Мор - ученик смерти

           Mortshuffledanxiouslythroughhislimitedrepertoireofsmalltalk,andgaveup.

           ’Nevermind,’hesaidgallantly.’Atleastyoucanusetweezers.’

           ’He’sverykind,’saidYsabell,ignoringhim,’inasortofabsent-mindedway.’

           ’He’snotexactlyyourrealfather,ishe?’

           ’MyparentswerekilledcrossingtheGreatNefyearsago.Therewasastorm,Ithink.Hefoundmeandbroughtmehere.Idon’tknowwhyhedidit.’

           ’Perhapshefeltsorryforyou?’

           ’Heneverfeelsanything.Idon’tmeanthatnastily,youunderstand.It’sjustthathe’sgotnothingtofeelwith,nowhatd’youcallits,noglands.Heprobablythoughtsorryforme.’

           SheturnedherpaleroundfacetowardsMort.

           ’Iwon’thearawordagainsthim.Hetriestodohisbest.It’sjustthathe’salwaysgotsomuchtothinkabout.’

           ’Myfatherwasabitlikethat.Is,Imean.’

           ’Iexpecthe’sgotglands,though.’

           ’Iimaginehehas,’saidMort,shiftinguneasily.’ItsnotsomethingI’veeverreallythoughtabout,glands.’

           Theystaredsidebysideatthetrout.Thetroutstaredback.

           ’I’vejustupsettheentirehistoryofthefuture,’saidMort.

           ’Yes?’

           ’Yousee,whenhetriedtokillherIkilledhim,butthethingis,accordingtothehistorysheshouldhavediedandthedukewouldbeking,buttheworstbit,theworstbitisthatalthoughhe’sabsolutelyrottentothecorehe’dunitethecitiesandeventuallythey’llbeafederationandthebookssaythere’llbeahundredyearsofpeaceandplenty.