Мор - ученик смерти

           ’Itmightbedangerousupthere,’saidMortgallantly.

           ’Itmightbedangerousdownhere,’Ysabellpointedout.’SoI’llbeuptheladderwiththecandle,thankyou.’

           Shesetherfootonthebottomrungandwassoonnomorethanafrillyshadowoutlinedinahaloofcandlelightthatsoonbegantoshrink.

           Mortsteadiedtheladderandtriednottothinkofallthelivespressinginonhim.Occasionallyameteorofhotwaxwouldthumpintothefloorbesidehim,raisingacraterinthedust.Ysabellwasnowafaintglowfarabove,andhecouldfeeleveryfootstepasitvibrateddowntheladder.

           Shestopped.Itseemedtobeforquitealongtime.

           Thenhervoicefloateddown,deadenedbytheweightofsilencearoundthem.

           ’Mort,I’vefoundit.’

           ’Good.Bringitdown.’

           ’Mort,youwereright.’

           ’Okay,thanks.Nowbringitdown,’

           ’Yes,Mort,butwhichone?’

           ’Don’tmessabout,thatcandlewon’tlastmuchlonger.’

           ’Mort!’

           ’What?’

           ’Mort,there’sawholeshelf!’

           Nowitreallywasdawn,thatcuspofthedaythatbelongedtono-oneexcepttheseagullsinMorporkdocks,thetidethatrolledinuptheriver,andawarmturnwisewindthataddedasmellofspringtothecomplexodourofthecity.

           Deathsatonabollard,lookingouttosea.Hehaddecidedtostopbeingdrunk.Itmadehisheadache.

           He’dtriedfishing,dancing,gamblinganddrink,allegedlyfouroflife’sgreatestpleasures,andwasn’tsurethathesawthepoint.Foodhewashappywith–Deathlikedagoodmealasmuchasanyoneelse.