It was nothing like as loud as the silence that followed it.
Keli shut her eyes. Cutwell turned away and put his arms over his head.
Death raised a hand to his skull, very slowly.
Ysabell’s chest rose and fell in a manner that should have made Cutwell give up magic for life.
Finally, in a voice even more hollow than usual, Death said: WHY?
“You said that to tinker with the fate of one individual could destroy the whole world,” said Ysabell.
YES?
“You meddled with his. And mine.” She pointed a trembling finger at the splinters of glass on the floor. “And those, too.”
WELL?
“What will the gods demand for that?”
FROM ME?
“Yes!”
Death looked surprised. THE GODS CAN DEMAND NOTHING OF ME. EVEN GODS ANSWER TO ME, EVENTUALLY.
“Doesn’t seem very fair, does it? Don’t the gods bother about justice and mercy?” snapped Ysabell. Without anyone quite noticing she had picked up the sword.
Death grinned. I APPLAUD YOUR EFFORTS, he said, BUT THEY AVAIL YOU NAUGHT. STAND ASIDE.
“No.”
YOU MUST BE AWARE THAT EVEN LOVE IS NO DEFENCE AGAINST ME. I AM SORRY.
Ysabell raised the sword. “You’re sorry?”
STAND ASIDE, I SAY.
“No. You’re just being vindictive. It’s not fair!”
Death bowed his skull for a moment, then looked up with his eyes blazing.
YOU WILL DO AS YOU ARE TOLD.
“I will not.”
YOU’RE MAKING THIS VERY DIFFICULT.
“Good.”
Death’s fingers drummed impatiently on the scytheblade, like a mouse tap-dancing on a tin. He seemed to be thinking. He looked at Ysabell standing over Mort, and then turned and looked at the others crouching against a shelf.
NO, he said eventually. NO. I CANNOT BE BIDDEN. I CANNOT BE FORCED. I WILL DO ONLY THAT WHICH I KNOW TO BE RIGHT.
He waved a hand, and the sword whirred out of Ysabell’s grasp. He made another complicated gesture and the girl herself was picked up and pressed gently but firmly against the nearest pillar.
Mort saw the dark reaper advance on him again, blade swinging back for the final stroke. He stood over the boy.
YOU DON’T KNOW HOW SORRY THIS MAKES ME, he aid.
Mort pulled himself on to his elbows.
“I might,” he said.
Death gave him a surprised look for several seconds, and then started to laugh. The sound bounced eerily around the room, ringing off the shelves as Death, still laughing like an earthquake in a graveyard, held Mort’s own glass in front of its owner’s eyes.
Mort tried to focus. He saw the last grain of sand skid down the glossy surface, teeter on the edge and then drop, tumbling in slow motion, towards the bottom. Candlelight flickered off its tiny silica facets as it spun gently downward. It landed soundlessly, throwing up a tiny crater.
The light in Death’s eyes flared until it filled Mort’s vision and the sound of his laughter rattled the universe.
And then Death turned the hourglass over.
Once again the great hall of Sto Lat was brilliant with candlelight and loud with music.
As the guests flocked down the steps and descended on the cold buffet the Master of Ceremonies was in non-stop voice, introducing those who, by reason of importance or simple absent-mindedness, had turned up late. As for example:
“The Royal Recogniser, Master of the Queen’s Bedchamber, His Ipississumussness Igneous Cutwell, Wizard 1st Grade (UU).”
Cutwell advanced on the royal couple, grinning, a large cigar in one hand.
“May I kiss the bride?” he said.
“If it’s allowed for wizards,” said Ysabell, offering a cheek.
“We thought the fireworks were marvellous,” said Mort. “And I expect they’ll soon be able to rebuild the outer wall. No doubt you’ll be able to find your way to the food.”
“He’s looking a lot better these days,” said Ysabell behind her fixed grin, as Cutwell disappeared into the throng.
“Certainly there’s a lot to be said for being the only person who doesn’t bother to obey the queen,” said Mort, exchanging nods with a passing nobleman.
“They say he’s the real power behind the throne,” said Ysabell. “An eminence something.”
“Eminence grease,” said Mort absently. “Notice how he doesn’t do any magic these days?”
“Shutuphereshecomes.”
“Her Supreme Majesty, Queen Kelirehenna I, Lord of Sto Lat, Protector of the Eight Protectorates and Empress of the Long Thin Debated Piece Hubwards of Sto Kerrig.”
