Mort

handkerchief between her hands. “Mort, do you think something bad has happened to him?”
    He gave her a blank look. “Don’t be bloody stupid,” he said, “he’s Death.” He scratched his skin. He felt hot and dry and itchy.
    “But he’s never been away this long! Not even when there was that big plague in Pseudopolis! I mean, he has to be here in the mornings to do the books and work out the nodes and—”
    Mort grabbed her arms. “All right, all right,” he said, as soothingly as he could manage. “I’m sure everything’s okay. Just settle down, I’ll go and check…why have you got your eyes shut?”
    “Mort, please put some clothes on,” said Ysabell in a tight little voice.
    Mort looked down.
    “Sorry,” he said meekly, “I didn’t realize…Who put me to bed?”
    “I did,” she said. “But I looked the other way.”
    Mort dragged on his breeches, shrugged into his shirt and hurried out towards Death’s study with Ysabell on his heels. Albert was in there, jumping from foot to foot like a duck on a griddle. When Mort came in the look on the old man’s face could almost have been gratitude.
    Mort saw with amazement that there were tears in his eyes.
    “His chair hasn’t been sat in,” Albert whined.
    “Sorry, but is that important?” said Mort. “My grandad didn’t used to come home for days if he’d had a good sale at the market.”
    “But he’s always here,” said Albert. “Every morning, as long as I’ve known him, sitting here at his desk a-working on the nodes. It’s his job. He wouldn’t miss it.”
    “I expect the nodes can look after themselves for a day or two,” said Mort.
    The drop in temperature told him he was wrong. He looked at their faces.
    “They can’t?” he said.
    Both heads shook.
    “If the nodes aren’t worked out properly all the Balance is destroyed,” said Ysabell. “Anything could happen.”
    “Didn’t he explain?” said Albert.
    “Not really. I’ve really only done the practical side. He said he’d tell me about the theoretical stuff later,” said Mort. Ysabell burst into tears.
    Albert took Mort’s arm and, with considerable dramatic waggling of his eyebrows, indicated that they should have a little talk in the corner. Mort trailed after him reluctantly.
    The old man rummaged in his pockets and at last produced a battered paper bag.
    “Peppermint?” he inquired.
    Mort shook his head.
    “He never tell you about the nodes?” said Albert.
    Mort shook his head again. Albert gave his peppermint a suck; it sounded like the plughole in the bath of God.
    “How old are you, lad?”
    “Mort. I’m sixteen.”
    “There’s some things a lad ought to be tole before he’s sixteen,” said Albert, looking over his shoulder at Ysabell, who was sobbing in Death’s chair.
    “Oh, I know about that . My father told me all about that when we used to take the thargas to be mated. When a man and a woman—”
    “About the universe is what I meant,” said Albert hurriedly. “I mean, have you ever thought about it?”
    “I know the Disc is carried through space on the backs of four elephants that stand on the shell of Great A’Tuin,” said Mort.
    “That’s just part of it. I meant the whole universe of time and space and life and death and day and night and everything.”
    “Can’t say I’ve ever given it much thought,” said Mort.
    “Ah. You ought. The point is, the nodes are part of it. They stop death from getting out of control, see. Not him, not Death. Just death itself. Like, uh—” Albert struggled for words—“like, death should come exactly at the end of life, see, and not before or after, and the nodes have to be worked out so that the key figures…you’re not taking this in, are you?”
    “Sorry.”
    “They’ve got to be worked out,” said Albert flatly, “and then the correct lives have got to be got. The hourglasses, you call them. The actual Duty is the easy job.”
    “Can you do it?”
    “No. Can you?”
    “No!”
    Albert sucked reflectively at his peppermint. “That’s the whole world in the gyppo, then,” he said.
    “Look, I can’t see why you’re so worried. I expect he’s just got held up somewhere,” said Mort, but it sounded feeble even to him. It wasn’t as though people buttonholed Death to tell him another story, or clapped him on the back and said things like “You’ve got time for a quick half in there, my old mate, no need to rush off home” or invited him to make up a