Мор - ученик смерти

           Keli’sshoulderssagged.

           ’No,’shesaid.’Everything’sallwrong.There’sadeadassassininmybedroom.Couldyoupleasehavesomethingdoneaboutit?

           ’And—’sheheldupahand–’Idon’twantyoutosay"Dead,ma’am?"or"Assassin,ma’am?"orscreamoranything,Ijustwantyoutogetsomethingdoneaboutit.Quietly.IthinkI’vegotaheadache.Sojustnod.’

           Themaidnodded,bobbeduncertainly,andbackedaway.

           Mortwasn’tsurehowhegotback.TheskysimplychangedfromicebluetosullengreyasBinkyeasedhimselfintothegapbetweendimensions.Hedidn’tlandonthedarksoilofDeath’sestate,itwassimplythere,underfoot,asthoughanaircraftcarrierhadgentlymanoeuvreditselfunderajumpjettosavethepilotallthetroubleoftouchingdown.

           Thegreathorsetrottedintothestableyardandhaltedoutsidethedoubledoor,swishinghistail.Mortslidoffandranforthehouse.

           Andstopped,andranback,andfilledthehayrack,andranforthehouse,andstoppedandmutteredtohimselfandranbackandrubbedthehorsedownandcheckedthewaterbucket,andranforthehouse,andranbackandfetchedthehorseblanketdownfromitshookonthewallandbucklediton.Binkygavehimadignifiednuzzle.

           No-oneseemedtobeaboutasMortslippedinbythebackdoorandmadehiswaytothelibrary,whereevenatthistimeofnighttheairseemedtobemadeofhotdrydust.ItseemedtotakeyearstolocatePrincessKeli’sbiography,buthefounditeventually.Itwasadepressinglyslimvolumeonashelfonlyreachablebythelibraryladder,awheeledricketystructurethatstronglyresembledanearlysiegeengine.