Мор - ученик смерти

           Mortnoddedmiserably.’Areyougoingtosendmehome?’hesaid.Deathreacheddownandswunghimupbehindthesaddle.BECAUSEYOUSHOWEDCOMPASSION?No.IMIGHTHAVEDONEIFYOUHADSHOWNPLEASURE.BUTYOUMUSTLEARNTHECOMPASSIONPROPERTOYOURTRADE.

           ’What’sthat?’ASHARPEDGE.

           Dayspassed,althoughMortwasn’tcertainhowmany.ThegloomysunofDeath’sworldrolledregularlyacrossthesky,butthevisitstomortalspaceseemedtoadheretonoparticularsystem.NordidDeathvisitonlykingsandimportantbattles;mostofthepersonalvisitsweretoquiteordinarypeople.

           MealswereservedupbyAlbert,whosmiledtohimselfalotanddidn’tsayanythingmuch.Ysabellkepttoherroommostofthetime,orrodeherownponyontheblackmoorsabovethecottage.Thesightofherwithherhairstreaminginthewindwouldhavebeenmoreimpressiveifshewasabetterhorse-woman,oriftheponyhadbeenratherlarger,orifherhairwasthesortthatstreamsnaturally.Somehairhasgotit,andsomehasn’t.Hershadn’t.

           Whenhewasn’toutonwhatDeathreferredtoasTHEDUTYMortassistedAlbert,orfoundjobsinthegardenorstable,orbrowsedthroughDeath’sextensivelibrary,readingwiththespeedandomnivorousnesscommontothosewhodiscoverthemagicofthewrittenwordforthefirsttime.

           Mostofthebooksinthelibrarywerebiographies,ofcourse.

           Theywereunusualinonerespect.Theywerewritingthemselves.Peoplewhohadalreadydied,obviously,filledtheirbooksfromcovertocover,andthosewhohadn’tbeenbornyethadtoputupwithblankpages.