Mort

squeaker and laughing so much that one is sick.
    In fact some two hundred of the Patrician’s guests were now staggering and kicking their way through the Serpent Dance, a quaint Morporkian folkway which consisted of getting rather drunk, holding the waist of the person in front, and then wobbling and giggling uproariously in a long crocodile that wound through as many rooms as possible, preferably ones with breakables in, while kicking one leg vaguely in time with the beat, or at least in time with some other beat. This dance had gone on for half an hour and had wound through every room in the palace, picking up two trolls, the cook, the Patrician’s head torturer, three waiters, a burglar who happened to be passing and a small pet swamp dragon.
    Somewhere around the middle of the dance was fat Lord Rodley of Quirm, heir to the fabulous Quirm estates, whose current preoccupation was with the thin fingers gripping his waist. Under its bath of alcohol his brain kept trying to attract his attention.
    “I say,” he called over his shoulder, as they oscillated for the tenth hilarious time through the enormous kitchen, “not so tight, please.”
    I AM MOST TERRIBLY SORRY .
    “No offense, old chap. Do I know you?” said Lord Rodley, kicking vigorously on the back beat.
    I THINK IT UNLIKELY . T ELL ME, PLEASE, WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS ACTIVITY ?
    “What?” shouted Lord Rodley, above the sound of someone kicking in the door of a glass cabinet amid shrieks of merriment.
    W HAT IS THIS THING THAT WE DO ? said the voice, with glacial patience.
    “Haven’t you been to a party before? Mind the glass, by the way.”
    I AM AFRAID I DO NOT GET OUT AS MUCH AS I WOULD LIKE TO . P LEASE EXPLAIN THIS . D OES IT HAVE TO DO WITH SEX ?
    “Not unless we pull up sharp, old boy, if you know what I mean?” said his lordship, and nudged his unseen fellow guest with his elbow.
    “Ouch,” he said. A crash up ahead marked the demise of the cold buffet.
    No. “What?”
    I DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN .
    “Mind the cream there, it’s slippery—look, it’s just a dance, all right? You do it for fun.”
    F UN .
    “That’s right. Dada, dada, da—kick!” There was an audible pause.
    W HO IS THIS FUN ?
    “No, fun isn’t anybody, fun is what you have.”
    W E ARE HAVING FUN ?
    “I thought I was,” said his lordship uncertainly. The voice by his ear was vaguely worrying him; it appeared to be arriving directly into his brain.
    W HAT IS THIS FUN ?
    “This is!”
    T O KICK VIGOROUSLY IS FUN ?
    “Well, part of the fun. Kick!”
    T O HEAR LOUD MUSIC IN HOT ROOMS IS FUN ?
    “Possibly.”
    H OW IS THIS FUN MANIFEST ?
    “Well, it—look, either you’re having fun or you’re not, you don’t have to ask me, you just know, all right? How did you get in here, anyway?” he added. “Are you a friend of the Patrician?”
    L ET US SAY, HE PUTS BUSINESS MY WAY . I FELT I OUGHT TO LEARN SOMETHING OF HUMAN PLEASURES .
    “Sounds like you’ve got a long way to go.”
    I KNOW . P LEASE EXCUSE MY LAMENTABLE IGNORANCE . I WISH ONLY TO LEARN . A LL THESE PEOPLE, PLEASE—THEY ARE HAVING FUN ?
    “Yes!”
    T HEN THIS IS FUN .
    “I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out. Mind the chair,” snapped Lord Rodley, who was now feeling very unfunny and unpleasantly sober.
    A voice behind him said quietly: T HIS IS FUN . T O DRINK EXCESSIVELY IS FUN . W E ARE HAVING FUN. HE IS HAVING FUN. THIS IS SOME FUN .
    W HAT FUN .
    Behind Death the Patrician’s small pet swamp dragon held on grimly to the bony hips and thought: guards or no guards, next time we pass an open window I’m going to run like buggery.

Keli sat bolt upright in bed.
    “Don’t move another step,” she said. “Guards!”
    “We couldn’t stop him,” said the first guard, poking his head shame-facedly around the doorpost.
    “He just pushed in…” said the other guard, from the other side of the doorway.
    “And the wizard said it was all right, and we were told everyone must listen to him because….”
    “All right, all right. People could get murdered around here,” said Keli testily, and put the crossbow back on the bedside table without, unfortunately, operating the safety catch.
    There was a click, the thwack of sinew against metal, a zip of air, and a groan. The groan came from Cutwell. Mort spun round to him.
    “Are you all right?” he said. “Did it hit you?”
    “No,” said the wizard, weakly. “No, it didn’t. How do you feel?”
    “A bit tired.