Terry Pratchett - Discworld 04 - Mort

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Mort.htmThis is the bright candlelit room where the life-timers are stored –
shelf upon shelf of them, squat hourglasses, one for every living person,
pouring their fine sand from the future into the past. The accumulated hiss of
the falling grains makes the room roar like the sea.
This is the owner of the room, stalking through it with a preoccupied air. His
name is Death.
But not any Death. This is the Death whose particular sphere of operations is,
well, not a sphere at all, but the Discworld, which is flat and rides on the
back of four giant elephants who stand on the shell of the enormous star
turtle
Great A'Tuin, and which is bounded by a waterfall that cascades endlessly into
space.
Scientists have calculated that the chance of anything so patently absurd
actually existing are millions to one.
But magicians have calculated that million-to-one chances crop up nine times
out
of ten.
Death clicks across the black and white tiled floor on toes of bone, muttering
inside his cowl as his skeletal fingers count along the rows of busy
hourglasses.
Finally he finds one that seems to satisfy him, lifts it carefully from its
shelf and carries it across to the nearest candle. He holds it so that the
light
lints off it, and stares at the little point of reflected brilliance.
The steady gaze from those twinkling eye-sockets encompasses the world turtle,
sculling through the deeps of space, carapace scarred by comets and pitted by
meteors. One day even Great A'Tuin will die, Death knows; now, that would be a
challenge.
But the focus of his gaze dives onwards towards the blue-green magnificence of
the Disc itself, turning slowly under its tiny orbiting sun.
Now it curves away towards the great mountain range called the Ramtops. The
Ramtops are full of deep valleys and unexpected crags and considerably more
geography than they know what to do with. They have their own peculiar
weather,
full of shrapnel rain and whiplash winds and permanent thunder-storms. Some
people say it's all because the Ramtops are the home of old, wild magic. Mind
you, some people will say anything.
Death blinks, adjusts for depth of vision. Now he sees the grassy country on
the
turnwise slopes of the mountains.
Now he sees a particular hillside.
Now he sees a field.
Now he sees a boy, running.
Now he watches.
Now, in a voice like lead slabs being dropped on granite, he says: YES.
There was no doubt that there was something magical in the soil of that hilly,
broken area which – because of the strange tint that it gave to the local
flora
– was known as the octarine grass country. For example, it was one of the few
places on the Disc where plants produced reannual varieties.
Reannuals are plants that grow backwards in time. You sow the seed this year
and
they grow last year.
Mort's family specialised in distilling the wine from reannual grapes. These
were very powerful and much sought after by fortune-tellers, since of course
they enabled them to see the future. The only snag was that you got the
hangover
the morning before, and had to drink a lot to get over it.
Reannual growers tended to be big, serious men, much given to introspection
and
close examination of the calendar. A farmer who neglects to sow ordinary seeds
only loses the crop, whereas anyone who forgets to sow seeds of a crop that
has
already been harvested twelve months before risks disturbing the entire fabric
of causality, not to mention acute embarrassment.
It was also acutely embarrassing to Mort's family that the youngest son was
not
at all serious and had about the same talent for horticulture that you would
find in a dead starfish. It wasn't that he was unhelpful, but he had the land
of
vague, cheerful helpfulness that serious men soon learn to dread. There was
something infectious, possibly even fatal, about it. He was tall, red-haired
and
freckled, with the sort of body that seems to be only marginally under its
owner's control; it appeared to have been built out of knees.
On this particular day it was hurtling across the high fields, waving its
hands
and yelling.
Mort's father and uncle watched it disconsolately from the stone wall.
'What I don't understand,' said father Lezek, 'is that the birds don't even
fly
away. I'd fly away, if I saw it coining towards me.'
'Ah. The human body's a wonderful thing. I mean, his legs go all over the
place
but there's a fair turn of speed there.'
Mort reached the end of a furrow. An overfull woodpigeon lurched slowly out of
his way.
'His heart's in the right place, mind,' said Lezek, carefully.
'Ah. 'Course, 'tis the rest of him that isn't.'
