Mort - Страница 39

———

The Rite of AshkEnte, quite simply, summons and binds Death. Students of the occult will be aware that it can be performed with a simple incantation, three small bits of wood and 4cc of mouse blood, but no wizard worth his pointy hat would dream of doing anything so unimpressive; they knew in their hearts that if a spell didn’t involve big yellow candles, lots of rare incense, circles drawn on the floor with eight different colours of chalk and a few cauldrons around the place then it simply wasn’t worth contemplating.

The eight wizards at their stations on the points of the great ceremonial octogram swayed and chanted, their arms held out sideways so they were just touching the fingertips of the mages on either side.

But something was going wrong. True, a mist had formed in the very centre of the living octogram, but it was writhing and turning in on itself, refusing to focus.

“More power!” shouted Albert. “Give it more power!”

A figure appeared momentarily in the smoke, black-robed and holding a glittering sword. Albert swore as he caught a glimpse of the pale face under the cowl; it wasn’t pale enough.

“No!” Albert yelled, ducking into the octogram and flailing at the flickering shape with his hands. “Not you, not you…”

And, in faraway Tsort, Ysabell forgot she was a lady, bunched her fist, narrowed her eyes and caught Mort squarely on the jaw. The world around her exploded…

In the kitchen of Harga’s House of Ribs the frying pan crashed to the floor, sending the cats scurrying out of the door…

In the great hall of the Unseen University everything happened at once.

The tremendous force the wizards had been exerting on the shadow realm suddenly had one focus. Like a reluctant cork from a bottle, like a dollop of fiery ketchup from the upturned sauce bottle of Infinity, Death landed in the octogram and swore.

Albert realised just too late that he was inside the charmed ring and made a dive for the edge. But skeletal fingers caught him by the hem of his robe.

The wizards, such of them who were still on their feet and conscious, were rather surprised to see that Death was wearing an apron and holding a small kitten.

“Why did you have TO SPOIL IT ALL?

“Spoil it all? Have you seen what the lad has done?” snapped Albert, still trying to reach the edge of the ring.

Death raised his skull and sniffed the air.

The sound cut through all the other noises in the hall and forced them into silence.

It was the kind of noise that is heard on the twilight edges of dreams, the sort that you wake from in a cold sweat of mortal horror. It was the snuffling under the door of dread. It was like the snuffling of a hedgehog, but if so then it was the kind of hedgehog that crashes out of the verges and flattens lorries. It was the kind of noise you wouldn’t want to hear twice; you wouldn’t want to hear it once.

Death straightened up slowly.

IS THIS HOW HE REPAYS MY KINDNESS? TO STEAL MY DAUGHTER, INSULT MY SERVANTS, AND RISK THE FABRIC OF REALITY ON A PERSONAL WHIM? OH, FOOLISH, FOOLISH, I HAVE BEEN FOOLISH TOO LONG!

“Master, if you would just be so good as to let go of my robe—” began Albert, and the wizard noticed a pleading edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before.

Death ignored him. He snapped his fingers like a castanet and the apron around his waist exploded into brief flames. The kitten, however, he put down very carefully and gently pushed away with his foot.

DID I NOT GIVE HIM THE GREATEST OPPORTUNITY?

“Exactly, master, and now if you could see your way clear—”

SKILLS? A CAREER STRUCTURE? PROSPECTS? A JOB FOR LIFE?

“Indeed, and if you would but let go—”

The change in Albert’s voice was complete. The trumpets of command had become the piccolos of supplication. He sounded terrified, in fact, but he managed to catch Rincewind’s eye and hiss:

“My staff! Throw me my staff! While he is in the circle he is not invincible! Let me have my staff and I can break free!”

Rincewind said: “Pardon?”

OH, MINE IS THE FAULT FOR GIVING IN TO THESE WEAKNESSES OF WHAT FOR WANT OF A BETTER WORD I SHALL CALL THE FLESH!

“My staff, you idiot, my staff!” gibbered Albert.

“Sorry?”

WELL DONE, MY SERVANT, FOR CALLING ME TO MY SENSES, said Death. LET US LOSE NO TIME.

“My sta—!”

