Мор - ученик смерти

           Why?’

           ’Hurryup!’

           ’You’dbettergoandhelphim,’saidYsabell.’Heseemstobegettingquiteupset.’

           Mortlefther,hismindasuddenswampofuneasiness,andstalkedacrossthetiledfloortowhereAlbertstoodimpatientlytappingafoot.

           ’WhatdoIhavetodo?’hesaid.

           ’Justfollowme.’

           Theroomopenedoutintoaseriesofpassages,eachonelinedwiththehourglasses.Hereandtheretheshelvesweredividedbystonepillarsinscribedwithangularmarkings.Albertglancedatthemoccasionally;mainlyhestrodethroughthemazeofsandasthoughhekneweveryturnbyheart.

           ’Isthereoneglassforeveryone,Albert?’

           ’Yes.’

           ’Thisplacedoesn’tlookbigenough.’

           ’Doyouknowanythingaboutm-dimensionaltopography?’

           ’Um.No.’

           ThenIshouldn’taspiretoholdanyopinions,ifIwasyou,’saidAlbert.

           Hepausedinfrontofashelfofglasses,glancedatthepaperagain,ranhishandalongtherowandsuddenlysnatchedupaglass.Thetopbulbwasalmostempty.

           ’Holdthis,’hesaid.’Ifthisisright,thentheothershouldbesomewherenear.Ah.Here.’

           Mortturnedthetwoglassesaroundinhishands.Onehadallthemarkingsofanimportantlife,whiletheotheronewassquatandquiteunremarkable.

           Mortreadthenames.ThefirstseemedtorefertoanoblemanintheAgateanEmpireregions.ThesecondwasacollectionofpictogramsthatherecognisedasoriginatinginTurnwiseKlatch.

           ’Overtoyou,’Albertsneered.Thesooneryougetstarted,thesooneryou’llbefinished.