Mort - Страница 26

On this particular night they were scented with saltpetre, too, because it was the tenth anniversary of the accession of the Patrician and he had invited a few friends round for a drink, five hundred of them in this case, and was letting off fireworks. Laughter and the occasional gurgle of passion filled the palace gardens, and the evening had just got to that interesting stage where everyone had drunk too much for their own good but not enough actually to fall over. It is the kind of state in which one does things that one will recall with crimson shame in later life, such as blowing through a paper squeaker and laughing so much that one is sick.

In fact some two hundred of the Patrician’s guests were now staggering and kicking their way through the Serpent Dance, a quaint Morporkian folkway which consisted of getting rather drunk, holding the waist of the person in front, and then wobbling and giggling uproariously in a long crocodile that wound through as many rooms as possible, preferably ones with breakables in, while kicking one leg vaguely in time with the beat, or at least in time with some other beat. This dance had gone on for half an hour and had wound through every room in the palace, picking up two trolls, the cook, the Patrician’s head torturer, three waiters, a burglar who happened to be passing and a small pet swamp dragon.

Somewhere around the middle of the dance was fat Lord Rodley of Quirm, heir to the fabulous Quirm estates, whose current preoccupation was with the thin fingers gripping his waist. Under its bath of alcohol his brain kept trying to attract his attention.

“I say,” he called over his shoulder, as they oscillated for the tenth hilarious time through the enormous kitchen, “not so tight, please.”

I AM MOST TERRIBLY SORRY.

“No offence, old chap. Do I know you?” said Lord Rodley, kicking vigorously on the back beat.

I THINK IT UNLIKELY. TELL ME, PLEASE, WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS ACTIVITY?

“What?” shouted Lord Rodley, above the sound of someone kicking in the door of a glass cabinet amid shrieks of merriment.

WHAT IS THIS THING THAT WE DO? said the voice, with glacial patience.

“Haven’t you been to a party before? Mind the glass, by the way.”

I AM AFRAID I DO NOT GET OUT AS MUCH AS I WOULD LIKE TO. PLEASE EXPLAIN THIS. DOES IT HAVE TO DO WITH SEX?

“Not unless we pull up sharp, old boy, if you know what I mean?” said his lordship, and nudged his unseen fellow guest with his elbow.

“Ouch,” he said. A crash up ahead marked the demise of the cold buffet.

NO.

“What?”

I DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN.

“Mind the cream there, it’s slippery—look, it’s just a dance, all right? You do it for fun.”

FUN.

“That’s right. Dada, dada, da—kick!” There was an audible pause.

WHO IS THIS FUN?

“No, fun isn’t anybody, fun is what you have.”

WE ARE HAVING FUN?

“I thought I was,” said his lordship uncertainly. The voice by his ear was vaguely worrying him; it appeared to be arriving directly into his brain.

WHAT IS THIS FUN?

“This is!”

TO KICK VIGOROUSLY IS FUN?

“Well, part of the fun. Kick!”

TO HEAR LOUD MUSIC IN HOT ROOMS IS FUN?

“Possibly.”

HOW IS THIS FUN MANIFEST?

“Well, it—look, either you’re having fun or you’re not, you don’t have to ask me, you just know, all right? How did you get in here, anyway?” he added. “Are you a friend of the Patrician?”

LET US SAY, HE PUTS BUSINESS MY WAY. I FELT I OUGHT TO LEARN SOMETHING OF HUMAN PLEASURES.

“Sounds like you’ve got a long way to go.”

I KNOW. PLEASE EXCUSE MY LAMENTABLE IGNORANCE. I WISH ONLY TO LEARN. ALL THESE PEOPLE, PLEASE—THEY ARE HAVING FUN?

“Yes!”

THEN THIS IS FUN.

“I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out. Mind the chair,” snapped Lord Rodley, who was now feeling very unfunny and unpleasantly sober.

A voice behind him said quietly: THIS IS FUN. TO DRINK EXCESSIVELY IS FUN. WE ARE HAVING FUN. HE IS HAVING FUN. THIS IS SOME FUN.

WHAT FUN.

Behind Death the Patrician’s small pet swamp dragon held on grimly to the bony hips and thought: guards or no guards, next time we pass an open window I’m going to run like buggery.

———

Keli sat bolt upright in bed.

“Don’t move another step,” she said. “Guards!”

