Мор - ученик смерти

           Itopenedwithsomeeffortandthegroanofthehingesreverberatedaroundthelibrary;Mortfanciedforamomentthatallthebookspausedmomentarilyintheirworkjusttolisten.

           Stepsleddownintothevelvetgloom.Therewerecobwebsanddust,andairthatsmelledasthoughithadbeenlockedinapyramidforathousandyears.

           ’Peopledon’tcomedownhereveryoften,’saidYsabell.’I’llleadtheway.’

           Mortfeltsomethingwasowed.

           ’Imustsay,’hesaid,’you’rearealbrick.’

           ’Youmeanpink,squareanddumpy?Youreallyknowhowtotalktoagirl,myboy.’

           ’Mort,’saidMortautomatically.

           TheStackwasasdarkandsilentasacavedeepunderground.Theshelveswerebarelyfarenoughapartforonepersontowalkbetweenthem,andtoweredupwellbeyondthedomeofcandlelight.Theywereparticularlyeeriebecausetheyweresilent.Therewerenomorelivestowrite;thebooksslept.ButMortfeltthattheysleptlikecats,withoneeyeopen.Theywereaware.

           ’Icamedownhereonce,’saidYsabell,whispering.’Ifyougofarenoughalongtheshelvesthebooksrunoutandthere’sclaytabletsandlumpsofstoneandanimalskinsandeveryone’scalledUgandZog.’

           Thesilencewasalmosttangible.Mortcouldfeelthebookswatchingthemastheytrampedthroughthehot,silentpassages.Everyonewhohadeverlivedwasheresomewhere,rightbacktothefirstpeoplethatthegodshadbakedoutofmudorwhatever.Theydidn’texactlyresenthim,theywerejustwonderingaboutwhyhewashere.