Mort

Now, women’s clothes were not a subject that preoccupied Cutwell much—in fact, usually when he thought about women his mental pictures seldom included any clothes at all—but the vision in front of him really did take his breath away. Whoever had designed the dress didn’t know when to stop. They’d put lace over the silk, and trimmed it with black vermine, and strung pearls anywhere that looked bare, and puffed and starched the sleeves and then added silver filigree and then started again with the silk.

In fact it really was amazing what could be done with several ounces of heavy metal, some irritated molluscs, a few dead rodents and a lot of thread wound out of insects’ bottoms. The dress wasn’t so much worn as occupied; if the outlying flounces weren’t supported on wheels, then Keli was stronger than he’d given her credit for.

“What do you think?” she said, turning slowly. “This was worn by my mother, and my grandmother, and her mother.”

“What, all together?” said Cutwell, quite prepared to believe it. How can she get into it? he wondered. There must be a door round the back…

“It’s a family heirloom. It’s got real diamonds on the bodice.”

“Which bit’s the bodice?”

“This bit.”

Cutwell shuddered. “It’s very impressive,” he said, when he could trust himself to speak. “You don’t think it’s perhaps a bit mature, though?”

“It’s queenly.”

“Yes, but perhaps it won’t allow you to move very fast?”

“I have no intention of running. There must be dignity.” Once again the set of her jaw traced the line of her descent all the way to her conquering ancestor, who preferred to move very fast at all times and knew as much about dignity as could be carried on the point of a sharp spear.

Cutwell spread his hands.

“All right,” he said. “Fine. We all do what we can. I just hope Mort has come up with some ideas.”

“It’s hard to have confidence in a ghost,” said Keli. “He walks through walls!”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Cutwell. “It’s a puzzle, isn’t it? He walks through things only if he doesn’t know he’s doing it. I think it’s an industrial disease.”

“What?”

“I was nearly sure last night. He’s becoming real.”

“But we’re all real! At least, you are, and I suppose I am.”

“But he’s becoming more real. Extremely real. Nearly as real as Death, and you don’t get much realler. Not much realler at all.”

———

“Are you sure?” said Albert, suspiciously.

“Of course,” said Ysabell. “Work it out yourself if you like.”

Albert looked back at the big book, his face a portrait of uncertainty.

“Well, they could be about right,” he conceded with bad grace, and copied out the two names on a scrap of paper. “There’s one way to find out, anyway.”

He pulled open the top drawer of Death’s desk and extracted a big iron keyring. There was only one key on it.

WHAT HAPPENS NOW? said Mort.

“We’ve got to fetch the lifetimers,” said Albert. “You have to come with me.”

“Mort!” hissed Ysabell.

“What?”

“What you just said—” She lapsed into silence, and then added, “Oh, nothing. It just sounded… odd.”

“I only asked what happens now,” said Mort.

“Yes, but—oh, never mind.”

Albert brushed past them and sidled out into the hallway like a two-legged spider until he reached the door that was always kept locked. The key fitted perfectly. The door swung open. There wasn’t so much as a squeak from its hinges, just a swish of deeper silence.

And the roar of sand.

Mort and Ysabell stood in the doorway, transfixed, as Albert stamped off between the aisles of glass. The sound didn’t just enter the body via the ears, it came up through the legs and down through the skull and filled up the brain until all that it could think of was the rushing, hissing grey noise, the sound of millions of lives being lived. And rushing towards their inevitable destination.

They stared up and out at the endless ranks of lifetimers, every one different, every one named. The light from torches ranged along the walls picked highlights off them, so that a star gleamed on every glass. The far walls of the room were lost in the galaxy of light.

Mort felt Ysabell’s fingers tighten on his arm. When she spoke, her voice was strained.

“Mort, some of them are so small.”

I KNOW.

Her grip relaxed, very gently, like someone putting the top ace on a house of cards and taking their hand away gingerly so as not to bring the whole edifice down.

“Say that again?” she said quietly.

“I said I know. There’s nothing I can do about it. Haven’t you been in here before?”

“No.” She had withdrawn slightly, and was staring at his eyes.

“It’s no worse than the library,” said Mort, and almost believed it. But in the library you only read about it; in here you could see it happening.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he added.

“I was just trying to remember what colour your eyes were,” she said, “because—”

“If you two have quite had enough of each other!” bellowed Albert above the roar of the sand. “This way!”

“Brown,” said Mort to Ysabell. “They’re brown. Why?”

“Hurry up!”

“You’d better go and help him,” said Ysabell. “He seems to be getting quite upset.”