Mort

you’re always around.
    The voice faded away.
    Well, thought Mort bitterly, that must have been me. I’m the only one that calls me Mort.
    The shock of the realization quite obscured the fact that, while Mort had been locked into the monologue, he had ridden right through the gates of the palace. Of course, people rode through the gates of the palace every day, but most of them needed the things to be opened first.
    The guards on the other side were rigid with fear, because they thought they had seen a ghost. They would have been far more frightened if they had known that a ghost was almost exactly what they hadn’t seen.
    The guard outside the doors of the great hall had seen it happen too, but he had time to gather his wits, or such that remained, and raise his spear as Binky trotted across the courtyard.
    “Halt,” he croaked. “Halt. What goes where?”
    Mort saw him for the first time.
    “What?” he said, still lost in thought.
    The guard ran his tongue over his dry lips, and backed away. Mort slid off Binky’s back and walked forward.
    “I meant, what goes there?” the guard tried again, with a mixture of doggedness and suicidal stupidity that marked him for early promotion.
    Mort caught the spear gently and lifted it out of the way of the door. As he did so the torchlight illuminated his face.
    “Mort,” he said softly.
    It should have been enough for any normal soldier, but this guard was officer material.
    “I mean, friend or foe?” he stuttered, trying to avoid Mort’s gaze.
    “Which would you prefer?” he grinned. It wasn’t quite the grin of his master, but it was a pretty effective grin and didn’t have a trace of humor in it.
    The guard sagged with relief, and stood aside.
    “Pass, friend,” he said.
    Mort strode across the hall towards the staircase that led to the royal apartments. The hall had changed a lot since he last saw it. Portraits of Keli were everywhere; they’d even replaced the ancient and crumbling battle banners in the shadowy heights of the roof. Anyone walking through the palace would have found it impossible to go more than a few steps without seeing a portrait. Part of Mort’s mind wondered why, just as another part worried about the flickering dome that was steadily closing on the city, but most of his mind was a hot and steamy glow of rage and bewilderment and jealousy. Ysabell had been right, he thought, this must be love.
    “The walk-through-walls boy!”
    He jerked his head up. Cutwell was standing at the top of the stairs.
    The wizard had changed a lot too, Mort thought bitterly. Perhaps not that much, though. Although he was wearing a black and white robe embroidered with sequins, although his pointy hat was a yard high and decorated with more mystic symbols than a dental chart, and although his red velvet shoes had silver buckles and toes that curled like snails, there were still a few stains on his collar and he appeared to be chewing.
    He watched Mort climb the stairs towards him.
    “Are you angry about something?” he said. “I started work, but I got rather tied up with other things. Very difficult, walking through—why are you looking at me like that?”
    “What are you doing here?”
    “I might ask you the same question. Would you like a strawberry?”
    Mort glanced at the small wooden punnet in the wizard’s hands.
    “In mid-winter?”
    “Actually, they’re sprouts with a dash of enchantment.”
    “They taste like strawberries?”
    Cutwell sighed. “No, like sprouts. The spell isn’t totally efficient. I thought they might cheer the princess up, but she threw them at me. Shame to waste them. Be my guest.”
    Mort gaped at him.
    “She threw them at you?”
    “Very accurately, I’m afraid. Very strong-minded young lady.”
    Hi, said a voice in the back of Mort’s mind, it’s you again, pointing out to yourself that the chances of the princess even contemplating you know with this fellow are on the far side of remote.
    Go away, thought Mort. His subconscious was worrying him. It appeared to have a direct line to parts of his body that he wanted to ignore at the moment.
    “Why are you here?” he said aloud. “Is it something to do with all these pictures?”
    “Good idea, wasn’t it?” beamed Cutwell. “I’m rather proud of it myself.”
    “Excuse me,” said Mort weakly. “I’ve had a busy day. I think I’d like to sit down somewhere.”
    “There’s the Throne Room,” said Cutwell. “There’s no-one in there at