Mort

the old boy and try tactfully to guide his shaking hands.
    Still, even that wasn’t the big problem. The big problem was much bigger than that. The big problem had been sprung on him by the Chancellor after breakfast.
    “Fireworks?” Cutwell had said.
    “That’s the sort of thing you wizard fellows are supposed to be good at, isn’t it?” said the Chancellor, as crusty as a week-old loaf. “Flashes and bangs and whatnot. I remember a wizard when I was a lad—”
    “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about fireworks,” said Cutwell, in tones designed to convey that he cherished this ignorance.
    “Lots of rockets,” the Chancellor reminisced happily. “Ankhian candles. Thunderflashes. And thingies that you can hold in your hand. It’s not a proper coronation without fireworks.”
    “Yes, but, you see—”
    “Good man,” said the Chancellor briskly, “knew we could rely on you. Plenty of rockets, you understand, and to finish with there must be a set-piece, mind you, something really breathtaking like a portrait of—of—” his eyes glazed over in a way that was becoming depressingly familiar to Cutwell.
    “The Princess Keli,” he said wearily.
    “Ah. Yes. Her,” said the Chancellor. “A portrait of—who you said—in fireworks. Of course, it’s probably all pretty simple stuff to you wizards, but the people like it. Nothing like a good blowout and a blowup and a bit of balcony waving to keep the loyalty muscles in tip-top shape, that’s what I always say. See to it. Rockets. With runes on.”
    An hour ago Cutwell had thumbed through the index of The Monster Fun Grimoire and had cautiously assembled a number of common household ingredients and put a match to them.
    Funny thing about eyebrows, he mused. You never really noticed them until they’d gone.
    Red around the eyes, and smelling slightly of smoke, Cutwell ambled towards the royal apartments past bevies of maids engaged in whatever it was maids did, which always seemed to take at least three of them. Whenever they saw Cutwell they would usually go silent, hurry past with their heads down and then break into muffled giggles along the corridor. This annoyed Cutwell. Not—he told himself quickly—because of any personal considerations, but because wizards ought to be shown more respect. Besides, some of the maids had a way of looking at him which caused him to think distinctly unwizardly thoughts.
    Truly, he thought, the way of enlightenment is like unto half a mile of broken glass.
    He knocked on the door of Keli’s suite. A maid opened it.
    “Is your mistress in?” he said, as haughtily as he could manage.
    The maid put her hand to her mouth. Her shoulders shook. Her eyes sparkled. A sound like escaping steam crept between her fingers.
    I can’t help it, Cutwell thought, I just seem to have this amazing effect on women.
    “Is it a man?” came Keli’s voice from within. The maid’s eyes glazed over and she tilted her head, as if not sure of what she had heard.
    “It’s me, Cutwell,” said Cutwell.
    “Oh, that’s all right, then. You can come in.”
    Cutwell pushed past the girl and tried to ignore the muffled laughter as the maid fled the room. Of course, everyone knew a wizard didn’t need a chaperon. It was just the tone of the princess’s “Oh, that’s all right then” that made him writhe inside.
    Keli was sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair. Very few men in the world ever find out what a princess wears under her dresses, and Cutwell joined them with extreme reluctance but with remarkable self-control. Only the frantic bobbing of his adam’s apple betrayed him. There was no doubt about it, he’d be no good for magic for days .
    She turned and he caught a whiff of talcum powder. For weeks , dammit, for weeks .
    “You look a bit hot, Cutwell. Is something the matter?”
    “Naarg.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    He shook himself. Concentrate on the hairbrush, man, the hairbrush. “Just a bit of magical experimenting, ma’am. Only superficial burns.”
    “Is it still moving?”
    “I am afraid so.”
    Keli turned back to the mirror. Her face was set.
    “Have we got time?”
    This was the bit he’d been dreading. He’d done everything he could. The Royal Astrologer had been sobered up long enough to insist that tomorrow was the only possible day the ceremony could take place, so Cutwell had arranged for it to begin one second after midnight. He’d ruthlessly cut the score of the royal trumpet