'He's clean about the house. Doesn't eat much,' said Lezek.
'No, I can see that.'
Lezek looked sideways at his brother, who was staring fixedly at the sky.
'I did hear you'd got a place going up at your farm, Hamesh,' he said.
'Ah. Got an apprentice in, didn't I?'
'Ah,' said Lezek gloomily, 'when was that, then?'
'Yesterday,' said his brother, lying with rattlesnake speed. 'All signed and
sealed. Sorry. Look, I got nothing against young Mort, see, he's as nice a boy
as you could wish to meet, it's just that —'
'I know, I know,' said Lezek. 'He couldn't find his arse with both hands.'
They stared at the distant figure. It had fallen over. Some pigeons had
waddled
over to inspect it.
'He's not stupid, mind,' said Hamesh. 'Not what you'd call stupid.'
'There's a brain there all right,' Lezek conceded. 'Sometimes he starts
thinking
so hard you has to hit him round the head to get his attention. His granny
taught him to read, see. I reckon it overheated his mind.'
Mort had got up and tripped over his robe.
'You ought to set him to a trade,' said Hamesh, reflectively. 'The priesthood,
maybe. Or wizardry. They do a lot of reading, wizards.'
They looked at each other. Into both their minds stole an inkling of what Mort
might be capable of if he got his well-meaning hands on a book of magic.
'All right,' said Hamesh hurriedly. 'Something else, then. There must be lots
of
things he could turn his hand to.'
'He starts thinking too much, that's the trouble,' said Lezek. 'Look at him
now.
You don't think about how to scare birds, you just does it. A normal boy, I
mean.'
Hamesh scratched his chin thoughtfully.
'It could be someone else's problem,' he said.
Lezek's expression did not alter, but there was a subtle change around his
eyes.
'How do you mean?' he said.
'There's the hiring fair at Sheepridge next week. You set him as a prentice,
see, and his new master'll have the job of knocking him into shape. 'Tis the
law. Get him indentured, and 'tis binding.'
Lezek looked across the field at his son, who was examining a rock.
'I wouldn't want anything to happen to him, mind,' he said doubtfully. 'We're
quite fond of him, his mother and me. You get used to people.'
'It'd be for his own good, you'll see. Make a man of him.'
'Ah. Well. There's certainly plenty of raw material,' sighed Lezek.
Mort was getting interested in the rock. It had curly shells in it, relics of
the early days of the world when the Creator had made creatures out of stone,
no-one knew why.
Mort was interested in lots of things. Why people's teeth fitted together so
neatly, for example. He'd given that one a lot of thought. Then there was the
puzzle of why the sun came out during the day, instead of at night when the
light would come in useful. He knew the standard explanation, which somehow
didn't seem satisfying.
In short, Mort was one of those people who are more dangerous than a bag full
of
rattlesnakes. He was determined to discover the underlying logic behind the
universe.
Which was going to be hard, because there wasn't one. The Creator had a lot of
remarkably good ideas when he put the world together, but making it
understandable hadn't been one of them.
Tragic heroes always moan when the gods take an interest in them, but it's the
people the gods ignore who get the really tough deals.
His father was yelling at him, as usual. Mort threw the rock at a pigeon,
which
was almost too full to lurch out of the way, and wandered back across the
field.
And that was why Mort and his father walked down through the mountains into
Sheepridge on Hogswatch Eve, with Mort's rather sparse possessions in a sack
on
the back of a donkey. The town wasn't much more than four sides to a cobbled
square, lined with shops that provided all the service industry of the farming
community.
After five minutes Mort came out of the tailors wearing a loose fitting brown
garment of imprecise function, which had been understandably unclaimed by a
previous owner and had plenty of room for him to grow, on the assumption that
he
would grow into a nineteen-legged elephant.
His father regarded him critically.
'Very nice,' he said, 'for the money.'
'It itches,' said Mort. 'I think there's things in here with me.'
There's thousands of lads in the world'd be very thankful for a nice warm —'
Lezek paused, and gave up – 'garment like that, my lad.'
'I could share it with them?' Mort said hopefully.
