Mort

nosebag.
    “Won’t people notice there’s a horse up here?” he said, as they strolled to a stairwell.
    Death shook his head.
    W OULD YOU BELIEVE THERE COULD BE A HORSE AT THE TOP OF THIS TOWER ? he said.
    “No. You couldn’t get one up these stairs,” said Mort.
    W ELL, THEN ?
    “Oh. I see. People don’t want to see what can’t possibly exist.”
    W ELL DONE .
    Now they were walking along a wide corridor hung with tapestries. Death reached into his robe and pulled out an hourglass, peering closely at it in the dim light.
    It was a particularly fine one, its glass cut into intricate facets and imprisoned in an ornate framework of wood and brass. The words “King Olerve the Bastard” were engraved deeply into it.
    The sand inside sparkled oddly. There wasn’t a lot left.
    Death hummed to himself and stowed the glass away in whatever mysterious recess it had occupied.
    They turned a corner and hit a wall of sound. There was a hall full of people there, under a cloud of smoke and chatter that rose all the way up into the banner-haunted shadows in the roof. Up in a gallery a trio of minstrels were doing their best to be heard and not succeeding.
    The appearance of Death didn’t cause much of a stir. A footman by the door turned to him, opened his mouth and then frowned in a distracted way and thought of something else. A few courtiers glanced in their direction, their eyes instantly unfocusing as common sense overruled the other five.
    W E’VE GOT A FEW MINUTES , said Death, taking a drink from a passing tray. L ET’S MINGLE .
    “They can’t see me either!” said Mort. “But I’m real!”
    R EALITY IS NOT ALWAYS WHAT IT SEEMS , said Death. A NYWAY, IF THEY DON’T WANT TO SEE ME, THEY CERTAINLY DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU . T HESE ARE ARISTOCRATS, BOY . T HEY’RE GOOD AT NOT SEEING THINGS . W HY IS THERE A CHERRY ON A STICK IN THIS DRINK ?
    “Mort,” said Mort automatically.
    I T’S NOT AS IF IT DOES ANYTHING FOR THE FLAVOR . W HY DOES ANYONE TAKE A PERFECTLY GOOD DRINK AND THEN PUT IN A CHERRY ON A POLE ?
    “What’s going to happen next?” said Mort. An elderly earl bumped into his elbow, looked everywhere but directly at him, shrugged and walked away.
    T AKE THESE THINGS, NOW , said Death, fingering a passing canape. I MEAN, MUSHROOMS YES, CHICKEN YES, CREAM YES , I’ VE NOTHING AGAINST ANY OF THEM, BUT WHY IN THE NAME OF SANITY MINCE THEM ALL UP AND PUT THEM IN LITTLE PASTRY CASES ?
    “Pardon?” said Mort.
    T HAT’S MORTALS FOR YOU , Death continued. T HEY’VE ONLY GOT A FEW YEARS IN THIS WORLD AND THEY SPEND THEM ALL IN MAKING THINGS COMPLICATED FOR THEMSELVES . F ASCINATING . H AVE A GHERKIN .
    “Where’s the king?” said Mort, craning to look over the heads of the court.
    C HAP WITH THE GOLDEN BEARD , said Death. He tapped a flunky on the shoulder, and as the man turned and looked around in puzzlement deftly piloted another drink from his tray.
    Mort cast around until he saw the figure standing in a little group in the center of the crowd, leaning over slightly the better to hear what a rather short courtier was saying to him. He was a tall, heavily-built man with the kind of stolid, patient face that one would confidently buy a used horse from.
    “He doesn’t look a bad king,” said Mort. “Why would anyone want to kill him?”
    S EE THE MAN NEXT TO HIM ? W ITH THE LITTLE MOUSTACHE AND THE GRIN LIKE A LIZARD ? Death pointed with his scythe.
    “Yes?”
    H IS COUSIN, THE D UKE OF S TO H ELIT . N OT THE NICEST OF PEOPLE , said Death. A HANDY MAN WITH A BOTTLE OF POISON . F IFTH IN LINE TO THE THRONE LAST YEAR, NOW SECOND IN LINE . B IT OF A SOCIAL CLIMBER, YOU MIGHT SAY . He fumbled inside his robe and produced an hourglass in which black sand coursed between a spiked iron latticework. He gave it an experimental shake. A ND DUE TO LIVE ANOTHER THIRTY, THIRTY-FIVE YEARS , he said, with a sigh.
    “And he goes around killing people?” said Mort. He shook his head. “There’s no justice.”
    Death sighed. No, he said, handing his drink to a page who was surprised to find he was suddenly holding an empty glass, T HERE’S JUST ME .
    He drew his sword, which had the same ice blue, shadow-thin blade as the scythe of office, and stepped forward.
    “I thought you used the scythe,” whispered Mort.
    K INGS GET THE SWORD , said Death. I T’S A ROYAL WHATS-NAME, PREROGATIVE .
    His free hand thrust its bony digits beneath his robe again and brought out King Olerve’s glass. In the top