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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