'You've got to look smart,' said Lezek severely. 'You've got to make an
impression, stand out in the crowd.'
There was no doubt about it. He would. They set out among the throng crowding
the square, each listening to his own thoughts. Usually Mort enjoyed visiting
the town, with its cosmopolitan atmosphere and strange dialects from villages
as
far away as five, even ten miles, but this time he felt unpleasantly
apprehensive, as if he could remember something that hadn't happened yet.
The fair seemed to work like this: men looking for work stood in ragged lines
in
the centre of the square. Many of them sported little symbols in their hats to
tell the world the kind of work they were trained in – shepherds wore a wisp
of
wool, carters a hank of horsehair, interior decorators a strip of rather
interesting hessian wallcovering, and so on.
The boys seeking apprenticeships were clustered on the Hub side of the square.
'You just go and stand there, and someone comes and offers you an
apprenticeship,' said Lezek, his voice trimmed with uncertainty. 'If they like
the look of you, that is.'
'How do they do that?' said Mort.
'Well,' said Lezek, and paused. Hamesh hadn't explained about this bit. He
drew
on his limited knowledge of the marketplace, which was restricted to livestock
sales, and ventured, 'I suppose they count your teeth and that. And make sure
you don't wheeze and your feet are all right. I shouldn't let on about the
reading, it unsettles people.'
'And then what?' said Mort.
'Then you go and learn a trade,' said Lezek.
'What trade in particular?'
'Well . . . carpentry is a good one,' Lezek hazarded. 'Or thievery. Someone's
got to do it.'
Mort looked at his feet. He was a dutiful son, when he remembered, and if
being
an apprentice was what was expected of him then he was determined to be a good
one. Carpentry didn't sound very promising, though – wood had a stubborn life
of
its own, and a tendency to split. And official thieves were rare in the
Ramtops,
where people weren't rich enough to afford them.
'All right,' he said eventually, 'I'll go and give it a try. But what happens
if
I don't get prenticed?'
Lezek scratched his head.
'I don't know,' he said. 'I expect you just wait until the end of the fair. At
midnight. I suppose.'
And now midnight approached.
A light frost began to crisp the cobblestones. In the ornamental clock tower
that overlooked the square a couple of delicately-carved little automatons
whirred out of trapdoors in the clockface and struck the quarter hour.
Fifteen minutes to midnight. Mort shivered, but the crimson fires of shame and
stubbornness flared up inside him, hotter than the slopes of Hell. He blew on
his fingers for something to do and stared up at the freezing sky, trying to
avoid the stares of the few stragglers among what remained of the fair.
Most of the stallkeepers had packed up and gone. Even the hot meat pie man had
stopped crying his wares and, with no regard for personal safety, was eating
one.
The last of Mort's fellow hopefuls had vanished hours ago. He was a wall-eyed
young man with a stoop and a running nose, and Sheepridge's one licensed
beggar
had pronounced him to be ideal aterial. The lad on the other side of Mort had
gone off to be a toymaker. One by one they had trooped off – the masons, the
farriers, the assassins, the mercers, coopers, hoodwinkers and ploughmen. In a
few minutes it would be the new year and a hundred boys would be starting out
hopefully on their careers, new worthwhile lives of useful service rolling out
in front of them.
Mort wondered miserably why he hadn't been picked. He'd tried to look
respectable, and had looked all prospective masters squarely in the eye to
impress them with his excellent nature and extremely likeable qualities. This
didn't seem to have the right effect.
'Would you like a hot meat pie?' said his father.
'No.'
'He's selling them cheap.'
'No. Thank you.'
'Oh.'
Lezek hesitated.
'I could ask the man if he wants an apprentice,' he said, helpfully. 'Very
reliable, the catering trade.'
'I don't think he does,' said Mort.
'No, probably not,' said Lezek. 'Bit of a one-man business, I expect. He's
gone
now, anyway. Tell you what, I'll save you a bit of mine.'
'I don't actually feel very hungry, dad.'
'There's hardly any gristle.'
'No. But thanks all the same.'
