Mort - Страница 16

He read on, unable to stop. Occasionally he groaned again.

Finally he put the book back, hesitated, and then shoved it behind a few other volumes. He could still feel it there as he climbed down the ladder, shrieking its incriminating existence to the world.

There were few ocean-going ships on the Disc. No captain liked to venture out of sight of a coastline. It was a sorry fact that ships which looked from a distance as though they were going over the edge of the world weren’t in fact disappearing over the horizon, they were in fact dropping over the edge of the world.

Every generation or so a few enthusiastic explorers doubted this and set out to prove it wrong. Strangely enough, none of them had ever come back to announce the result of their researches.

The following analogy would, therefore, have been meaningless to Mort.

He felt as if he’d been shipwrecked on the Titanic but in the nick of time had been rescued. By the Lusitania.

He felt as though he’d thrown a snowball on the spur of the moment and watched the ensuing avalanche engulf three ski resorts.

He felt history unravelling all around him.

He felt he needed someone to talk to, quickly.

That had to mean either Albert or Ysabell, because the thought of explaining everything to those tiny blue pinpoints was not one he cared to contemplate after a long night. On the rare occasions Ysabell deigned to look in his direction she made it clear that the only difference between Mort and a dead toad was the colour. As for Albert…

All right, not the perfect confidant, but definitely the best in a field of one.

Mort slid down the steps and threaded his way back through the bookshelves. A few hours’ sleep would be a good idea, too.

Then he heard a gasp, the brief patter of running feet, and the slam of a door. When he peered around the nearest bookcase there was nothing there except a stool with a couple of books on it. He picked one up and glanced at the name, then read a few pages. There was a damp lace handkerchief lying next to it.

———

Mort rose late, and hurried towards the kitchen expecting at any moment the deep tones of disapproval. Nothing happened.

Albert was at the stone sink, gazing thoughtfully at his chip pan, probably wondering whether it was time to change the fat or let it bide for another year. He turned as Mort slid into a chair.

“You had a busy time of it, then,” he said. “Gallivanting all over the place until all hours, I heard. I could do you an egg. Or there’s porridge.”

“Egg, please,” said Mort. He’d never plucked up the courage to try Albert’s porridge, which led a private life of its own in the depths of its saucepan and ate spoons.

“The master wants to see you after,” Albert added, “but he said you wasn’t to rush.”

“Oh.” Mort stared at the table. “Did he say anything else?”

“He said he hadn’t had an evening off in a thousand years,” said Albert. “He was humming. I don’t like it. I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Oh.” Mort took the plunge. “Albert, have you been here long?”

Albert looked at him over the top of his spectacles.

“Maybe,” he said. “It’s hard to keep track of outside time, boy. I bin here since just after the old king died.”

“Which king, Albert?”

“Artorollo, I think he was called. Little fat man. Squeaky voice. I only saw him the once, though.”

“Where was this?”

“In Ankh, of course.”

“What?” said Mort. “They don’t have kings in Ankh-Morpork, everyone knows that!”

“This was back a bit, I said,” said Albert. He poured himself a cup of tea from Death’s personal teapot and sat down, a dreamy look in his crusted eyes. Mort waited expectantly.

“And they was kings in those days, real kings, not like the sort you get now. They was monarchs,” continued Albert, carefully pouring some tea into his saucer and fanning it primly with the end of his muffler. “I mean, they was wise and fair, well, fairly wise. And they wouldn’t think twice about cutting your head off soon as look at you,” he added approvingly. “And all the queens were tall and pale and wore them balaclava helmet things—”

“Wimples?” said Mort.

“Yeah, them, and the princesses were beautiful as the day is long and so noble they, they could pee through a dozen mattresses—”

“What?”

Albert hesitated. “Something like that, anyway,” he conceded. “And there was balls and tournaments and executions. Great days.” He smiled dreamily at his memories.

“Not like the sort of days you get now,” he said, emerging from his reverie with bad grace.

“Have you got any other names, Albert?” said Mort. But the brief spell had been broken and the old man wasn’t going to be drawn.

