Мор - ученик смерти

           Aprocessionwaswindingawayfromtheavenueofpyramids,ledbyagiantstatueofOfflertheCrocodileGodbornebyahundredsweatingslaves.Binkycanteredaboveit,entirelyunnoticed,andperformedaperfectfour-pointlandingonthehard-packedsandoutsidethepyramid’sentrance.

           ’They’vepickledanotherking,’saidMort.Heexaminedtheglassagaininthemoonlight.Itwasquiteplain,notthesortnormallyassociatedwithroyalty.

           Thatcan’tbehim,’saidYsabell.Theydon’tpicklethemwhenthey’restillalive,dothey?’

           ’Ihopenot,becauseIreadwhere,beforetheydothepreserving,they,um,cutthemopenandremove—’

           ’Idon’twanttohearit—’

           ’—allthesoftbits,’Mortconcludedlamely.’It’sjustaswellthepicklingdoesn’twork,really,justimaginehavingtowalkaroundwithno—’

           ’Soitisn’tthekingyou’vecometotake,’saidYsabellloudly.’Whoisit,then?’

           Mortturnedtowardsthedarkentrance.Itwouldn’tbesealeduntildawn,togivetimeforthedeadking’ssoultoleave.Itlookeddeepandforeboding,hintingatpurposesconsiderablymoredirethan,say,keepingarazorbladeniceandsharp.

           ’Let’sfindout,’hesaid.

           ’Lookout!He’scomingback!’

           TheUniversity’seightmostseniorwizardsshuffledintoline,triedtosmoothouttheirbeardsandingeneralmadeanunsuccessfulefforttolookpresentable.Itwasn’teasy.