“We couldn’t stop him,” said the first guard, poking his head shame-facedly around the doorpost.

“He just pushed in…” said the other guard, from the other side of the doorway.

“And the wizard said it was all right, and we were told everyone must listen to him because…”

“All right, all right. People could get murdered around here,” said Keli testily, and put the crossbow back on the bedside table without, unfortunately, operating the safety catch.

There was a click, the thwack of sinew against metal, a zip of air, and a groan. The groan came from Cutwell. Mort spun round to him.

“Are you all right?” he said. “Did it hit you?”

“No,” said the wizard, weakly. “No, it didn’t. How do you feel?”

“A bit tired. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing. No draughts anywhere? No slight leaking feelings?”

“No. Why?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” Cutwell turned and looked closely at the wall behind Mort.

“Aren’t the dead allowed any peace?” said Keli bitterly. “I thought one thing you could be sure of when you were dead was a good night’s sleep.” She looked as though she had been crying. With an insight that surprised him, Mort realised that she knew this and that it was making her even angrier than before.

“That’s not really fair,” he said. “I’ve come to help. Isn’t that right, Cutwell?”

“Hmm?” said Cutwell, who had found the crossbow bolt buried in the plaster and was looking at it with deep suspicion. “Oh, yes. He has. It won’t work, though. Excuse me, has anyone got any string?”

“Help?” snapped Keli. “Help? If it wasn’t for you—”

“You’d still be dead,” said Mort. She looked at him with her mouth open.

“I wouldn’t know about it, though,” she said. “That’s the worst part.”

“I think you two had better go,” said Cutwell to the guards, who were trying to appear inconspicuous. “But I’ll have that spear, please. Thank you.”

“Look,” said Mort, “I’ve got a horse outside. You’d be amazed. I can take you anywhere. You don’t have to wait around here.”

“You don’t know much about monarchy, do you,” said Keli.

“Um. No?”

“She means better to be a dead queen in your own castle than a live commoner somewhere else,” said Cutwell, who had stuck the spear into the wall by the bolt and was trying to sight along it. “Wouldn’t work, anyway. The dome isn’t centred on the palace, it’s centred on her.”

“On who?” said Keli. Her voice could have kept milk fresh for a month.

“On her Highness,” said Cutwell automatically, squinting along the shaft.

“Don’t you forget it.”

“I won’t forget it, but that’s not the point,” said he wizard. He pulled the bolt out of the plaster and tested the point with his finger.

“But if you stay here you’ll die!” said Mort.

“Then I shall have to show the Disc how a queen can die,” said Keli, looking as proud as was possible in a pink knitted bed jacket.

Mort sat down on the end of the bed with his head in his hands.

“I know how a queen can die,” he muttered. “They die just like other people. And some of us would rather not see it happen.”

“Excuse me, I just want to look at this crossbow,” said Cutwell conversationally, reaching across them. “Don’t mind me.”

“I shall go proudly to meet my destiny,” said Keli, but there was the barest flicker of uncertainty in her voice.

“No you won’t. I mean, I know what I’m talking about. Take it from me. There’s nothing proud about it. You just die.”

“Yes, but it’s how you do it. I shall die nobly, like Queen Ezeriel.”

Mort’s forehead wrinkled. History was a closed book to him.

“Who’s she?”

“She lived in Klatch and she had a lot of lovers and she sat on a snake,” said Cutwell, who was winding up the crossbow.

“She meant to! She was crossed in love!”

“All I can remember was that she used to take baths in asses’ milk. Funny thing, history,” said Cutwell reflectively. “You become a queen, reign for thirty years, make laws, declare war on people and then the only thing you get remembered for is that you smelled like yoghurt and were bitten in the—”

“She’s a distant ancestor of mine,” snapped Keli. “I won’t listen to this sort of thing.”

“Will you both be quiet and listen to me!” shouted Mort.

Silence descended like a shroud.

Then Cutwell sighted carefully and shot Mort in the back.

———

The night shed its early casualties and journeyed onwards. Even the wildest parties had ended, their guests lurching home to their beds, or someone’s bed at any rate. Shorn of these fellow travellers, mere daytime people who had strayed out of their temporal turf, the true survivors of the night got down to the serious commerce of the dark.

This wasn’t so very different from Ankh-Morpork’s daytime business, except that the knives were more obvious and people didn’t smile so much.