'Oh.' Lezek deflated a little. He danced about a bit to stamp some life back
into his feet, and whistled a few tuneless bars between his teeth. He felt he
ought to say something, to offer some kind of advice, to point out that life
had
its ups and downs, to put his arm around his son's shoulder and talk
expansively
about the problems of growing up, to indicate – in short – that the world is a
funny old lace where one should never, metaphorically speaking, be so proud as
to turn down the offer of a perfectly good hot meat pie.
They were alone now. The frost, the last one of the year, tightened its grip
on
the stones.
High in the tower above them a cogged wheel went clonk, tripped a lever,
released a ratchet and let a heavy lead weight drop down. There was a dreadful
metallic wheezing noise and the trapdoors in the clock face slid open,
releasing
the clockwork men. Swinging their hammers jerkily, as if they were afflicted
with robotic arthritis, they began to ring in the new day.
'Well, that's it,' said Lezek, hopefully. They'd have to find somewhere to
sleep
– Hogswatch-night was no time to be walking in the mountains. Perhaps there
was
a stable somewhere. . . .
'It's not midnight until the last stroke,' said Mort, distantly.
Lezek shrugged. The sheer strength of Mort's obstinacy was defeating him.
'All right,' he said. 'We'll wait, then.'
And then they heard the clip-clop of hooves, which boomed rather more loudly
around the chilly square than common acoustics should really allow. In fact
clip-clop was an astonishingly inaccurate word for the kind of noise which
rattled around Mort's head; clip-clop suggested a rather jolly little pony,
quite possibly wearing a straw hat with holes cut out for its ears. An edge to
this sound made it very clear that straw hats weren't an option.
The horse entered the square by the Hub road, steam curling off its huge damp
white flanks and sparks striking up from the cobbles beneath it. It trotted
proudly, like a war charger. It was definitely not wearing a straw hat.
The tall figure on its back was wrapped up gainst the cold. When the horse
reached the centre of the square the rider dismounted, slowly, and fumbled
with
something behind the saddle. Eventually he – or she – produced a nosebag,
fastened it over the horse's ears, and gave it a friendly pat on the neck.
The air took on a thick, greasy feel, and the deep shadows around Mort became
edged with blue and purple rainbows. The rider strode towards him, black cloak
billowing and feet making little clicking sounds on the cobbles. They were the
only noises – silence clamped down on the square like great drifts of cotton
wool.
The impressive effect was rather spoilt by a patch of ice.
OH, BUGGER.
It wasn't exactly a voice. The words were there all right, but they arrived in
Mort's head without bothering to pass through his ears.
He rushed forward to help the fallen figure, and found himself grabbing hold
of
a hand that was nothing more than polished bone, smooth and rather yellowed
like
an old billiard ball. The figure's hood fell back, and a naked skull turned
its
empty eyesockets towards him.
Not quite empty, though. Deep within them, as though they were windows looking
across the gulfs of space, were two tiny blue stars.
It occurred to Mort that he ought to feel horrified, so he was slightly
shocked
to find that he wasn't. It was a skeleton sitting in front of him, rubbing its
knees and grumbling, but it was a live one, curiously impressive but not, for
some strange reason, very f rightening.
THANK YOU, BOY, said the skull. WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
'Uh,' said Mort, 'Mortimer . . . sir. They call me Mort.'
WHAT A COINCIDENCE, said the skull. HELP ME UP, PLEASE.
The figure rose unsteadily, brushing itself down. Now Mort could see there was
a
heavy belt around its waist, from which was slung a white-handled sword.
'I hope you are not hurt, sir,' he said politely.
The skull grinned. Of course, Mort thought, it hasn't much of a choice.
NO HARM DONE, I AM SURE. The skull looked around and seemed to see Lezek, who
appeared to be frozen to the spot, for the first time. Mort thought an
explanation was called for.
'My father,' he said, trying to move protectively in front of Exhibit A
without
causing any offence. 'Excuse me, sir, but are you Death?'
CORRECT. FULL MARKS FOR OBSERVATION, THAT BOY.
