Mort - Terry Pratchett [70]
“Happiness,” he said, and puzzled at the sound of his own voice.
Cutwell, the wizard and Royal Recognizer by appointment, pulled himself up the last of the tower steps and leaned against the wall, waiting for his heart to stop thumping.
Actually it wasn’t particularly high, this tower, just high for Sto Lat. In general design and outline it looked the standard sort of tower for imprisoning princesses in; it was mainly used to store old furniture.
However, it offered unsurpassed views of the city and the Sto plain, which is to say, you could see an awful lot of cabbages.
Cutwell made it as far as the crumbling crenellations atop the wall and looked out at the morning haze. It was, maybe, a little hazier than usual. If he tried hard he could imagine a flicker in the sky. If he really strained his imagination he could hear a buzzing out over the cabbage fields, a sound like someone frying locusts. He shivered.
At a time like this his hands automatically patted his pockets, and found nothing but half a bag of jelly babies, melted into a sticky mass, and an apple core. Neither offered much consolation.
What Cutwell wanted was what any normal wizard wanted at a time like this, which was a smoke. He’d have killed for a cigar, and would have gone as far as a flesh wound for a squashed dog-end. He pulled himself together. Resolution was good for the moral fiber; the only trouble was the fiber didn’t appreciate the sacrifices he was making for it. They said that a truly great wizard should be permanently under tension. You could have used Cutwell for a bowstring.
He turned his back on the brassica-ed landscape and made his way back down the winding steps to the main part of the palace.
Still, he told himself, the campaign appeared to be working. The population didn’t seem to be resisting the fact that there was going to be a coronation, although they weren’t exactly clear about who was going to be crowned. There was going to be bunting in the streets and Cutwell had arranged for the town square’s main fountain to run, if not with wine, then at least with an acceptable beer made from broccoli. There was going to be folk dancing, at sword point if necessary. There would be races for children. There would be an ox roast. The royal coach had been regilded and Cutwell was optimistic that people could be persuaded to notice it as it went by.
The High Priest at the Temple of Blind Io was going to be a problem. Cutwell had marked him down as a dear old soul whose expertise with the knife was so unreliable that half of the sacrifices got tired of waiting and wandered away. The last time he’d tried to sacrifice a goat it had time to give birth to twins before he could focus, and then the courage of motherhood had resulted in it chasing the entire priesthood out of the temple.
The chances of him succeeding in putting the crown on the right person even in normal circumstances were only average, Cutwell had calculated; he’d have to stand alongside 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