Mort

steadied the ladder and tried not to think of all the lives pressing in on him. Occasionally a meteor of hot wax would thump into the floor beside him, raising a crater in the dust. Ysabell was now a faint glow far above, and he could feel every footstep as it vibrated down the ladder.
    She stopped. It seemed to be for quite a long time.
    Then her voice floated down, deadened by the weight of silence around them.
    “Mort, I’ve found it.”
    “Good. Bring it down.”
    “Mort, you were right.”
    “Okay, thanks. Now bring it down.”
    “Yes, Mort, but which one?”
    “Don’t mess about, that candle won’t last much longer.”
    “Mort!”
    “What?”
    “Mort, there’s a whole shelf! ”

Now it really was dawn, that cusp of the day that belonged to no one except the seagulls in Morpork docks, the tide that rolled in up the river, and a warm turnwise wind that added a smell of spring to the complex odor of the city.
    Death sat on a bollard, looking out to sea. He had decided to stop being drunk. It made his head ache.
    He’d tried fishing, dancing, gambling and drink, allegedly four of life’s greatest pleasures, and wasn’t sure that he saw the point. Food he was happy with—Death liked a good meal as much as anyone else. He couldn’t think of any other pleasures of the flesh or, rather, he could, but they were, well, fleshy , and he couldn’t see how it would be possible to go about them without some major bodily restructuring, which he wasn’t going to contemplate. Besides, humans seemed to leave off doing them as they grew older, so presumably they couldn’t be that attractive.
    Death began to feel that he wouldn’t understand people as long as he lived.
    The sun made the cobbles steam and Death felt the faintest tingling of that little springtime urge that can send a thousand tons of sap pumping through fifty feet of timber in a forest.
    The seagulls swooped and dived around him. A one-eyed cat, down to its eighth life and its last ear, emerged from its lair in a heap of abandoned fish boxes, stretched, yawned, and rubbed itself against his legs. The breeze, cutting through Ankh’s famous smell, brought a hint of spices and fresh bread.
    Death was bewildered. He couldn’t fight it. He was actually feeling glad to be alive, and very reluctant to be Death.
    I MUST BE SICKENING FOR SOMETHING , he thought.

Mort eased himself up the ladder alongside Ysabell. It was shaky, but seemed to be safe. At least the height didn’t bother him; everything below was just blackness.
    Some of Albert’s earlier volumes were very nearly falling apart. He reached out for one at random, feeling the ladder tremble underneath them as he did so, brought it back and opened it somewhere in the middle.
    “Move the candle this way,” he said.
    “Can you read it?”
    “Sort of—”
    —’turnered hys hand, butt was sorelie vexed that alle menne at laste comme to nort, viz. Deathe, and vowed hymme to seke Imortalitie yn his pride. “Thus,” he tolde the younge wizzerds, “we may take unto ourselfes the mantel of Goddes.” Thee next day, yt being raining, Alberto’—
    “It’s written in Old,” he said. “Before they invented spelling. Let’s have a look at the latest one.”
    It was Albert all right. Mort caught several references to fried bread.
    “Let’s have a look at what he’s doing now,” said Ysabell.
    “Do you think we should? It’s a bit like spying.”
    “So what? Scared?”
    “All right.”
    He flicked through until he came to the unfilled pages, and then turned back until he found the story of Albert’s life, crawling across the page at surprising speed considering it was the middle of the night; most biographies didn’t have much to say about sleep, unless the dreams were particularly vivid.
    “Hold the candle properly, will you? I don’t want to get grease on his life.”
    “Why not? He likes grease.”
    “Stop giggling, you’ll have us both off. Now look at this bit….
    —“He crept through the dusty darkness of the Stack—” Ysabell read—“his eyes fixed on the tiny glow of candlelight high above. Prying, he thought, poking away at things that shouldn’t concern them, the little devils”—
    “Mort! He’s—”
    “Shut up! I’m reading!”
    —“soon put a stop to this. Albert crept silently to the foot of the ladder, spat on his hands, and got ready to push. The master’d never know; he was acting strange these days and it was all that lad’s fault,