Mort swallowed.
'My father is a good man,' he said. He thought for a while, and added, 'Quite
good. I'd rather you left him alone, if it's all the same to you. I don't know
what you have done to him, but I'd like you to stop it. No offence meant.'
Death stepped back, his skull on one side.
I HAVE MERELY PUT US OUTSIDE TIME FOR A MOMENT, he said. HE WILL SEE AND HEAR
NOTHING THAT DISTURBS HIM. NO, BOY, IT WAS YOU I CAME FOR.
'Me?'
YOU ARE HERE SEEKING EMPLOYMENT?
Light dawned on Mort. 'You are looking for an apprentice?' he said.
The eyesockets turned towards him, their actinic pinpoints flaring.
OF COURSE.
Death waved a bony hand. There was a wash of purple light, a sort of visible
'pop', and Lezek unfroze. Above his head the clockwork automatons got on with
the job of proclaiming midnight, as Time was allowed to come creeping back.
Lezek blinked.
'Didn't see you there for a minute,' he said. 'Sorry – mind must have been
elsewhere.'
I WAS OFFERING YOUR BOY A POSITION, Said Death. I TRUST THAT MEETS WITH YOUR
APPROVAL?
'What was your job again?' said Lezek, talking to a black-robed skeleton
without
showing even a flicker of surprise.
I USHER SOULS INTO THE NEXT WORLD, Said Death.
'Ah,' said Lezek, 'of course, sorry, should have guessed from the clothes.
Very
necessary work, very steady. Established business?'
I'HAVE BEEN GOING FOR SOME TIME, YES, said Death.
'Good. Good. Never really thought of it as a job for Mort, you know, but it's
good work, good work, always very reliable. What's your name?'
DEATH.
'Dad —' said Mort urgently.
'Can't say I recognise the firm,' said Lezek. 'Where are you based exactly?'
FROM THE UTTERMOST DEPTHS OF THE SEA TO THE HEIGHTS WHERE EVEN THE EAGLE MAY
NOT
GO, said Death.
'That's fair enough,' nodded Lezek. 'Well, I —'
'Dad —' said Mort, pulling at his father's coat.
Death laid a hand on Mort's shoulder.
WHAT YOUR FATHER SEES AND HEARS IS NOT WHAT YOU SEE AND HEAR, he said. DO NOT
WORRY HIM. DO YOU THINK HE WOULD WANT TO SEE ME – IN THE FLESH, AS IT WERE?
'But you're Death,' said Mort. 'You go around killing people!'
I? KILL? said Death, obviously offended. CERTAINLY NOT. PEOPLE GET KILLED, BUT
THAT'S THEIR BUSINESS. I JUST TAKE OVER FROM THEN ON. AFTER ALL, IT'D BE A
BLOODY STUPID WORLD IF PEOPLE GOT KILLED WITHOUT DYING, WOULDN'T IT?
'Well, yes —' said Mort, doubtfully.
Mort had never heard the word 'intrigued'. It was not in regular use in the
family vocabulary. But a spark in his soul told him that here was something
weird and fascinating and not entirely horrible, and that if he let this
moment
go he'd spend the rest of his life regretting it. And he remembered the
humiliations of the day, and the long walk back home. . . .
'Er,' he began, 'I don't have to die to get the job, do I?'
BEING DEAD IS NOT COMPULSORY.
'And . . . the bones . . .?'
NOT IF YOU DON'T WANT TO.
Mort breathed out again. It had been starting to prey on his mind.
'If father says it's all right,' he said.
They looked at Lezek, who was scratching his beard.
'How do you feel about this, Mort?' he said, with the brittle brightness of a
fever victim. 'It's not everyone's idea of an occupation. It's not what I had
in
mind, I admit. But they do say that undertaking is an honoured profession.
It's
your choice.'
'Undertaking?' said Mort. Death nodded, and raised his finger to his lips in a
conspiratorial gesture.
'It's interesting,' said Mort slowly. 'I think I'd like to try it.'
'Where did you say your business was?' said Lezek. 'Is it far?'
