite easily, without a creak.