Мор - ученик смерти

           TherewereguardsonthegatesofStoLat,althoughcomparedtotheonesthatpatrolledAnkhtheyhadasheepish,amateurishlook.Morttrottedpastandoneofthem,feelingabitofafool,askedhimwhowentthere.

           ’I’mafraidIcan’tstop,’saidMort.

           Theguardwasnewtothejob,andquitekeen.Guardingwasn’twhathe’dbeenledtoexpect.Standingaroundalldayinchainmailwithanaxeonalongpolewasn’twhathe’dvolunteeredfor;he’dexpectedexcitementandchallengeandacrossbowandauniformthatdidn’tgorustyintherain.

           Hesteppedforward,readytodefendthecityagainstpeoplewhodidn’trespectcommandsgivenbydulyauthorisedcivicemployees.Mortconsideredthepikebladehoveringafewinchesfromhisface.Therewasgettingtobetoomuchofthis.

           ’Ontheotherhand,’hesaidcalmly,’howwouldyoulikeitifImadeyonapresentofthisratherfinehorse?’

           Itwasn’thardtofindtheentrancetothecastle.Therewereguardsthere,too,andtheyhadcrossbowsandaconsiderablymoreunsympatheticoutlookonlifeand,inanycase,Morthadrunoutofhorses.Heloiteredabituntiltheystartedpayinghimagenerousamountofattention,andthenwandereddisconsolatelyawayintothestreetsofthelittlecity,feelingstupid.

           Afterallthis,aftermilesofbrassicasandabacksidethatnowfeltlikeablockofwood,hedidn’tevenknowwhyhewasthere.Soshe’dseenhimevenwhenhewasinvisible?Diditmeananything?Ofcourseitdidn’t.Onlyhekeptseeingherface,andtheflickerofhopeinhereyes.