Mort

tapping irritably on the floor. Then she reached out quickly and pinched him sharply on the arm.
    “Ow!”
    “Hmm. So you’re really real,” she said. “What’s your name, boy?”
    “Mortimer. They call me Mort,” he said, rubbing his elbow. “What did you do that for?”
    “I shall call you Boy,” she said. “And I don’t really have to explain myself, you understand, but if you must know I thought you were dead. You look dead.”
    Mort said nothing.
    “Lost your tongue?”
    Mort was, in fact, counting to ten.
    “I’m not dead,” he said eventually. “At least, I don’t think so. It’s a little hard to tell. Who are you?”
    “You may call me Miss Ysabell,” she said haughtily. “Father told me you must have something to eat. Follow me.”
    She swept away towards one of the other doors. Mort trailed behind her at just the right distance to have it swing back and hit his other elbow.
    There was a kitchen on the other side of the door—long, low and warm, with copper pans hanging from the ceiling and a vast black iron stove occupying the whole of one long wall. An old man was standing in front of it, frying eggs and bacon and whistling between his teeth.
    The smell attracted Mort’s taste buds from across the room, hinting that if they got together they could really enjoy themselves. He found himself moving forward without even consulting his legs.
    “Albert,” snapped Ysabell, “another one for breakfast.”
    The man turned his head slowly, and nodded at her without saying a word. She turned back to Mort.
    “I must say,” she said, “that with the whole Disc to choose from, I should think Father could have done rather better than you. I suppose you’ll just have to do.”
    She swept out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
    “Have to do what?” said Mort, to no one in particular.
    The room was silent, except for the sizzle of the frying pan and the crumbling of coals in the molten heart of the stove. Mort saw that it had the words “The Little Moloch (Ptntd)” embossed on its oven door.
    The cook didn’t seem to notice him, so Mort pulled up a chair and sat down at the white scrubbed table.
    “Mushrooms?” said the old man, without looking around.
    “Hmm? What?”
    “I said, do you want mushrooms?”
    “Oh. Sorry. No, thank you,” said Mort.
    “Right you are, young sir.”
    He turned around and set out for the table.
    Even after he got used to it, Mort always held his breath when he watched Albert walking. Death’s manservant was one of those stick-thin, raw-nosed old men who always look as though they are wearing gloves with the fingers cut out—even when they’re not—and his walking involved a complicated sequence of movements. Albert leaned forward and his left arm started to swing, slowly at first but soon evolving into a wild jerking movement that finally and suddenly, at about the time when a watcher would have expected the arm to fly off at the elbow, transferred itself down the length of his body to his legs and propelled him forward like a high-speed stilt walker. The frying pan followed a series of intricate curves in the air and was brought to a halt just over Mort’s plate.
    Albert did indeed have exactly the right type of half-moon spectacles to peer over the top of.
    “There could be some porridge to follow,” he said, and winked, apparently to include Mort in the world porridge conspiracy.
    “Excuse me,” said Mort, “but where am I, exactly?”
    “Don’t you know? This is the house of Death, lad. He brought you here last night.”
    “I—sort of remember. Only”….
    “Hmm?”
    “Well. The bacon and eggs,” said Mort, vaguely. “It doesn’t seem, well, appropriate.”
    “I’ve got some black pudding somewhere,” said Albert.
    “No, I mean…” Mort hesitated. “It’s just that I can’t see him sitting down to a couple of rashers and a fried slice.”
    Albert grinned. “Oh, he doesn’t, lad. Not as a regular thing, no. Very easy to cater for, the master. I just cook for me and—” he paused—“the young lady, of course.”
    Mort nodded. “Your daughter,” he said.
    “Mine? Ha,” said Albert. “You’re wrong there. She’s his.”
    Mort stared down at his fried eggs. They stared back from their lake of fat. Albert had heard of nutritional values, and didn’t hold with them.
    “Are we talking about the same person?” he said at last. “Tall, wears black, he’s a bit…skinny….”
    “Adopted,” said Albert,