Мор - ученик смерти

           ’Aye,lordship.Madefromapples.Well,mainlyapples.’

           ThisseemedhealthyenoughtoMort.’Oh,right,’hesaid.’Apintofscumble,then.’HereachedintohispocketandwithdrewthebagofgoldthatDeathhadgivenhim.Itwasstillquitefull.InthesuddenhushoftheinnthefaintclinkofthecoinssoundedlikethelegendaryBrassGongsofLeshp,whichcanbeheardfarouttoseaonstormynightsasthecurrentsstirthemintheirdrownedtowersthreehundredfathomsbelow.

           ’Andpleaseservethesegentlemenwithwhatevertheywant,’headded.

           Hewassooverwhelmedbythechorusofthanksthathedidn’ttakemuchnoticeofthefactthathisnewfriendswereservedtheirdrinkintiny,thimble-sizedglasses,whilehisaloneturnedupinalargewoodenmug.

           Alotofstoriesaretoldaboutscumble,andhowitismadeoutonthedampmarshesaccordingtoancientrecipeshandeddownratherunsteadilyfromfathertoson.It’snottrueabouttherats,orthesnakeheads,ortheleadshot.Theoneaboutthedeadsheepisacompletefabrication.Wecanlaytorestallthevariationsoftheoneaboutthetrouserbutton.Buttheoneaboutnotlettingitcomeintocontactwithmetalisabsolutelytrue,becausewhenthelandlordflagrantlyshortchangedMortandplonkedthesmallheapofcopperinapuddleofthestuffitimmediatelybegantofroth.

           Mortsniffedhisdrink,andthentookasip.Ittastedsomethinglikeapples,somethinglikeautumnmornings,andquitealotlikethebottomofalogpile.