Мор - ученик смерти

           Oneoftheguardswouldprobablyseeyouandhe’dthinkyouwereathiefandhe’dfirehiscrossbow.Imean,inhisrealityyou’dbeathief.Itwouldn’tactuallybetruebutyou’dbejustasdeadasifitwas.Beliefispowerfulstuff.I’mawizard.Weknowaboutthesethings.Lookhere.’

           Hepulledabookoutofthedebrisinfrontofhimandopeneditatthepieceofbaconhe’dusedasabookmark.Mortlookedoverhisshoulder,andfrownedatthecurlymagicalwriting.Itmovedaroundonthepage,twistingandwrithinginanattemptnottobereadbyanon-wizard,andthegeneraleffectwasunpleasant.

           ’What’sthis?’hesaid.

           ’It’stheBookoftheMagickofAlbertoMalichtheMage,’saidthewizard,’asortofbookofmagicaltheory.It’snotagoodideatolooktoohardatthewords,theyresentit.Look,itsayshere—’

           Hislipsmovedsoundlessly.Littlebeadsofsweatspranguponhisforeheadanddecidedtogettogetherandgodownandseewhathisnosewasdoing.Hiseyeswatered.

           Somepeopleliketosettledownwithagoodbook.No-oneinpossessionofacompletesetofmarbleswouldliketosettledownwithabookofmagic,becauseeventheindividualwordshaveaprivateandvindictivelifeoftheirownandreadingthem,inshort,isakindofmentalIndianwrestling.Manyayoungwizardhastriedtoreadagrimoirethatistoostrongforhim,andpeoplewho’veheardthescreamshavefoundonlyhispointyshoeswiththeclassicwispofsmokecomingoutofthemandabookwhichis,perhaps,justalittlefatter.