Mort

fanfare. He’d timed the High Priest’s invocation to the gods and then sub-edited heavily; there was going to be a row when the gods found out. The ceremony of the anointing with sacred oils had been cut to a quick dab behind the ears. Skateboards were an unknown invention on the Disc; if they hadn’t been, Keli’s trip up the aisle would have been unconstitutionally fast. And it still wasn’t enough. He nerved himself.
    “I think possibly not,” he said. “It could be a very close thing.”
    He saw her glare at him in the mirror.
    “How close?”
    “Um. Very.”
    “Are you trying to say it might reach us at the same time as the ceremony?”
    “Um. More sort of, um, before it,” said Cutwell wretchedly. There was no sound but the drumming of Keli’s fingers on the edge of the table. Cutwell wondered if she was going to break down, or smash the mirror. Instead she said:
    “How do you know?”
    He wondered if he could get away with saying something like, I’m a wizard, we know these things, but decided against it. The last time he’d said that she’d threatened him with the axe.
    “I asked one of the guards about that inn Mort talked about,” he said. “Then I worked out the approximate distance it had to travel. Mort said it was moving at a slow walking pace, and I reckon his stride is about—”
    “As simple as that? You didn’t use magic?”
    “Only common sense. It’s a lot more reliable in the long run.”
    She reached out and patted his hand.
    “Poor old Cutwell,” she said.
    “I am only twenty, ma’am.”
    She stood up and walked over to her dressing room. One of the things you learn when you’re a princess is always to be older than anyone of inferior rank.
    “Yes, I suppose there must be such things as young wizards,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s just that people always think of them as old. I wonder why this is?”
    “Rigors of the calling, ma’am,” said Cutwell, rolling his eyes. He could hear the rustle of silk.
    “What made you decide to become a wizard?” Her voice was muffled, as if she had something over her head.
    “It’s indoor work with no heavy lifting,” said Cutwell. “And I suppose I wanted to learn how the world worked.”
    “Have you succeeded, then?”
    “No.” Cutwell wasn’t much good at small talk, otherwise he’d never have let his mind wander sufficiently to allow him to say: “What made you decide to become a princess?”
    After a thoughtful silence she said, “It was decided for me, you know.”
    “Sorry, I—”
    “Being royal is a sort of family tradition. I expect it’s the same with magic; no doubt your father was a wizard?”
    Cutwell gritted his teeth. “Um. No,” he said, “not really. Absolutely not, in fact.”
    He knew what she would say next, and here it came, reliable as the sunset, in a voice tinged with amusement and fascination.
    “Oh? Is it really true that wizards aren’t allowed to—”
    “Well, if that’s all I really should be going,” said Cutwell loudly. “If anyone wants me, just follow the explosions. I— gnnnh! ”
    Keli had stepped out of the dressing room.
    Now, women’s clothes were not a subject that preoccupied Cutwell much—in fact, usually when he thought about women his mental pictures seldom included any clothes at all—but the vision in front of him really did take his breath away. Whoever had designed the dress didn’t know when to stop. They’d put lace over the silk, and trimmed it with black vermine, and strung pearls anywhere that looked bare, and puffed and starched the sleeves and then added silver filigree and then started again with the silk.
    In fact it really was amazing what could be done with several ounces of heavy metal, some irritated molluscs, a few dead rodents and a lot of thread wound out of insects’ bottoms. The dress wasn’t so much worn as occupied; if the outlying flounces weren’t supported on wheels, then Keli was stronger than he’d given her credit for.
    “What do you think?” she said, turning slowly. “This was worn by my mother, and my grandmother, and her mother.”
    “What, all together?” said Cutwell, quite prepared to believe it. How can she get into it? he wondered. There must be a door round the back….
    “It’s a family heirloom. It’s got real diamonds on the bodice.”
    “Which bit’s the bodice?”
    “This bit.”
    Cutwell shuddered. “It’s very impressive,” he said, when he could trust himself to speak. “You