Mort (Discworld 4)

'Rigours of the calling, ma'am,' said Cutwell, rolling his eyes. He could hear the rustle of silk.

'What made you decide to become a wizard?' Her voice was muffled, as if she had something over her head.

'It's indoor work with no heavy lifting,' said Cutwell. 'And I suppose I wanted to learn how the world worked.'

'Have you succeeded, then?'

'No.' Cutwell wasn't much good at small talk, otherwise he'd never have let his mind wander sufficiently to allow him to say: 'What made you decide to become a princess?'

After a thoughtful silence she said, 'It was decided for me, you know.'

'Sorry, I —'

'Being royal is a sort of family tradition. I expect it's the same with magic; no doubt your father was a wizard?'

Cutwell gritted his teeth. 'Um. No,' he said, 'not really. Absolutely not, in fact.'

He knew what she would say next, and here it came, reliable as the sunset, in a voice tinged with amusement and fascination.

'Oh? Is it really true that wizards aren't allowed to —'

'Well, if that's all I really should be going,' said Cutwell loudly. 'If anyone wants me, just follow the explosions. I – gnnnh!'

Keli had stepped out of the dressing room.

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.'