Ysabell bobbed. Mort bowed. Keli beamed at both of them. They couldn’t help noticing that she had come under some influence that inclined her towards clothes that at least roughly followed her shape, and away from hairstyles that looked like the offspring of a pineapple and a candyfloss.
She pecked Ysabell on the cheek and then stepped back and looked Mort up and down.
“How’s Sto Helit?” she said.
“Fine, fine,” said Mort. “We’ll have to do something about the cellars, though. Your late uncle had some unusual—hobbies, and…”
“She means you,” whispered Ysabell. “That’s your official name.”
“I preferred Mort,” said Mort.
“Such an interesting coat of arms, too,” said the queen. “Crossed scythes on an hourglass rampant against a sable field. It gave the Royal College quite a headache.”
“It’s not that I mind being a duke,” said Mort. “Its being married to a duchess that comes as a shock.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I hope not.”
“Good. And now, Ysabell,” said Keli, setting her jaw, “if you are to move in royal circles there are some people you simply must meet…”
Ysabell gave Mort a despairing look as she was swept away into the crowd, and was soon lost to view.
Mort ran a finger around the inside of his collar, looked both ways, and then darted into a fern-shaded corner near the end of the buffet where he could have a quiet moment to himself.
Behind him the Master of Ceremonies cleared his throat. His eyes took on a distant, glazed look.
“The Stealer of Souls,” he said in the faraway voice of one whose ears aren’t hearing what his mouth is saying, “Defeater of Empires, Swallower of Oceans, Thief of Years, The Ultimate Reality, Harvester of Mankind, the—”
ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT. I CAN SEE MYSELF IN.
Mort paused with a cold turkey leg halfway to his mouth. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. There was no mistaking that voice, felt rather than heard, or the way in which the air chilled and darkened. The chatter and music of the wedding reception slowed and faded.
“We didn’t think you’d come,” he said to a potted fern.
TO MY OWN DAUGHTER’S WEDDING? ANYWAY, IT WAS THE FIRST TIME I’VE EVER HAD AN INVITATION TO ANYTHING. IT HAD GOLD EDGES AND RSVP AND EVERYTHING.
“Yes, but when you weren’t at the service—”
I THOUGHT PERHAPS IT WOULD NOT BE ENTIRELY APPROPRIATE.
“Well, yes, I suppose so—”
TO BE FRANK, I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO MARRY THE PRINCESS.
Mort blushed. “We talked about it,” he said. “Then we thought, just because you happen to rescue a princess, you shouldn’t rush into things.”
VERY WISE. TOO MANY YOUNG WOMEN LEAP INTO THE ARMS OF THE FIRST YOUNG MAN TO WAKE THEM AFTER A HUNDRED YEARS’ SLEEP, FOR EXAMPLE.
“And, well, we thought that all in all, well, once I really got to know Ysabell, well…”
YES, YES, I AM SURE. AN EXCELLENT DECISION. HOWEVER, I HAVE DECIDED NOT TO INTEREST MYSELF IN HUMAN AFFAIRS ANY FURTHER.
“Really?”
EXCEPT OFFICIALLY, OF COURSE. IT WAS CLOUDING MY JUDGEMENT.
A skeletal hand appeared on the edge of Mort’s vision and skilfully speared a stuffed egg. Mort spun around.
“What happened?” he said. “I’ve got to know! One minute we were in the Long Room and the next we were in a field outside the city, and we were really us! I mean, reality had been altered to fit us in! Who did it?”
I HAD A WORD WITH THE GODS. Death looked uncomfortable.
“Oh. You did, did you?” said Mort. Death avoided his gaze.
YES.
“I shouldn’t think they were very pleased.”
THE GODS ARE JUST. THEY ARE ALSO SENTIMENTALISTS. I HAVE NEVER BEEN ABLE TO MASTER IT, MYSELF.
BUT YOU AREN’T FREE YET. YOU MUST SEE TO IT THAT HISTORY TAKES PLACE.
“I know,” said Mort. “Uniting the kingdoms and everything.”
YOU MIGHT END UP WISHING YOU’D STAYED WITH ME.
“I certainly learned a lot,” Mort admitted. He put his hand up to his face and absent-mindedly stroked the four thin white scars across his cheek. “But I don’t think I was cut out for that sort of work. Look, I’m really sorry—”
I HAVE A PRESENT FOR YOU.
