Читаем Mort полностью

“That’s not true. Let’s suppose you went out of here and prowled around the palace. One of the guards would probably see you and he’d think you were a thief and he’d fire his crossbow. I mean, in his reality you’d be a thief. It wouldn’t actually be true but you’d be just as dead as if it was. Belief is powerful stuff. I’m a wizard. We know about these things. Look here.”

He pulled a book out of the debris in front of him and opened it at the piece of bacon he’d used as a bookmark. Mort looked over his shoulder, and frowned at the curly magical writing. It moved around on the page, twisting and writhing in an attempt not to be read by a non-wizard, and the general effect was unpleasant.

“What’s this?” he said.

“It’s the Book of the Magick of Alberto Malich the Mage,” said the wizard, “a sort of book of magical theory. It’s not a good idea to look too hard at the words, they resent it. Look, it says here—”

His lips moved soundlessly. Little beads of sweat sprang up on his forehead and decided to get together and go down and see what his nose was doing. His eyes watered.

Some people like to settle down with a good book. No-one in possession of a complete set of marbles would like to settle down with a book of magic, because even the individual words have a private and vindictive life of their own and reading them, in short, is a kind of mental Indian wrestling. Many a young wizard has tried to read a grimoire that is too strong for him, and people who’ve heard the screams have found only his pointy shoes with the classic wisp of smoke coming out of them and a book which is, perhaps, just a little fatter. Things can happen to browsers in magical libraries that make having your face pulled off by tentacled monstrosities from the Dungeon Dimensions seem a mere light massage by comparison.

Fortunately Cutwell had an expurgated edition, with some of the more distressing pages clamped shut (although on quiet nights he could hear the imprisoned words scritching irritably inside their prison, like a spider trapped in a matchbox; anyone who has ever sat next to someone wearing a Walkman will be able to imagine exactly what they sounded like).

“This is the bit,” said Cutwell. “It says here that even gods—”

“I’ve seen him before!”

“What?”

Mort pointed a shaking finger at the book.

“Him!”

Cutwell gave him an odd look and examined the left-hand page. There was a picture of an elderly wizard holding a book and a candlestick in an attitude of near-terminal dignity.

“That’s not part of the magic,” he said testily, “that’s just the author.”

“What does it say under the picture?”

“Er. It says ‘Yff youe have enjoyed thiss Boke, youe maye be interestede yn othere Titles by—”

“No, right under the picture is what I meant!”

“That’s easy. It’s old Malich himself. Every wizard knows him. I mean, he founded the University.” Cutwell chuckled. “There’s a famous statue of him in the main hall, and during Rag Week once I climbed up it and put a—”

Mort stared at the picture.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, “did the statue have a drip on the end of its nose?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Cutwell. “It was marble. But I don’t know what you’re getting so worked up about. Lots of people know what he looked like. He’s famous.”

“He lived a long time ago, did he?”

“Two thousand years, I think. Look, I don’t know why—”

“I bet he didn’t die, though,” said Mort. “I bet he just disappeared one day. Did he?”

Cutwell was silent for a moment.

“Funny you should say that,” he said slowly. “There was a legend I heard. He got up to some weird things, they say. They say he blew himself into the Dungeon Dimensions while trying to perform the Rite of AshkEnte backwards.^{20} All they found was his hat. Tragic, really. The whole city in mourning for a day just for a hat. It wasn’t even a particularly attractive hat; it had burn marks on it.”

“Alberto Malich,” said Mort, half to himself. “Well. Fancy that.”

He drummed his fingers on the table, although the sound was surprisingly muted.

“Sorry,” said Cutwell. “I can’t get the hang of treacle sandwiches, either.”

“I reckon the interface is moving at a slow walking pace,” said Mort, licking his fingers absent-mindedly. “Can’t you stop it by magic?”

Cutwell shook his head. “Not me. It’d squash me flat,” he said cheerfully.

“What’ll happen to you when it arrives, then?”

“Oh, I’ll go back to living in Wall Street. I mean, I never will have left. All this won’t have happened. Pity, though. The cooking here is pretty good, and they do my laundry for free. How far away did you say it was, by the way?”

“About twenty miles, I guess.”

Cutwell rolled his eyes heavenwards and moved his lips. Eventually he said: “That means it’ll arrive around midnight tomorrow, just in time for the coronation.”

“Whose?”

“Hers.”

“But she’s queen already, isn’t she?”