Mort

“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.