Mort (Discworld 4)

'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.'

ugh the scythe isn't pre-eminent among weapons of war, anyone who has been on the wrong end of, say, a peasants' revolt will know that in skilled hands it is fearsome. Once its owner gets it weaving and spinning no-one – including the wielder – is quite certain where the blade is now and where it will be next.

Death advanced, grinning. Mort ducked a cut at head height and dived sideways, hearing a tinkle behind him as the tip of the scythe caught a glass on the nearest shelf. . . .

. . . in a dark alley in Morpork a night soil entrepreneur clutched at his chest and pitched forward over his cart. . . .

Mort rolled and came up swinging the sword double-handed over his head, feeling a twang of dark exhilaration as Death darted backwards across the checkered tiles. The wild swing cut through a shelf; one after another its burden of glasses started to slide towards the floor. Mort was dimly aware of Ysabell scurrying past him to catch them one by one. . . .

. . . across the Disc four people miraculously escaped death by falling. . . .

. . . and then he ran forward, pressing home his advantage. Death's hands moved in a blur as he blocked every chop and thrust, and then changed grip on the scythe and brought the blade swinging up in an arc that Mort sidestepped awkwardly, nicking the frame of an hourglass with the hilt of his sword and sending it flying across the room. . . .

. . . in the Ramtop mountains a tharga-herder, searching by lamplight in the high meadows for a lost cow, missed his footing and plunged over a thousand foot drop. . . .

. . . Gutwell dived forward and caught the tumbling glass in one desperately outstretched hand, hit the floor and slid along on his stomach. . . .

. . . a gnarled sycamore mysteriously loomed under the screaming herder and broke his fall, removing his major problems – death, the judgement of the gods, the uncertainty of Paradise and so on – and replacing them with the comparatively simple one of climbing back up about one hundred feet of sheer, icy cliff in pitch darkness.

There was a pause as the combatants backed away from each other and circled again, looking for an opening.

'Surely there's something we can do?' said Keli.

'Mort will lose either way,' said Ysabell, shaking her head. Cutwell shook the silver candlestick out of his baggy sleeve and tossed it thoughtfully from hand to hand.

Death hefted the scythe threateningly, incidentally smashing an hourglass by his shoulder. . . .

. . . in Bes Pelargic the Emperor's chief torturer slumped backwards into his own acid pit. . . .