There was an implosion and an inrush of air. The candle flames stretched out like lines of fire for a moment, and then went out.

Some time passed.

Then the bursar’s voice from somewhere near the floor said, “That was very unkind, Rincewind, losing his staff like that. Remind me to discipline you severely one of these days. Anyone got a light?”

“I don’t know what happened to it! I just leaned it against the pillar here and now it’s—”

“Oook.”

“Oh,” said Rincewind.

“Extra banana ration, that ape,” said the bursar levelly. A match flared and someone managed to get a candle alight. Wizards started to pick themselves off the floor.

“Well, that was a lesson to all of us,” the bursar continued, brushing dust and candlewax off his robe. He looked up, expecting to see the statue of Alberto Malich back on its pedestal.

“Clearly even statues have feelings,” he said. “I myself recall, when I was but a first-year student, writing my name on his well, never mind. The point is, I propose here and now we replace the statue.”

Dead silence greeted this suggestion.

“With, say, an exact likeness cast in gold. Suitably embellished with jewels, as befits our great founder,” he went on brightly.

“And to make sure no students deface it in any way I suggest we then erect it in the deepest cellar,” he continued.

“And then lock the door,” he added. Several wizards began to cheer up.

“And throw away the key?” said Rincewind.

“And weld the door,” the bursar said. He had just remembered about The Mended Drum. He thought for a while and remembered about the physical fitness regime as well.

“And then brick up the doorway,” he said. There was a round of applause.

“And throw away the bricklayer!” chortled Rincewind, who felt he was getting the hang of this.

The bursar scowled at him. “No need to get carried away,” he said.

———

In the silence a larger than usual sand dune humped up awkwardly and then fell away to reveal Binky, blowing the sand out of his nostrils and shaking his mane.

Mort opened his eyes.

There should be a word for that brief period just after waking when the mind is full of warm pink nothing. You lie there entirely empty of thought, except for a growing suspicion that heading towards you, like a sockful of damp sand in a nocturnal alleyway, are all the recollections you’d really rather do without, and which amount to the fact that the only mitigating factor in your horrible future is the certainty that it will be quite short.

Mort sat up and put his hands on top of his head to stop it unscrewing.

The sand beside him heaved and Ysabell pushed herself into a sitting position. Her hair was full of sand and her face was grimy with pyramid dust. Some of her hair had frizzled at the tips. She stared listlessly at him.

“Did you hit me?” he said, gently testing his jaw.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

He looked at the sky, as though it could remind him about things. He had to be somewhere, soon, he recalled. Then he remembered something else.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Any time, I assure you.” Ysabell made it to her feet and tried to brush the dirt and cobwebs off her dress.

“Are we going to rescue this princess of yours?” she said diffidently.

Mort’s own personal, internal reality caught up with him. He shot to his feet with a strangled cry, watched blue fireworks explode in front of his eyes, and collapsed again. Ysabell caught him under the shoulders and hauled him back on his feet.

“Let’s go down to the river,” she said. “I think we could all do with a drink.”

“What happened to me?”

She shrugged as best she could while supporting his weight.

“Someone used the Rite of AshkEnte. Father hates it, he says they always summon him at inconvenient moments. The part of you that was Death went and you stayed behind. I think. At least you’ve got your own voice back.”

“What time is it?”

“What time did you say the priests close up the pyramid?”

Mort squinted through streaming eyes back towards the tomb of the king. Sure enough, torchlit fingers were working on the door. Soon, according to the legend, the guardians would come to life and begin their endless patrol.

He knew they would. He remembered the knowledge. He remembered his mind feeling as cold as ice and limitless as the night sky. He remembered being summoned into reluctant existence at the moment the first creature lived, in the certain knowledge that he would outlive life until the last being in the universe passed to its reward, when it would then be his job, figuratively speaking, to put the chairs on the tables and turn all the lights off.

He remembered the loneliness.

“Don’t leave me,” he said urgently.

“I’m here,” she said. “For as long as you need me.”

“It’s midnight,” he said dully, sinking down by the Tsort and lowering his aching head to the water. Beside him there was a noise like a bath emptying as Binky also took a drink.