Discworld – Mort (Terry Pratchett)

Days passed, although Mort wasn't certain how many. The gloomy sun of Death's world rolled regularly across the sky, but the visits to mortal space seemed to adhere to no particular system. Nor did Death visit only kings and important battles; most of the personal visits were to quite ordinary people.

Meals were served up by Albert, who smiled to himself a lot and didn't say anything much. Ysabell kept to her room most of the time, or rode her own pony on the black moors above the cottage. The sight of her with her hair streaming in the wind would have been more impressive if she was a better horse-woman, or if the pony had been rather larger, or if her hair was the sort that streams naturally. Some hair has got it, and some hasn't. Hers hadn't.

When he wasn't out on what Death referred to as THE DUTY Mort assisted Albert, or found jobs in the garden or stable, or browsed through Death's extensive library, reading with the speed and omnivorousness common to those who discover the magic of the written word for the first time.

Most of the books in the library were biographies, of course.

They were unusual in one respect. They were writing themselves. People who had already died, obviously, filled their books from cover to cover, and those who hadn't been born yet had to put up with blank pages. Those in between … Mort took note, marking the place and counting the extra lines, and estimated that some books were adding paragraphs at the rate of four or five every day. He didn't recognise the handwriting.

And finally he plucked up his courage.

A WHAT? said Death in astonishment, sitting behind his ornate desk and turning his scythe-shaped paperknife over and over in his hands.

'An afternoon off,' repeated Mort. The room suddenly seemed to be oppressively big, with himself very exposed in the middle of a carpet about the size of a field.

BUT WHY? said Death. IT CANT BE TO ATTEND YOUR GRANDMOTHER'S FUNERAL, he added. I WOULD KNOW.

'I just want to, you know, get out and meet people,' said Mort, trying to outstare that unflinching blue gaze.

BUT YOU MEET PEOPLE EVERY DAY, protested Death.

'Yes, I know, only, well, not for very long,' said Mort. 'I mean, it'd be nice to meet someone with a life expectancy of more than a few minutes. Sir,' he added.

Death drummed his fingers on the desk, making a sound not unlike a mouse tap-dancing, and gave Mort another few seconds of stare. He noticed that the boy seemed rather less elbows than he remembered, stood a little more upright and, bluntly, could use a word like 'expectancy'. It was all that library.

ALL RIGHT, he said grudgingly. BUT IT SEEMS TO ME YOU HAVE EVERYTHING YOU NEED RIGHT HERE. THE DUTY IS NOT ONEROUS, IS IT?

'No, sir.'

AND YOU HAVE GOOD FOOD AND A WARM BED AND RECREATION AND PEOPLE YOUR OWN AGE.

'Pardon, sir?' said Mort.

MY DAUGHTER, said Death. YOU HAVE MET HER, I BELIEVE.

'Oh. Yes, sir.'

SHE HAS A VERY WARM PERSONALITY WHEN YOU GET TO KNOW HER.

'I am sure she has, sir.'

NEVERTHELESS, YOU WISH – Death launched the words with a spin of distaste – AN AFTERNOON OFF? 'Yes, sir. If you please, sir.'

VERY WELL. So BE IT. You MAY HAVE UNTIL SUNSET.

Death opened his great ledger, picked up a pen, and began to write. Occasionally he'd reach out and flick the beads of an abacus.

After a minute he looked up.

YOU'RE STILL HERE, he said. AND IN YOUR OWN TIME, TOO, he added sourly.

'Um,' said Mort, 'will people be able to see me, sir?'

I IMAGINE SO, I'M SURE, said Death. Is THERE ANYTHING ELSE I MIGHT BE ABLE TO ASSIST YOU WITH BEFORE YOU LEAVE FOR THIS DEBAUCH?

'Well, sir, there is one thing, sir, I don't know how to get to the mortal world, sir,' said Mort desperately.

Death sighed loudly, and pulled open a desk drawer.

JUST WALK THERE.

Mort nodded miserably, and took the long walk to the study door. As he pulled it open Death coughed.

BOY! he called, and tossed something across the room.

Mort caught it automatically as the door creaked open.

The doorway vanished. The deep carpet underfoot became muddy cobbles. Broad daylight poured over him like quick-silver.

'Mort,' said Mort, to the universe at large.

'What?' said a stallholder beside him. Mort stared around. He was in a crowded market place, packed with people and animals. Every kind of thing was being sold from needles to (via a few itinerant prophets) visions of salvation. It was impossible to hold any conversation quieter than a shout.

Mort tapped the stallholder in the small of the back.

'Can you see me?' he demanded.

The stallholder squinted critically at him.

'I reckon so,' he said, 'or someone very much like you.'

Thank you,' said Mort, immensely relieved.

'Don't mention it. I see lots of people every day, no charge. Want to buy any bootlaces?'

'I don't think so,' said Mort. 'What place is this?'

'You don't know?'

A couple of people at the next stall were looking at Mort thoughtfully. His mind went into overdrive.

'My master travels a lot,' he said, truthfully. 'We arrived last night, and I was asleep on the cart. Now I've got the afternoon off.'

'Ah,' said the stallholder. He leaned forward conspiratorially. 'Looking for a good time, are you? I could fix you up.'

'I'd quite enjoy knowing where I am,' Mort conceded.

The man was taken aback.

'This is Ankh-Morpork,' he said. 'Anyone ought to be able to see that. Smell it, too.'

Mort sniffed. There was a certain something about the air in the city. You got the feeling that it was air that had seen life. You couldn't help noting with every breath that thousands of other people were very close to you and nearly all of them had armpits.

The stallholder regarded Mort critically, noting the pale face, well-cut clothes and strange presence, a sort of coiled spring effect.

'Look, I'll be frank,' he said. 'I could point you in the direction of a great brothel.'

'I've already had lunch,' said Mort, vaguely. 'But you can tell me if we're anywhere near, I think it's called Sto Lat?'

'About twenty miles Hubwards, but there's nothing there for a young man of your kidney,' said the trader hurriedly. 'I know, you're out by yourself, you want new experiences, you want excitement, romance —'

Mort, meanwhile, had opened the bag Death had given him. It was full of small gold coins, about the size of sequins.

An image formed again in his mind, of a pale young face under a head of red hair who had somehow known he was there. The unfocused feelings that had haunted his mind for the last few days suddenly sharpened to a point.

'I want,' he said firmly, 'a very fast horse.'