Mort glanced at the small wooden punnet in the wizard's hands.
'In mid-winter?'
'Actually, they're sprouts with a dash of enchantment.'
They taste like strawberries?'
Cutwell sighed. 'No, like sprouts. The spell isn't totally efficient. I thought they might cheer the princess up, but she threw them at me. Shame to waste them. Be my guest.'
Mort gaped at him.
'She threw them at you?'
'Very accurately, I'm afraid. Very strong-minded young lady.'
Hi, said a voice in the back of Mort's mind, it's you again, pointing out to yourself that the chances of the princess even contemplating you know with this fellow are on the far side of remote.
Go away, thought Mort. His subconscious was worrying him. It appeared to have a direct line to parts of his body that he wanted to ignore at the moment.
'Why are you here?' he said aloud. 'Is it something to do with all these pictures?'
'Good idea, wasn't it?' beamed Cutwell. 'I'm rather proud of it myself.'
'Excuse me,' said Mort weakly. 'I've had a busy day. I think I'd like to sit down somewhere.'
'There's the Throne Room,' said Cutwell. 'There's no-one in there at this time of night. Everyone's asleep.'
Mort nodded, and then looked suspiciously at the young wizard.
'What are you doing up, then?' he said.
'Um,' said Cutwell, 'um, I just thought I'd see if there was anything in the pantry.'
He shrugged.[6]
Now is the time to report that Cutwell too notices that Mort, even a Mort weary with riding and lack of sleep, is somehow glowing from within and in some strange way unconnected with size is nevertheless larger than life. The difference is that Cutwell is, by training, a better guesser than other people and knows that in occult matters the obvious answer is usually the wrong one.
Mort can move absentmindedly through walls and drink neat widowmaker soberly not because he is turning into a ghost, but because he is becoming dangerously real.
In fact, as the boy stumbles while they walk along the silent corridors and steps through a marble pillar without noticing, it's obvious that the world is becoming a pretty insubstantial place from his point of view.
'You just walked through a marble pillar,' observed Cutwell. 'How did you do it?'
'Did I?' Mort looked around. The pillar looked sound enough. He poked an arm towards it, and slightly bruised his elbow.
'I could have sworn you did,' said Cutwell. 'Wizards notice these things, you know.' He reached into the pocket of his robe.
Then have you noticed the mist dome around the country?' said Mort.
Cutwell squeaked. The jar in his hand dropped and smashed on the tiles; there was the smell of slightly rancid salad dressing.
'Already?'
'I don't know about already,' said Mort, 'but there's this sort of crackling wall sliding over the land and no-one else seems to worry about it and—'
'How fast was it moving?'
'— it changes things!'