Mort

“Ah,” he said, “but is it not also written by none other than the great philosopher Ly Tin Wheedle that a scholar may be ranked above princes? I seem to remember you giving me the passage to read once, O Faithful and Assiduous Seeker of Knowledge.”

The thing followed another brief arc through the air and flopped apologetically into the Vizier’s bowl. He scooped it up in a quick movement and poised it for a second service. His eyes narrowed.

“Such may be generally the case, O Jade River of Wisdom, but specifically I cannot be ranked above the Emperor whom I love as my own son and have done ever since his late father’s unfortunate death, and thus I lay this small offering at your feet.”

The eyes of the court followed the wretched organ on its third flight across the mat, but the Emperor snatched up his fan and brought off a magnificent volley that ended back in the Vizier’s bowl with such force that it sent up a spray of seaweed.

“Somebody eat it, for heaven’s sake,” shouted Mort, totally unheard. “I’m in a hurry!”

“Thou art indeed the most thoughtful of servants, O Devoted and Indeed Only Companion of My Late Father and Grandfather When They Passed Over, and therefore I decree that your reward shall be this most rare and exquisite of morsels.”

The Vizier prodded the thing uncertainly, and looked into the Emperor’s smile. It was bright and terrible. He fumbled for an excuse.

“Alas, it would seem that I have already eaten far too much—” he began, but the Emperor waved him into silence.

“Doubtless it requires a suitable seasoning,” he said, and clapped his hands. The wall behind him ripped from top to bottom and four Heavenly Guards stepped through, three of them brandishing cando swords and the fourth trying hurriedly to swallow a lighted dog-end.

The Vizier’s bowl dropped from his hands.

“My most faithful of servants believes he has no space left for this final mouthful,” said the Emperor. “Doubtless you can investigate his stomach to see if this is true. Why has that man got smoke coming out of his ears?”

“Anxious for action, O Sky Eminence,” said the sergeant quickly. “No stopping him, I’m afraid.”

“Then let him take his knife and—oh, the Vizier seems to be hungry after all. Well done.”

There was absolute silence while the Vizier’s cheeks bulged rhythmically. Then he gulped.

“Delicious,” he said. “Superb. Truly the food of the gods, and now, if you will excuse me—” He unfolded his legs and made as if to stand up. Little beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead.

“You wish to depart?” said the Emperor, raising his eyebrows.

“Pressing matters of state, O Perspicacious Personage of—”

“Be seated. Rising so soon after meals can be bad for the digestion,” said the Emperor, and the guards nodded agreement. “Besides, there are no urgent matters of state unless you refer to those in the small red bottle marked ‘Antidote’ in the black lacquered cabinet on the bamboo rug in your quarters, O Lamp of Midnight Oil.”

There was a ringing in the Vizier’s ears. His face began to go blue.

“You see?” said the Emperor. “Untimely activity on a heavy stomach is conducive to ill humours. May this message go swiftly to all corners of my country, that all men may know of your unfortunate condition and derive instruction thereby.”

“I… must… congratulate your… Personage on such… consideration,” said the Vizier, and fell forward into a dish of boiled soft-shelled crabs.

“I had an excellent teacher,” said the Emperor.

ABOUT TIME, TOO, said Mort, and swung the sword.

A moment later the soul of the Vizier got up from the mat and looked Mort up and down.

“Who are you, barbarian?” he snapped.

DEATH.

“Not my Death,” said the Vizier firmly. “Where’s the Black Celestial Dragon of Fire?”

HE COULDN’T COME, said Mort. There were shadows forming in the air behind the Vizier’s soul. Several of them wore emperor’s robes, but there were plenty of others jostling them, and they all looked most anxious to welcome the newcomer to the lands of the dead.

“I think there’s some people here to see you,” said Mort, and hurried away. As he reached the passageway the Vizier’s soul started to scream…

Ysabell was standing patiently by Binky, who was making a late lunch of a five-hundred-year-old bonsai tree.

“One down,” said Mort, climbing into the saddle. “Come on. I’ve got a bad feeling about the next one, and we haven’t much time.”

———

Albert materialised in the centre of Unseen University, in the same place, in fact, from which he had departed the world some two thousand years before.

He grunted with satisfaction and brushed a few specks of dust off his robe.

He became aware that he was being watched; on looking up, he discovered that he had flashed into existence under the stern marble gaze of himself.

He adjusted his spectacles and peered disapprovingly at the bronze plaque screwed to his pedestal. It said:

“Alberto Malich, Founder of This University.^{29} AM 1,222-1,289. ‘We Will Not See His Like Again’.”