Мор - ученик смерти

           Justbecauseyou’reborninthesaddledoesn’tmeanyouhavetodieinthebloodything.

           Strangelyenough,manyofhisdistinctivefeatureshad,byatrickofheredity,beenbequeathedtohisdescendant,accountingforherratheridiosyncraticattractiveness.Theywerenevermoreapparentthannow.EvenCutwellwasimpressed.Whenitcametodetermination,youcouldhavecrackedrocksonherjaw.

           Inexactlythesametoneofvoicethatherancestorhadusedwhenheaddressedhisweary,sweatyfollowersbeforetheattack,shesaid:

           ’No.No,I’mnotgoingtoacceptit.I’mnotgoingtodwindleintosomesortofghost.You’regoingtohelpme,wizard.’

           Cutwell’ssubconsciousrecognisedthattone.Ithadharmonicsinitthatmadeeventhewoodworminthefloorboardsstopwhattheyweredoingandstandtoattention.Itwasn’tvoicinganopinion,itwassaying:thingswillbethus.

           ’Me,madam?’hequavered,’Idon’tseewhatIcanpossibly—’

           Hewasjerkedoffhischairandoutintothestreet,hisrobesbillowingaroundhim.Kelimarchedtowardsthepalacewithhershoulderssetdeterminedly,draggingthewizardbehindherlikeareluctantpuppy.Itwaswithsuchawalkthatmothersusedtobeardownonthelocalschoolwhentheirlittleboycamehomewithablackeye;itwasunstoppable;itwasliketheMarchofTime.

           ’Whatisityouintend?’Cutwellstuttered,horriblyawarethattherewasgoingtobenothinghecoulddotoresist,whateveritwas.

           ’It’syourluckyday,wizard.’

           ’Oh.Good,’hesaidweakly.