“I have a problem, Mr Cutwell,” said Keli.
“Hang on a moment.” He reached up to a hook over the fireplace and took down a pointy hat that had seen better days, although from the look of it they hadn’t been very much better, and then said, “Right. Fire away.”
“What’s so important about the hat?”
“Oh, it’s very essential. You’ve got to have the proper hat for wizarding. We wizards know about this sort of thing.”
“If you say so. Look, can you see me?”
He peered at her. “Yes. Yes, I would definitely say I can see you.”
“And hear me? You can hear me, can you?”
“Loud and clear. Yes. Every syllable tinkling into place. No problems.”
“Then would you be surprised if I told you that no-one else in this city can?”
“Except me?”
Keli snorted. “And your doorknocker.”
Cutwell pulled out a chair and sat down. He squirmed a little. A thoughtful expression passed over his face. He stood up, reached behind him and produced a flat reddish mass which might have once been half a pizza[2]. He stared at it sorrowfully.
“I’ve been looking for that all morning, would you believe?” he said. “It was an All-On with extra peppers, too.” He picked sadly at the squashed shape, and suddenly remembered Keli.
“Gosh, sorry,” he said, “where’s my manners? Whatever will you think of me? Here. Have an anchovy. Please.”
“Have you been listening to me?” snapped Keli.
“Do you feel invisible? In yourself, I mean?” said Cutwell, indistinctly.
“Of course not. I just feel angry. So I want you to tell my fortune.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, it all sounds rather medical to me and—”
“I can pay.”
“It’s illegal, you see,” said Cutwell wretchedly. “The old king expressly forbade fortune telling in Sto Lat. He didn’t like wizards much.”
“I can pay a lot.”
“Mrs Nugent was telling me this new girl is likely to be worse. A right haughty one, she said. Not the sort to look kindly on practitioners of the subtle arts, I fear.”
Keli smiled. Members of the court who had seen that smile before would have hastened to drag Cutwell out of the way and into a place of safety, like the next continent, but he just sat there trying to pick bits of mushroom out of his robe.
“I understand she’s got a foul temper on her,” said Keli. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t turn you out of the city anyway.”
“Oh dear,” said Cutwell, “do you really think so?”
“Look,” said Keli, “you don’t have to tell my future, just my present. Even she couldn’t object to that. I’ll have a word with her if you like,” she added magnanimously.
Cutwell brightened. “Oh, do you know her?” he said.
“Yes. But sometimes, I think, not very well.”
Cutwell sighed and burrowed around in the debris on the table, dislodging cascades of elderly plates and the long-mummified remains of several meals. Eventually he unearthed a fat leather wallet, stuck to a cheese slice.
“Well,” he said doubtfully, “these are Caroc cards. Distilled wisdom of the Ancients and all that. Or there’s the Ching Aling of the Hublandish.{15} It’s all the rage in the smart set. I don’t do tealeaves.”
“I’ll try the Ching thing.”
“You throw these yarrow stalks in the air, then.”
She did. They looked at the ensuing pattern.
“Hmm,” said Cutwell after a while. “Well, that’s one in the fireplace, one in the cocoa mug, one in the street, shame about the window, one on the table, and one, no, two behind the dresser. I expect Mrs Nugent will be able to find the rest.”
“You didn’t say how hard. Shall I do it again?”
“No-ooo, I don’t think so.” Cutwell thumbed through the pages of a yellowed book that had previously been supporting the table leg. “The pattern seems to make sense. Yes, here we are, Octogram 8,887: Illegality, the Unatoning Goose. Which we cross reference here… hold on… hold on… yes. Got it.”
“Well?”
“Without vertically, wisely the cochineal emperor goes forth at teatime; at evening the mollusc is silent among the almond blossom.”
“Yes?” said Keli, respectfully. “What does that mean?”
“Unless you’re a mollusc, probably not a lot,” said Cutwell. “I think perhaps it lost something in translation.”
“Are you sure you know how to do this?”
“Let’s try the cards,” said Cutwell hurriedly, fanning them out. “Pick a card. Any card.”
“It’s Death,” said Keli.
“Ah. Well. Of course, the Death card doesn’t actually mean death in all circumstances,” Cutwell said quickly.
“You mean, it doesn’t mean death in those circumstances where the subject is getting over-excited and you’re too embarrassed to tell the truth, hmm?”
“Look, take another card.”
“This one’s Death as well,” said Keli.
“Did you put the other one back?”
“No. Shall I take another card?”
“May as well.”
“Well, there’s a coincidence!”
“Death number three?”
“Right. Is this a special pack for conjuring tricks?” Keli tried to sound composed, but even she could detect the faint tinkle of hysteria in her voice.
Cutwell frowned at her and carefully put the cards back in the pack, shuffled it, and dealt them out on to the table. There was only one Death.
“Oh dear,” he said, “I think this is going to be serious. May I see the palm of your hand, please?”
He examined it for a long time. After a while he went to the dresser, took a jeweller’s eyeglass out of a drawer, wiped the porridge off it with the sleeve of his robe, and spent another few minutes examining her hand in minutest detail. Eventually he sat back, removed the glass, and stared at her.
“You’re dead,” he said.
Keli waited. She couldn’t think of any suitable reply. “I’m not” lacked a certain style, while “Is it serious?” seemed somehow too frivolous.
“Did I say I thought this was going to be serious?” said Cutwell.
“I think you did,” said Keli carefully, keeping her tone totally level.
“I was right.”
“Oh.”
“It could be fatal.”
“How much more fatal,” said Keli, “than being dead?”
“I didn’t mean for you.”
“Oh.”
“Something very fundamental seems to have gone wrong, you see. You’re dead in every sense but the, er, actual. I mean, the cards think you’re dead. Your lifeline thinks you’re dead. Everything and everyone thinks you’re dead.”
“I don’t,” said Keli, but her voice was less than confident.
“I’m afraid your opinion doesn’t count.”
“But people can see and hear me!”
“The first thing you learn when you enroll at Unseen University, I’m afraid, is that people don’t pay much attention to that sort of thing. It’s what their minds tell them that’s important.”
“You mean people don’t see me because their minds tell them not to?”
“’Fraid so. It’s called predestination, or something.” Cutwell looked at her wretchedly. “I’m a wizard. We know about these things.”
“Actually it’s not the first thing you learn when you enroll,” he added, “I mean, you learn where the lavatories are and all that sort of thing before that. But after all that, it’s the first thing.”
“You can see me, though.”
“Ah. Well. Wizards are specially trained to see things that are there and not to see things that aren’t. You get these special exercises—”
2
The first pizza was created on the Disc by the Klatchian mystic Ronron ‘Revelation Joe’ Shuwadhi, who claimed to have been given the recipe in a dream by the Creator of the Discworld Himself, Who had apparently added that it was what He had intended all along. Those desert travellers who had seen the original, which is reputedly miraculously preserved in the Forbidden City of Ee, say that what the Creator had in mind then was a fairly small cheese and pepperoni affair with a few black olives* and things like mountains and seas got added out of last-minute enthusiasm, as so often happens.
* After the Schism of the Turnwise Ones and the deaths of some 25,000 people in the ensuing jihad the faithful were allowed to add one small bayleaf to the recipe.