Мор - ученик смерти

           ’Richesbringmanyproblems,’shesaid.’Whatarewetodo?’

           ’WereturntoKlatch,’saidthehusbandfirmly,’whereourchildrencangrowupinapropercountry,truetotheglorioustraditionsofourancientraceandmendonotneedtoworkaswaitersforwickedmastersbutcanstandtallandproud.Andwemustleaverightnow,fragrantblossomofthedatepalm.’

           ’Whysosoon,Ohard-workingsonofthedesert?’

           ’Because,’saidtheman,’IhavejustsoldthePatrician’schampionracehorse.’

           Thehorsewasn’tasfineorasfastasBinky,butitsweptthemilesawayunderitshoovesandeasilyoutdistancedafewmountedguardswho,forsomereason,appearedanxioustotalktoMort.SoontheshantysuburbsofMorporkwereleftbehindandtheroadranoutintorichblackearthcountryoftheStoplain,constructedovereonsbytheperiodicfloodingofthegreatslowAnkhthatbroughttotheregionprosperity,securityandchronicarthritis.

           Itwasalsoextremelyboring.AsthelightdistilledfromsilvertogoldMortgallopedacrossaflat,chillylandscape,chequeredwithcabbagefieldsfromedgetoedge.Therearemanythingstobesaidaboutcabbages.Onemaytalkatlengthabouttheirhighvitamincontent,theirvitalironcontribution,thevaluableroughageandcommendablefoodvalue.Inthemass,however,theylackacertainsomething;despitetheirclaimtoimmensenutritionalandmoralsuperiorityover,say,daffodils,theyhaveneverbeenasighttoinspirethepoet’smuse.Unlesshewashungry,ofcourse.ItwasonlytwentymilestoStoLat,butintermsofmeaninglesshumanexperienceitseemedliketwothousand.