Мор - ученик смерти

           ItwascrowdedintheCurryGardensonthecornerofGodStreetandBloodAlley,butonlywiththecreamofsociety–atleast,withthosepeoplewhoarefoundfloatingonthetopandwho,therefore,it’swisesttocallthecream.Fragrantbushesplantedamongthetablesnearlyconcealedthebasicsmellofthecityitself,whichhasbeenlikenedtothenasalequivalentofafoghorn.

           Mortateravenously,butcurbedhiscuriosityanddidn’twatchtoseehowDeathcouldpossiblyeatanything.Thefoodwastheretostartwithandwasn’ttherelater,sopresumablysomethingmusthavehappenedinbetween.MortgotthefeelingthatDeathwasn’treallyusedtoallthisbutwasdoingittoputhimathisease,likeanelderlybachelorunclewhohasbeenlandedwithhisnephewforaholidayandisterrifiedofgettingitwrong.

           Theotherdinersdidn’ttakemuchnotice,evenwhenDeathleanedbackandlitaratherfinepipe.Someonewithsmokecurlingoutoftheireyesocketstakessomeignoring,buteveryonemanagedit.

           ’Isitmagic?’saidMort.

           WHATDOYOUTHINK?saidDeath.AMIREALLYHERE,BOY?

           ’Yes,’saidMortslowly.’I...I’vewatchedpeople.Theylookatyoubuttheydon’tseeyou,Ithink.Youdosomethingtotheirminds.’

           Deathshookhishead.

           THEYDOITALLTHEMSELVES,hesaid.THERE’SNOMAGIC.PEOPLECANTSEEME,THEYSIMPLYWONTALLOWTHEMSELVESTODOIT.