Mort

dutifully behind with the great ledger open in his arms.
    The sound roared around them, a vast gray waterfall of noise.
    It came from the shelves where, stretching away into the infinite distance, row upon row of hourglasses poured away the sands of mortal time. It was a heavy sound, a dull sound, a sound that poured like sullen custard over the bright roly-poly pudding of the soul.
    V ERY WELL , said Death at last. I MAKE IT THREE . A QUIET NIGHT .
    “That’d be Goodie Hamstring, the Abbot Lobsang again, and this Princess Keli,” said Albert.
    Death looked at the three hourglasses in his hand.
    I WAS THINKING OF SENDING THE LAD OUT , he Said.
    Albert consulted his ledger.
    “Well, Goodie wouldn’t be any trouble and the Abbot is what you might call experienced,” he said. “Shame about the princess. Only fifteen. Could be tricky.”
    Y ES . I T IS A PITY .
    “Master?”
    Death stood with the third glass in his hand, staring thoughtfully at the play of light across its surface. He sighed.
    O NE SO YOUNG …
    “Are you feeling all right, master?” said Albert, his voice full of concern.
    T IME LIKE AN EVER-ROLLING STREAM BEARS ALL ITS …
    “Master!”
    W HAT ? said Death, snapping out of it.
    “You’ve been overdoing it, master, that’s what it is—”
    W HAT ARE YOU BLATHERING ABOUT, MAN ?
    “You had a bit of a funny turn there, master.”
    N ONSENSE . I HAVE NEVER FELT BETTER . N OW, WHAT WERE WE TALKING ABOUT ?
    Albert shrugged, and peered down at the entries in the book.
    “Goodie’s a witch,” he said. “She might get a bit annoyed if you send Mort.”
    All practitioners of magic earned the right, once their own personal sands had run out, of being claimed by Death himself rather than his minor functionaries.
    Death didn’t appear to hear Albert. He was staring at Princess Keli’s hourglass again.
    W HAT IS THAT SENSE INSIDE YOUR HEAD OF WISTFUL REGRET THAT THINGS ARE THE WAY THEY APPARENTLY ARE ?
    “Sadness, master. I think. Now—”
    I AM SADNESS .
    Albert stood with his mouth open. Finally he got a grip on himself long enough to blurt out, “Master, we were talking about Mort!”
    M ORT WHO ?
    “Your apprentice, master,” said Albert patiently. “Tall young lad.”
    O F COURSE . W ELL, WE’LL SEND HIM .
    “Is he ready to go solo, master?” said Albert doubtfully.
    Death thought about it. H E CAN DO IT , he said at last. H E’S KEEN, HE’S QUICK TO LEARN AND, REALLY , he added, P EOPLE CAN’T EXPECT TO HAVE ME RUNNING AROUND AFTER THEM ALL THE TIME .

Mort stared blankly at the velvet wall hangings a few inches from his eyes.
    I’ve walked through a wall, he thought. And that’s impossible.
    He gingerly moved the hangings aside to see if a door was lurking somewhere, but there was nothing but crumbling plaster which had cracked away in places to reveal some dampish but emphatically solid brickwork.
    He prodded it experimentally. It was quite clear that he wasn’t going back out that way.
    “Well,” he said to the wall. “What now?”
    A voice behind him said, “Um. Excuse please?”
    He turned around slowly.
    Grouped around a table in the middle of the room was a Klatchian family of father, mother and half a dozen children of dwindling size. Eight pairs of round eyes were fixed on Mort. A ninth pair belonging to an aged grandparent of indeterminate sex weren’t, because their owner had taken advantage of the interruption to get some elbow room at the communal rice bowl, taking the view that a boiled fish in the hand was worth any amount of unexplained manifestations, and the silence was punctuated by the sound of determined mastication.
    In one corner of the crowded room was a little shrine to Offler, the six-armed Crocodile God of Klatch. It was grinning just like Death, except of course Death didn’t have a flock of holy birds that brought him news of his worshippers and also kept his teeth clean.
    Klatchians prize hospitality above all other virtues. As Mort stared the woman took another plate off the shelf behind her and silently began to fill it from the big bowl, snatching a choice cut of catfish from the ancient’s hands after a brief struggle. Her kohl-rimmed eyes remained steadily on Mort, however.
    It was the father who had spoken. Mort bowed nervously.
    “Sorry,” he said. “Er, I seem to have walked through this wall.” It was rather lame, he had to admit.
    “Please?” said the man. The woman, her bangles jangling, carefully arranged a few slices of