Мор - ученик смерти

           MortslidoffBinky’sbackandwalkedforward.

           ’Imeant,whatgoesthere?’theguardtriedagain,withamixtureofdoggednessandsuicidalstupiditythatmarkedhimforearlypromotion.

           Mortcaughtthespeargentlyandlifteditoutofthewayofthedoor.Ashedidsothetorchlightilluminatedhisface.

           ’Mort,’hesaidsoftly.

           Itshouldhavebeenenoughforanynormalsoldier,butthisguardwasofficermaterial.

           ’Imean,friendorfoe?’hestuttered,tryingtoavoidMort’sgaze.

           ’Whichwouldyouprefer?’hegrinned.Itwasn’tquitethegrinofhismaster,butitwasaprettyeffectivegrinanddidn’thaveatraceofhumourinit.

           Theguardsaggedwithrelief,andstoodaside.

           ’Pass,friend,’hesaid.

           Mortstrodeacrossthehalltowardsthestaircasethatledtotheroyalapartments.Thehallhadchangedalotsincehelastsawit.PortraitsofKeliwereeverywhere;they’devenreplacedtheancientandcrumblingbattlebannersintheshadowyheightsoftheroof.Anyonewalkingthroughthepalacewouldhavefounditimpossibletogomorethanafewstepswithoutseeingaportrait.PartofMort’smindwonderedwhy,justasanotherpartworriedabouttheflickeringdomethatwassteadilyclosingonthecity,butmostofhismindwasahotandsteamyglowofrageandbewildermentandjealousy.Ysabellhadbeenright,hethought,thismustbelove.

           ’Thewalk-through-wallsboy!’

           Hejerkedhisheadup.Cutwellwasstandingatthetopofthestairs.

           Thewizardhadchangedalottoo,Mortthoughtbitterly.Perhapsnotthatmuch,though.