Death put down his plate of hors d’oeuvres and fumbled in the mysterious recesses of his robe. When his skeletal hand emerged it was holding a little globe between thumb and forefinger.
It was about three inches across. It could have been the largest pearl in the world, except that the surface was a moving swirl of complicated silver shapes, forever on the point of resolving themselves into something recognisable but always managing to avoid it.
When Death dropped it into Mort’s outstretched palm it felt surprisingly heavy and slightly warm.
FOR YOU AND YOUR LADY. A WEDDING PRESENT. A DOWRY.
“It’s beautiful! We thought the silver toast rack was from you.”
THAT WAS ALBERT. I’M AFRAID HE DOESN’T HAVE MUCH IMAGINATION.
Mort turned the globe over and over in his hands. The shapes boiling inside it seemed to respond to his touch, sending little streamers of light arching across the surface towards his fingers.
“Is it a pearl?” he said.
YES. WHEN SOMETHING IRRITATES AN OYSTER AND CAN’T BE REMOVED, THE POOR THING COATS IT WITH MUCUS AND TURNS IT INTO A PEARL. THIS IS A PEARL OF A DIFFERENT COLOUR. A PEARL OF REALITY. ALL THAT SHINY STUFF IS CONGEALED ACTUALITY. YOU OUGHT TO RECOGNISE IT—YOU CREATED IT, AFTER ALL.
Mort tossed it gently from hand to hand.
“We will put it with the castle jewels,” he said. “We haven’t got that many.”
ONE DAY IT WILL BE THE SEED OF A NEW UNIVERSE.
Mort fumbled the catch, but reached down with lightning reflexes and caught it before it hit the flagstones.
“What?”
THE PRESSURE OF THIS REALITY KEEPS IT COMPRESSED. THERE MAY COME A TIME WHEN THE UNIVERSE ENDS AND REALITY DIES, AND THEN THIS ONE WILL EXPLODE AND… WHO KNOWS? KEEP IT SAFE. IT’S A FUTURE AS WELL AS A PRESENT.
Death put his skull on one side. IT’S A SMALL THING, he added. YOU COULD HAVE HAD ETERNITY.
“I know,” said Mort. “I’ve been very lucky.”
He put it very carefully on the buffet table, between the quails’ eggs and the sausage rolls.
THERE WAS ANOTHER THING, said Death. He reached under his robe again and pulled out an oblong shape inexpertly wrapped and tied with string.
IT’S FOR YOU, he said, PERSONALLY. YOU NEVER SHOWED ANY INTEREST IN IT BEFORE. DID YOU THINK IT DIDN’T EXIST?
Mort unwrapped the packet and realised he was holding a small leather-bound book. On the spine was blocked, in shiny gold leaf, the one word: Mort.
He leafed backwards through the unfilled pages until he found the little trail of ink, winding patiently down the page, and read: Mort shut the book with a little snap that sounded, in the silence, like the crack of creation, and smiled uneasily.
“There’s a lot of pages still to fill,” he said. “How much sand have I got left? Only Ysabell said that since you turned the glass over that means I shall die when I’m—”
YOU HAVE SUFFICIENT, said Death coldly. MATHEMATICS ISN’T ALL IT’S CRACKED UP TO BE.{34}
“How do you feel about being invited to christenings?”
I THINK NOT. I WASN’T CUT OUT TO BE A FATHER, AND CERTAINLY NOT A GRANDAD. I HAVEN’T GOT THE RIGHT KIND OF KNEES.
He put down his wine glass and nodded at Mort.
MY REGARDS TO YOUR GOOD LADY, he said. AND NOW I REALLY MUST BE OFF.
“Are you sure? You’re welcome to stay.”
IT’S NICE OF YOU TO SAY SO, BUT DUTY CALLS. He extended a bony hand. YOU KNOW HOW IT IS.
Mort gripped the hand and shook it, ignoring the chill.
“Look,” he said. “If ever you want a few days off, you know, if you’d like a holiday—”
MANY THANKS FOR THE OFFER, said Death graciously. I SHALL THINK ABOUT IT MOST SERIOUSLY. AND NOW—
“Goodbye,” Mort said, and was surprised to find a lump in his throat. “It’s such an unpleasant word, isn’t it?”
QUITE SO. Death grinned because, as has so often been remarked, he didn’t have much option. But possibly he meant it, this time.
I PREFER AU REVOIR, he said.