Mort

Lat. Whole squads of men were charged with the task of constantly renewing them. The streets glowed. The sizzling flames pushed back shadows that had been blamelessly minding their own business every night for centuries. They illuminated ancient corners where the eyes of bewildered rats glittered in the depths of their holes. They forced burglars to stay indoors. They glowed on the night mists, forming a nimbus of yellow light that blotted out the cold high flames streaming from the Hub. But mainly they shone on the face of Princess Keli.
    It was everywhere. It plastered every flat surface. Binky cantered along the glowing streets between Princess Keli on doors, walls and gable ends. Mort gaped at posters of his beloved on every surface where workmen had been able to make paste stick.
    Even stranger, no one seemed to be paying them much attention. While Sto Lat’s night life was not as colorful and full of incident as that of Ankh-Morpork, in the same way that a wastepaper basket cannot compete with a municipal tip, the streets were nevertheless a-bustle with people and shrill with the cries of hucksters, gamblers, sellers of sweetmeats, pea-and-thimble men, ladies of assignation, pickpockets and the occasional honest trader who had wandered in by mistake and couldn’t now raise enough money to leave. As Mort rode through them snatches of conversation in half-a-dozen languages floated into his ears; with numb acceptance he realized he could understand every one of them.
    He eventually dismounted and led the horse along Wall Street, searching in vain for Cutwell’s house. He found it only because a lump on the nearest poster was making muffled swearing noises.
    He reached out gingerly and pulled aside a strip of paper.
    “Fanks very much,” said the gargoyle doorknocker. “You wouldn’t credit it, would you? One minute life as normal, nexft minute a mouthful of glue.”
    “Where’s Cutwell?”
    “He’s gone off to the palace.” The knocker leered at him and winked a cast-iron eye. “Some men came and took all his fstuff away. Then some ovver men started pasting pictures of his girlfriend all over the place. Barftuds,” it added.
    Mort colored.
    “His girlfriend?”
    The doorknocker, being of the demonic persuasion, sniggered at his tone. It sounded like fingernails being dragged over a file.
    “Yeff,” it said. “They feemed in a bit of a hurry, if you ask me.”
    Mort was already up on Binky’s back.
    “I fay!” shouted the knocker at his retreating back. “I fay! Could you unftick me, boy?”
    Mort tugged on Binky’s reins so hard that the horse reared and danced crazily backwards across the cobbles, then reached out and grabbed the ring of the knocker. The gargoyle looked up into his face and suddenly felt like a very frightened doorknocker indeed. Mort’s eyes glowed like crucibles, his expression was a furnace, his voice held enough heat to melt iron. It didn’t know what he could do, but felt that it would prefer not to find out.
    “What did you call me?” Mort hissed.
    The doorknocker thought quickly. “Fir?” it said.
    “What did you ask me to do?”
    “Unftick me?”
    “I don’t intend to.”
    “Fine,” said the doorknocker, “fine. That’s okay by me. I’ll just ftick around, then.”
    It watched Mort canter off along the street and shuddered with relief, knocking itself gently in its nervousness.
    “A naaaarrow sqeeeak,” said one of the hinges.
    “Fut up!”

Mort passed night watchmen, whose job now appeared to consist of ringing bells and shouting the name of the Princess, but a little uncertainly, as if they had difficulty remembering it. He ignored them, because he was listening to voices inside his head which went:
    She’s only met you once, you fool. Why should she bother about you?
    Yes, but I did save her life.
    That means it belongs to her. Not to you. Besides, he’s a wizard.
    So what? Wizards aren’t supposed to—to go out with girls, they’re celebrate….
    Celebrate?
    They’re not supposed to youknow….
    What, never any youknow at all? said the internal voice, and it sounded as if it was grinning.
    It’s supposed to be bad for the magic, thought Mort bitterly.
    Funny place to keep magic.
    Mort was shocked. Who are you? he demanded.
    I’m you, Mort. Your inner self.
    Well, I wish I’d get out of my head, it’s quite crowded enough with me in here.
    Fair enough, said the voice, I was only trying to help. But remember, if you ever need you,