Mort - Terry Pratchett [38]
“Would you like a drink or something?” he said, surreptitiously kicking a discarded vest under the table.
Keli looked around for somewhere to sit that wasn’t occupied with laundry or used crockery, and shook her head. Cutwell noticed her expression.
“It’s a bit alfresco, I’m afraid,” he added hurriedly, elbowing the remains of a garlic sausage on to the floor. “Mrs. Nugent usually comes in twice a week and does for me but she’s gone to see her sister who’s had one of her turns. Are you sure? It’s no trouble. I saw a spare cup here only yesterday.”
“I have a problem, Mr. Cutwell,” said Keli.
“Hang on a moment.” He reached up to a hook over the fireplace and took down a pointy hat that had seen better days, although from the look of it they hadn’t been very much better, and then said, “Right. Fire away.”
“What’s so important about the hat?”
“Oh, it’s very essential. You’ve got to have the proper hat for wizarding. We wizards know about this sort of thing.”
“If you say so. Look, can you see me?”
He peered at her. “Yes. Yes, I would definitely say I can see you.”
“And hear me? You can hear me, can you?”
“Loud and clear. Yes. Every syllable tinkling into place. No problems.”
“Then would you be surprised if I told you that no one else in this city can?”
“Except me?”
Keli snorted. “And your doorknocker.”
Cutwell pulled out a chair and sat down. He squirmed a little. A thoughtful expression passed over his face. He stood up, reached behind him and produced a flat reddish mass which might have once been half a pizza*. He stared at it sorrowfully.
“I’ve been looking for that all morning, would you believe?” he said. “It was an All-On with extra peppers, too.” He picked sadly at the squashed shape, and suddenly remembered Keli.
“Gosh, sorry,” he said, “where’s my manners? Whatever will you think of me? Here. Have an anchovy. Please.”
“Have you been listening to me?” snapped Keli.
“Do you feel invisible? In yourself, I mean?” said Cutwell, indistinctly.
“Of course not. I just feel angry. So I want you to tell my fortune.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, it all sounds rather medical to me and—”
“I can pay.”
“It’s illegal, you see,” said Cutwell wretchedly. “The old king expressly forbade fortune telling in Sto Lat. He didn’t like wizards much.”
“I can pay a lot!”
“Mrs. Nugent was telling me this new girl is likely to be worse. A right haughty one, she said. Not the sort to look kindly on practitioners of the subtle arts, I fear.”
Keli smiled. Members of the court who had seen that smile before would have hastened to drag Cutwell out of the way and into a place of safety, like the next continent, but he just sat there trying to pick bits of mushroom out of his robe.
“I understand she’s got a foul temper on her,” said Keli. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t turn you out of the city anyway.”
“Oh dear,” said Cutwell, “do you really think so?”
“Look,” said Keli, “you don’t have to tell my future, just my present. Even she couldn’t object to that. I’ll have a word with her if you like,” she added magnanimously.
Cutwell brightened. “Oh, do you know her?” he said.
“Yes. But sometimes, I think, not very well.”
Cutwell sighed and burrowed around in the debris on the table, dislodging cascades of elderly plates and the long-mummified remains of several meals. Eventually he unearthed a fat leather wallet, stuck to a cheese slice.
“Well,” he said doubtfully, “these are Caroc cards. Distilled wisdom of the Ancients and all that. Or there’s the Ching Aling of the Hublandish. It’s all the rage in the smart set. I don’t do tealeaves.”
“I’ll try the Ching thing.”
“You throw these yarrow stalks in the air, then.”
She did. They looked at the ensuing pattern.
“Hmm,” said Cutwell after a while. “Well, that’s one in the fireplace, one in the cocoa mug, one in the street, shame about the window, one on the table, and one, no, two behind the dresser. I expect Mrs.