Мор - ученик смерти

           Outinthedampcabbagefieldstherewasashimmerintheairandafaintsizzle,likefryinggrasshoppers.

           Peopledon’talterhistoryanymorethanbirdsalterthesky,theyjustmakebriefpatternsinit.Inchbyinch,implacableasaglacierandfarcolder,therealrealitywasgrindingbacktowardsStoLat.

           Mortwasthefirstpersontonotice.

           Ithadbeenalongafternoon.ThemountaineerhadheldontohisicyhandholduntilthelastmomentandtheexecuteehadcalledMortalackeyofthemonarchiststate.Onlytheoldladyof103,whohadgonetoherrewardsurroundedbyhersorrowingrelatives,hadsmiledathimandsaidhewaslookingalittlepale.

           TheDiscsunwasclosetothehorizonbythetimeBinkycanteredwearilythroughtheskiesoverStoLat,andMortlookeddownandsawtheborderlandofreality.Itcurvedawaybelowhim,acrescentoffaintsilvermist.Hedidn’tknowwhatitwas,buthehadanastyforebodingthatithadsomethingtodowithhim.

           Hereinedinthehorseandallowedhimtotrotgentlytowardstheground,touchingdownafewyardsbehindthewallofiridescentair.Itwasmovingatsomethinglessthanwalkingpace,hissinggentlyasitdriftedghost-likeacrossthestarkdampcabbagefieldsandfrozendrainageditches.

           Itwasacoldnight,thetypeofnightwhenfrostandfogfightfordominationandeverysoundismuffled.Binky’sbreathmadefountainsofcloudinthestillair.Hewhinniedgently,almostapologetically,andpawedattheground.

           Mortslidoutofthesaddleandcreptuptotheinterface.Itcrackledsoftly.