Mort

Why?”
    “Oh, nothing. Nothing. No draughts anywhere? No slight leaking feelings?”
    “No. Why?”
    “Oh, nothing, nothing.” Cutwell turned and looked closely at the wall behind Mort.
    “Aren’t the dead allowed any peace?” said Keli bitterly. “I thought one thing you could be sure of when you were dead was a good night’s sleep.” She looked as though she had been crying. With an insight that surprised him, Mort realized that she knew this and that it was making her even angrier than before.
    “That’s not really fair,” he said. “I’ve come to help. Isn’t that right, Cutwell?”
    “Hmm?” said Cutwell, who had found the crossbow bolt buried in the plaster and was looking at it with deep suspicion. “Oh, yes. He has. It won’t work, though. Excuse me, has anyone got any string?”
    “Help?” snapped Keli. “Help? If it wasn’t for you—”
    “You’d still be dead,” said Mort. She looked at him with her mouth open.
    “I wouldn’t know about it, though,” she said. “That’s the worst part.”
    “I think you two had better go,” said Cutwell to the guards, who were trying to appear inconspicuous. “But I’ll have that spear, please. Thank you.”
    “Look,” said Mort, “I’ve got a horse outside. You’d be amazed. I can take you anywhere. You don’t have to wait around here.”
    “You don’t know much about monarchy, do you,” said Keli.
    “Um. No?”
    “She means better to be a dead queen in your own castle than a live commoner somewhere else,” said Cutwell, who had stuck the spear into the wall by the bolt and was trying to sight along it. “Wouldn’t work, anyway. The dome isn’t centered on the palace, it’s centered on her.”
    “On who? ” said Keli. Her voice could have kept milk fresh for a month.
    “On her Highness,” said Cutwell automatically, squinting along the shaft.
    “Don’t you forget it.”
    “I won’t forget it, but that’s not the point,” said the wizard. He pulled the bolt out of the plaster and tested the point with his finger.
    “But if you stay here you’ll die!” said Mort.
    “Then I shall have to show the Disc how a queen can die,” said Keli, looking as proud as was possible in a pink knitted bed jacket.
    Mort sat down on the end of the bed with his head in his hands.
    “I know how a queen can die,” he muttered. “They die just like other people. And some of us would rather not see it happen.”
    “Excuse me, I just want to look at this crossbow,” said Cutwell conversationally, reaching across them. “Don’t mind me.”
    “I shall go proudly to meet my destiny,” said Keli, but there was the barest flicker of uncertainty in her voice.
    “No you won’t. I mean, I know what I’m talking about. Take it from me. There’s nothing proud about it. You just die.”
    “Yes, but it’s how you do it. I shall die nobly, like Queen Ezeriel.”
    Mort’s forehead wrinkled. History was a closed book to him.
    “Who’s she?”
    “She lived in Klatch and she had a lot of lovers and she sat on a snake,” said Cutwell, who was winding up the crossbow.
    “She meant to! She was crossed in love!”
    “All I can remember was that she used to take baths in asses’ milk. Funny thing, history,” said Cutwell reflectively. “You become a queen, reign for thirty years, make laws, declare war on people and then the only thing you get remembered for is that you smelled like yogurt and were bitten in the—”
    “She’s a distant ancestor of mine,” snapped Keli. “I won’t listen to this sort of thing.”
    “Will you both be quiet and listen to me!” shouted Mort.
    Silence descended like a shroud.
    Then Cutwell sighted carefully and shot Mort in the back.

The night shed its early casualties and journeyed onwards. Even the wildest parties had ended, their guests lurching home to their beds, or someone’s bed at any rate. Shorn of these fellow travelers, mere daytime people who had strayed out of their temporal turf, the true survivors of the night got down to the serious commerce of the dark.
    This wasn’t so very different from Ankh-Morpork’s daytime business, except that the knives were more obvious and people didn’t smile so much.
    The Shades were silent, save only for the whistled signals of thieves and the velvety hush of dozens of people going about their private business in careful silence.
    And, in Ham Alley, Cripple Wa’s famous floating crap game was just getting under way. Several dozen cowled