Мор - ученик смерти

           Therewassomeonestandingbythebed,withaknifehalfraised.

           Inslowmotion,shewatchedfascinatedasthearmwentupandthehorsegallopedatglacierspeedacrossthefloor.Nowtheknifewasaboveher,startingitsdescent,andthehorsewasrearingandtheriderwasstandinginthestirrupsandswingingsomesortofweaponanditsbladetorethroughtheslowairwithanoiselikeafingerontherimofawetglass—

           Thelightvanished.Therewasasoftthumponthefloor,followedbyametallicclatter.

           Kelitookadeepbreath.

           Ahandwasbrieflylaidacrosshermouthandaworriedvoicesaid,’Ifyouscream,I’llregretit.Please?I’minenoughtroubleasitis.’

           Anyonewhocouldgetthatamountofbewilderedpleadingintotheirvoicewaseithergenuineorsuchagoodactortheywouldn’thavetobotherwithassassinationforaliving.Shesaid,’Whoareyou?’

           ’Idon’tknowifI’mallowedtotellyou,’saidthevoice.’Youarestillalive,aren’tyou?’

           Shebitdownthesarcasticreplyjustintime.Somethingaboutthetoneofthequestionworriedher.

           ’Can’tyoutell?’shesaid.

           ’It’snoteasy....’Therewasapause.Shestrainedtoseeinthedarkness,toputafacearoundthatvoice.’Imayhavedoneyousometerribleharm,’itadded.

           ’Haven’tyoujustsavedmylife?’