Мор - ученик смерти

           Notthatthecustomersweretakingtheslightestbitofnotice,ofcourse.TomostoftheDrum’sclienteleeventhenailedclubwouldhavebeenconsideredamerehint.

           However,theyweresufficientlyobservanttobevaguelyworriedbythetalldarkfigurestandingbythebaranddrinkinghiswaythroughitsentirecontents.

           Lonely,dedicateddrinkersalwaysgenerateamentalfieldwhichensurescompleteprivacy,butthisparticularonewasradiatingakindoffatalisticgloomthatwasslowlyemptyingthebar.

           Thisdidn’tworrythebarman,becausethelonelyfigurewasengagedinaveryexpensiveexperiment.

           Everydrinkingplacethroughoutthemultiversehasthem–thoseshelvesofweirdly-shaped,stickybottlesthatnotonlycontainexotically-namedliquid,whichisoftenblueorgreen,butalsooddsandendsthatbottlesofrealdrinkwouldneverstooptocontain,suchaswholefruits,bitsoftwigand,inextremecases,smalldrownedlizards.No-oneknowswhybarmenstocksomany,sincetheyalltasteliketreacledissolvedinturpentine.IthasbeenspeculatedthattheydreamofadaywhensomeonewillwalkinoffthestreetunbiddenandaskforaglassofPeachCornichewithAHintOfMintandovernighttheplacewillbecomesomewhereToBeSeenAt.

           Thestrangerwasworkinghiswayalongtherow.

           WHATisTHATGREENONE?

           Thelandlordpeeredatthelabel.

           ’Itsaysit’sMelonBrandy,’hesaiddoubtfully.’Itsaysit’sbottledbysomemonkstoanancientrecipe,’headded.

           IWILLTRYIT.