Мор - ученик смерти

           ’Well,sir.Yes.Ithink.’

           THAT’STHESPIRIT.I’VELEFTBlNKYBYTHEHORSETROUGHROUNDTHECORNER.TAKEHIMSTRAIGHTHOMEWHENYOU’VEFINISHED.

           ’You’restayinghere,sir?’Deathlookedupanddownthestreet.Hiseye-socketsflared.

           ITHOUGHTIMIGHTSTROLLAROUNDABIT,hesaidmysteriously.IDON’TSEEMTOFEELQUITERIGHT.ICOULDDOWITHTHEFRESHAIR.Heseemedtoremembersomething,reachedintothemysteriousshadowsofhiscloak,andpulledoutthreehourglasses.ALLSTRAIGHTFORWARD,hesaid.ENJOYYOURSELF.

           Heturnedandstrodeoffdownthestreet,humming.

           ’Um.Thankyou,’saidMort.Heheldthehourglassesuptothelight,notingtheonethatwasonitsverylastfewgrainsofsand.

           ’DoesthismeanI’mincharge?’hecalled,butDeathhadturnedthecorner.

           Binkygreetedhimwithafaintwhinnyofrecognition.Mortmountedup,hisheartpoundingwithapprehensionandresponsibility.Hisfingersworkedautomatically,takingthescytheoutofitssheathandadjustingandlockingtheblade(whichflashedsteelyblueinthenight,slicingthestarlightlikesalami).Hemountedcarefully,wincingatthestabfromhissaddlesores,butBinkywaslikeridingapillow.Asanafterthought,drunkwithdelegatedauthority,hepulledDeath’sridingcloakoutofitssaddlebagandfasteneditbyitssilverbrooch.

           Hetookanotherlookatthefirsthourglass,andnudgedBinkywithhisknees.Thehorsesniffedthechillyair,andbegantotrot.