Mort

declared Mort, waving his hands in the air. “That wasn’t everyday, that’s different. And—”
    He paused. “The way you’re looking at me,” he said. “They looked at me the same way in the inn this evening; What’s wrong?”
    “It was the way you waved your arm straight through the bedpost,” said Keli faintly.
    Mort stared at his hand, and then rapped it on the wood.
    “See?” he said. “Solid. Solid arm, solid wood.”
    “You said people looked at you in an inn?” said Cutwell. “What did you do, then? Walk through the wall?”
    “No! I mean, no, I just drank this drink, I think it was called scrumble—”
    “Scumble?”
    “Yes. Tastes like rotten apples. You’d have thought it was some sort of poison the way they kept staring.”
    “How much did you drink, then?” said Cutwell.
    “A pint, perhaps, I wasn’t really paying much attention—”
    “Did you know scumble is the strongest alcoholic drink between here and the Ramtops?” the wizard demanded.
    “No. No one said,” said Mort. “What’s it got to do with—”
    “No,” said Cutwell, slowly, “you didn’t know. Hmm. That’s a clue, isn’t it?”
    “Has it got anything to do with saving the princess?”
    “Probably not. I’d like to have a look at my books, though.”
    “In that case it’s not important,” said Mort firmly.
    He turned to Keli, who was looking at him with the faint beginnings of admiration.
    “I think I can help,” he said. “I think I can lay my hands on some powerful magic. Magic will hold back the dome, won’t it, Cutwell?”
    “My magic won’t. It’d have to be pretty strong stuff, and I’m not sure about it even then. Reality is tougher than—”
    “I shall go,” said Mort. “Until tomorrow, farewell!”
    “It is tomorrow,” Keli pointed out.
    Mort deflated slightly.
    “All right, tonight then,” he said, slightly put out, and added, “I will begone!”
    “Begone what?”
    “It’s hero talk,” said Cutwell, kindly. “He can’t help it.” Mort scowled at him, smiled bravely at Keli and walked out of the room.
    “He might have opened the door,” said Keli, after he had gone.
    “I think he was a bit embarrassed,” said Cutwell. “We all go through that stage.”
    “What, of walking through things?”
    “In a manner of speaking. Walking into them, anyway.”
    “I’m going to get some sleep,” Keli said. “Even the dead need some rest. Cutwell, stop fiddling with that crossbow, please. I’m sure it’s not wizardly to be alone in a lady’s boudoir.”
    “Hmm? But I’m not alone, am I? You’re here.”
    “That,” she said, “is the point, isn’t it?”
    “Oh. Yes. Sorry. Um. I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
    “Goodnight, Cutwell. Shut the door behind you.”

The sun crept over the horizon, decided to make a run for it, and began to rise.
    But it would be some time before its slow light rolled across the sleeping Disc, herding the night ahead of it, and nocturnal shadows still ruled the city.
    They clustered now around The Mended Drum in Filigree Street, foremost of the city’s taverns. It was famed not for its beer, which looked like maiden’s water and tasted like battery acid, but for its clientele. It was said that if you sat long enough in the Drum, then sooner or later every major hero on the Disc would steal your horse.
    The atmosphere inside was still loud with talk and heavy with smoke although the landlord was doing all those things landlords do when they think it’s time to close, like turn some of the lights out, wind up the clock, put a cloth over the pumps and, just in case, check the whereabouts of their club with the nails hammered in it. Not that the customers were taking the slightest bit of notice, of course. To most of the Drum’s clientele even the nailed club would have been considered a mere hint.
    However, they were sufficiently observant to be vaguely worried by the tall dark figure standing by the bar and drinking his way through its entire contents.
    Lonely, dedicated drinkers always generate a mental field which insures complete privacy, but this particular one was radiating a kind of fatalistic gloom that was slowly emptying the bar.
    This didn’t worry the barman, because the lonely figure was engaged in a very expensive experiment.
    Every drinking place throughout the multiverse has them—those shelves of weirdly-shaped, sticky bottles that not only contain exotically-named liquid, which is often blue or green,