Мор - ученик смерти
Evenstranger,no-oneseemedtobepayingthemmuchattention.WhileStoLat’snightlifewasnotascolourfulandfullofincidentasthatofAnkh-Morpork,inthesamewaythatawastepaperbasketcannotcompetewithamunicipaltip,thestreetswereneverthelessa-bustlewithpeopleandshrillwiththecriesofhucksters,gamblers,sellersofsweetmeats,pea-and-thimblemen,ladiesofassignation,pickpocketsandtheoccasionalhonesttraderwhohadwanderedinbymistakeandcouldn’tnowraiseenoughmoneytoleave.AsMortrodethroughthemsnatchesofconversationinhalf-a-dozenlanguagesfloatedintohisears;withnumbacceptanceherealisedhecouldunderstandeveryoneofthem.
HeeventuallydismountedandledthehorsealongWallStreet,searchinginvainforCutwell’shouse.Hefounditonlybecausealumponthenearestposterwasmakingmuffledswearingnoises.
Hereachedoutgingerlyandpulledasideastripofpaper.
Tanksverymuch,’saidthegargoyledoorknocker.’Youwouldn’tcreditit,wouldyou?Oneminutelifeasnormal,nexftminuteamouthfulofglue.’
’Where’sCutwell?’
’He’sgoneofftothepalace.’Theknockerleeredathimandwinkedacast-ironeye.’Somemencameandtookallhisfstuffaway.Thensomeovvermenstartedpastingpicturesofhisgirlfriendallovertheplace.Barftuds,’itadded.
Mortcoloured.
’Hisgirlfriend?’
Thedoorknocker,beingofthedemonicpersuasion,sniggeredathistone.Itsoundedlikefingernailsbeingdraggedoverafile.
’Yeff,’itsaid.
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