Мор - ученик смерти

           Shescurriedthroughthedarknessandcannonedintohim.Hewasexaminingadog-headedbird.

           ’Urgh,’shesaid.’Doesn’titsendshiversupyourspine?’

           ’No,’saidMortflatly.

           ’Whynot?’

           BECAUSEIAMMORT.Heturned,andshesawhiseyesglowlikebluepinpoints.

           ’Stopit!’

           I–CAN’T.

           Shetriedtolaugh.Itdidn’twork.’You’renotDeath,’shesaid.’You’reonlydoinghisjob.’DEATHisWHOEVERDOESDEATH’SJOB.Theshockedpausethatfollowedthiswasbrokenbyagroanfromfurtheralongthedarkpassage.Mortturnedonhisheelandhurriedtowardsit.

           He’sright,thoughtYsabell.Eventhewayhemoves....

           Butthefearofthedarknessthatthelightwasdraggingtowardsherovercameanyotherdoubtsandshecreptafterhim,aroundanothercornerandintowhatappeared,inthefitfulglowfromthesword,tobeacrossbetweenatreasuryandaveryclutteredattic.

           ’What’sthisplace?’shewhispered.’I’veneverseensomuchstuff!’

           THEKINGTAKESITWITHHIMINTOTHENEXTWORLD,saidMort.

           ’Hecertainlydoesn’tbelieveintravellinglight.Look,there’sawholeboat.Andagoldbathtub!’

           DOUBTLESSHEWILLWISHTOKEEPCLEANWHENHEGETSTHERE.

           ’Andallthosestatues!’

           THOSESTATUES,I’MSORRYTOSAY,WEREPEOPLE.SERVANTSFORTHEKING,YOUUNDERSTAND.

           Ysabell’sfacesetgrimly.

           THEPRIESTSGIVETHEMPOISON.

           Therewasanothergroan,fromtheothersideoftheclutteredroom.Mortfollowedittoitssource,steppingawkwardlyoverrollsofcarpet,bunchesofdates,cratesofcrockeryandpilesofgems.