Mort

He gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate on the security arrangements. He had put guards at various vantage points in the hall in case the Duke of Sto Helit tried any last-minute rearrangement of the royal succession, and reminded himself to keep a special eye on the duke himself, who was sitting in the front row of seats with a strange quiet smile on his face. The duke caught Cutwell’s eye, and the wizard hastily looked away.

The High Priest held up his hands for silence. Cutwell sidled towards him as the old man turned towards the Hub and in a cracked voice began the invocation to the gods.

Cutwell let his eyes slip back towards the duke.

“Hear me, mm, O gods—”

Was Sto Helit looking up into the bat-haunted darkness of the rafters?

“—hear me, O Blind Io of the Hundred Eyes; hear me, O Great Offler of the Bird-Haunted Mouth; hear me, O Merciful Fate; hear me, O Cold, mm, Destiny; hear me, O Seven-handed Sek; hear me, O Hoki of the Woods; hear me, O—”

With dull horror Cutwell realised that the daft old fool, against all instruction, was going to mention the whole lot. There were more than nine hundred known gods on the Disc, and research theologians were discovering more every year. It could take hours. The congregation was already beginning to shuffle its feet.

Keli was standing in front of the altar with a look of fury on her face. Cutwell nudged the High Priest in the ribs, which had no noticeable effect, and then waggled his eyebrows ferociously at the young acolyte.

“Stop him!” he hissed. “We haven’t got time!”

“The gods would be displeased—”

“Not as displeased as me, and I’m here.”

The acolyte looked at Cutwell’s expression for a moment and decided that he’d better explain to the gods later. He tapped the High Priest on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear.

“—O Steikhegel, god of, mm, isolated cow byres; hear me, O—hello? What?”

Murmur, murmur.

“This is, mm, very irregular. Very well, we shall go straight to the, mm, Recitation of the Lineage.”

Murmur, murmur.

The High Priest scowled at Cutwell, or at least where he believed Cutwell to be.

“Oh, all right. Mm, prepare the incense and fragrances for the Shriving of the Fourfold-Path.”

Murmur, murmur.

The High Priest’s face darkened.

“I suppose, mm, a short prayer, mm, is totally out of the question?” he said acidly.

“If some people don’t get a move on,” said Keli demurely, “there is going to be trouble.”

Murmur.

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said the High Priest. “People might as well not bother with a religious, mm, ceremony at all. Fetch the bloody elephant, then.”

The acolyte gave Cutwell a frantic look and waved at the guards. As they urged their gently-swaying charge forward with shouts and pointed sticks the young priest sidled towards Cutwell and pushed something into his hand.

He looked down. It was a waterproof hat.

“Is this necessary?”

“He’s very devout,” said the acolyte. “We may need a snorkel.”

The elephant reached the altar and was forced, without too much difficulty, to kneel. It hiccupped.

“Well, where is it, then?” snapped the High Priest. “Let’s get this, mm, farce over with!”

Murmur went the acolyte. The High Priest listened, nodded gravely, picked up his white-handled sacrificial knife and raised it double-handed over his head. The whole hall watched, holding its breath. Then he lowered it again.

“Where in front of me?”

Murmur.

“I certainly don’t need your help, my lad! I’ve been sacrificing man and boy—and, mm, women and animals—for seventy years, and when I can’t use the, mm, knife you can put me to bed with a shovel!”

And he brought the blade down in a wild sweep which, by sheer luck, gave the elephant a mild flesh wound on the trunk.

The creature awoke from its pleasant reflective stupor and squealed. The acolyte turned in horror to look at two tiny bloodshot eyes squinting down the length of an enraged trunk, and cleared the altar in one standing jump.

The elephant was enraged. Vague confusing recollections flooded its aching head, of fires and shouts and men with nets and cages and spears and too many years hauling heavy tree trunks. It brought its trunk down across the altar stone and somewhat to its own surprise smashed it in two, levered the two parts into the air with its tusks, tried unsuccessfully to uproot a stone pillar and then, feeling the sudden need for a breath of fresh air, started to charge arthritically down the length of the hall.

It hit the door at a dead run, its blood loud with the call of the herd and fizzing with alcohol, and took it off at the hinges. Still wearing the frame on its shoulders it careened across the courtyard, smashed the outer gates, burped, thundered through the sleeping city and was still slowly accelerating when it sniffed the distant dark continent of Klatch on the night breeze and, tail raised, followed the ancient call of home.

Back in the hall there was dust and shouts and confusion. Cutwell pushed his hat out of his eyes and got to his hands and knees.