“Oh, I know,” he snapped, “get Albert’s name and you’ll go and look him up in the library, won’t you? Prying and poking. I know you, skulking in there at all hours reading the lives of young wimmen—”

The heralds of guilt must have flourished their tarnished trumpets in the depths of Mort’s eyes, because Albert cackled and prodded him with a bony finger.

“You might at least put them back where you find ’em,” he said, “not leave piles of ’em around for old Albert to put back. Anyway, it’s not right, ogling the poor dead things. It probably turns you blind.”

“But I only—” Mort began, and remembered the damp lace handkerchief in his pocket, and shut up.

He left Albert grumbling to himself and doing the washing up, and slipped into the library. Pale sunlight lanced down from the high windows, gently fading the covers on the patient, ancient volumes. Occasionally a speck of dust would catch the light as it floated through the golden shafts, and flare like a miniature supernova.

Mort knew that if he listened hard enough he could hear the insect-like scritching of the books as they wrote themselves.

Once upon a time Mort would have found it eerie. Now it was—reassuring. It demonstrated that the universe was running smoothly. His conscience, which had been looking for the opening, gleefully reminded him that, all right, it might be running smoothly but it certainly wasn’t heading in the right direction.

He made his way through the maze of shelves to the mysterious pile of books, and found it was gone. Albert had been in the kitchen, and Mort had never seen Death himself enter the library. What was Ysabell looking for, then?

He glanced up at the cliff of shelves above him, and his stomach went cold when he thought of what was starting to happen…

There was nothing for it. He’d have to tell someone.

———

Keli, meanwhile, was also finding life difficult.

This was because causality had an incredible amount of inertia. Mort’s misplaced thrust, driven by anger and desperation and nascent love, had sent it down a new track but it hadn’t noticed yet. He’d kicked the tail of the dinosaur, but it would be some time before the other end realised it was time to say ‘ouch’.

Bluntly, the universe knew Keli was dead and was therefore rather surprised to find that she hadn’t stopped walking and breathing yet.

It showed it in little ways. The courtiers who gave her furtive odd looks during the morning would not have been able to say why the sight of her made them feel strangely uncomfortable. To their acute embarrassment and her annoyance they found themselves ignoring her, or talking in hushed voices.

The Chamberlain found he’d instructed that the royal standard be flown at half mast and for the life of him couldn’t explain why. He was gently led off to his bed with a mild nervous affliction after ordering a thousand yards of black bunting for no apparent reason.

The eerie, unreal feeling soon spread throughout the castle. The head coachman ordered the state bier to be brought out again and polished, and then stood in the stable yard and wept into his chamois leather because he couldn’t remember why. Servants walked softly along the corridors. The cook had to fight an overpowering urge to prepare simple banquets of cold meat. Dogs howled and then stopped, feeling rather stupid. The two black stallions who traditionally pulled the Sto Lat funeral cortege grew restive in their stalls and nearly kicked a groom to death.

In his castle in Sto Helit, the duke waited in vain for a messenger who had in fact set out, but had stopped halfway down the street, unable to remember what it was he was supposed to be doing.

Through all this Keli moved like a solid and increasingly more irritated ghost.

Things came to a head at lunchtime. She swept into the great hall and found no place had been set in front of the royal chair. By speaking loudly and distinctly to the butler she managed to get that rectified, then saw dishes being passed in front of her before she could get a fork into them. She watched in sullen disbelief as the wine was brought in and poured first for the Lord of the Privy Closet.

It was an unregal thing to do, but she stuck out a foot and tripped the wine waiter. He stumbled, muttered something under his breath, and stared down at the flagstones.

She leaned the other way and shouted into the ear of the Yeoman of the Pantry: “Can you see me, man? Why are we reduced to eating cold pork and ham?”

He turned aside from his hushed conversation with the Lady of the Small Hexagonal Room in the North Turret, gave her a long look in which shock made way for a sort of unfocused puzzlement, and said, “Why, yes… I can… er…”