Мор - ученик смерти

           ’Fatherwantshimtowin,’saidYsabellbitterly.

           ’Youmeanhe’llletMortwin?’saidCutwell.

           ’Oh,no,hewon’tlethimwin.Hejustwantshimtowin.’

           Mortnodded.AstheyfollowedDeath’sdarkshapehereflectedonanendlessfuture,servingwhatevermysteriouspurposetheCreatorhadinmind,livingoutsideTime.Hecouldn’tblameDeathforwantingtoquitthejob.Deathhadsaidtheboneswerenotcompulsory,butperhapsthatwouldn’tmatter.Wouldeternityfeellikealongtime,orwerealllives–fromapersonalviewpoint–entirelythesamelength?

           Hi,saidavoiceinhishead.Rememberme?I’myou.Igotyouintothis.

           ’Thanks,’hesaidbitterly.Theothersglancedathim.

           Youcouldcomethroughthis,thevoicesaid.You’vegotabigadvantage.You’vebeenhim,andhe’sneverbeenyou.

           DeathsweptthroughthehallandintotheLongRoom,thecandlesobedientlyflickingintoflameasheentered.

           ALBERT.

           ’Master?’

           FETCHTHEGLASSES.

           ’Master.’

           Cutwellgrabbedtheoldman’sarm.

           ’You’reawizard,’hehissed.’Youdon’thavetodowhathesays!’

           ’Howoldareyou,lad?’saidAlbert,kindly.

           ’Twenty.’

           ’Whenyou’remyageyou’llseeyourchoicesdifferently.’HeturnedtoMort.’Sorry.’

           Mortdrewhissword,itsbladealmostinvisibleinthelightfromthecandles.Deathturnedandstoodfacinghim,athinsilhouetteagainstatoweringrackofhourglasses.

           Heheldouthisarms.Thescytheappearedinthemwithatinythunderclap.