Мор - ученик смерти

           ShouldIbe?’

           Didn’tthinkso,thoughtthelandlord,hedoesn’twalklikeawizardandanywayheisn’tsmokinganything.Helookedatthescumblepotagain.

           Therewassomethingwrongaboutthis.Therewassomethingwrongabouttheboy.Hedidn’tlookright.Helooked—

           —moresolidthanheshoulddo.

           Thatwasridiculous,ofcourse.Thebarwassolid,thefloorwassolid,thecustomerswereassolidasyoucouldwishfor.YetMort,standingtherelookingratherembarrassedandcasuallysippingaliquidyoucouldcleanspoonswith,seemedtoemitaparticularlypotentsortofsolidness,anextradimensionofrealness.Hishairwasmorehairy,hisclothesmoreclothy,hisbootstheepitomeofbootness.Itmadeyourheadachejusttolookathim.

           However,Mortthendemonstratedthathewashumanafterall.Themugdroppedfromhisstrickenfingersandclatteredontheflagstones,wherethedregsofscumblestartedtoeatitswaythroughthem.Hepointedatthefarwall,hismouthopeningandshuttingwordlessly.

           Theregularsturnedbacktotheirconversationsandgamesofshovel-up,reassuredthatthingswereastheyshouldbe;Mortwasactingperfectlynormallynow.Thelandlord,relievedthatthebrewhadbeenvindicated,reachedacrossthebartopandpattedhimcompanionablyontheshoulder.

           ’It’sallright,’hesaid.’Itoftentakespeoplelikethis,you’lljusthaveaheadacheforafewweeks,don’tworryaboutit,adropofscumble’llseeyouallrightagain.’