NO FURTHER THAN THE THICKNESS OF A SHADOW, aid Death. WHERE THE FIRST PRIMAL
CELL WAS, THERE WAS I ALSO. WHERE MAN IS, THERE AM I.
WHEN THE LAST LIFE CRAWLS UNDER FREEZING STARS, THERE WILL I BE.
'Ah,' said Lezek, 'you get about a bit, then.' He looked puzzled, like a man
struggling to remember something important, and then obviously gave up.
Death patted him on the shoulder in a friendly fashion and turned to Mort.
HAVE YOU ANY POSSESSIONS, BOY?
'Yes,' said Mort, and then remembered. 'Only I think I left them in the shop.
Dad, we left the sack in the clothes shop!'
'It'll be shut,' said Lezek. 'Shops don't open on Hogswatch Day. You'll have
to
go back the day after tomorrow – well, tomorrow now.'
IT is OF LITTLE ACCOUNT, said Death. WE WILL LEAVE NOW. NO DOUBT I WILL HAVE
BUSINESS HERE SOON ENOUGH.
'I hope you'll be able to drop in and see us soon,' said Lezek. He seemed to
be
struggling with his thoughts.
'I'm not sure that will be a good idea,' said Mort.
'Well, goodbye, lad,' said Lezek. 'You're to do what you're told, you
understand? And – excuse me, sir, do you have a son?'
Death looked rather taken aback.
NO, he said, I HAVE NO SONS.
'I'll just have a last word with my boy, if you've no objection.'
THEN I WILL GO AND SEE TO THE HORSE, said Death, with more than normal tact.
Lezek put his arm around his son's shoulders, with some difficulty in view of
their difference in height, and gently propelled him across the square.
'Mort, you know your uncle Hemesh told me about this prenticing business?' he
whispered.
'Yes?'
'Well, he told me something else,' the old man confided. 'He said it's not
unknown for an apprentice to inherit his master's business. What do you think
of
that, then?'
'Uh. I'm not sure,' said Mort.
'It's worth thinking about,' said Lezek.
'I am thinking about it, father.'
'Many a young lad has started out that way, Hemesh said. He makes himself
useful, earns his master's confidence, and, well, if there's any daughters in
the house . . . did Mr, er, Mr say anything about daughters?'
'Mr who?' said Mort.
'Mr . . . your new master.'
'Oh. Him. No. No, I don't think so,' said Mort slowly. 'I don't think he's the
marrying type.'
'Many a keen young man owes his advancement to his nuptials,' said Lezek.
'He does?'
'Mort, I don't think you're really listening.'
'What?'
Lezek came to a halt on the frosty cobbles and spun the boy around to face
him.
'You're really going to have to do better than this,' he said. 'Don't you
understand, boy? If you're going to amount to anything in this world then
you've
got to listen. I'm your father telling you these things.'
Mort looked down at his father's face. He wanted to say a lot of things: he
wanted to say how much he loved him, how worried he was; he wanted to ask what
his father really thought he'd just seen and heard. He wanted to say that he
felt as though he stepped on a molehill and found that it was really a
volcano.
He wanted to ask what 'nuptials' meant.
What he actually said was, 'Yes. Thank you. I'd better be going. I'll try and
write you a letter.'
'There's bound to be someone passing who can read it to us,' said Lezek.
'Goodbye, Mort.' He blew his nose.
'Goodbye, dad. I'll come back to visit,' said Mort. Death coughed tactfully,
although it sounded like the pistol-crack of an ancient beam full of death-
watch
beetle.
WE HAD BETTER BE GOING, he said. HOP UP, MORT.
As Mort scrambled behind the ornate silver saddle Death leaned down and shook
Lezek's hand.
THANK YOU, he said.
'He's a good lad at heart,' said Lezek. 'A bit dreamy, that's all. I suppose
we
were all young once.'
Death considered this.
No, he said, I DON'T THINK so.
He gathered up the reins and turned the horse towards the Rim road. From his
perch behind the black-robed figure Mort waved desperately.
Lezek waved back. Then, as the horse and its two riders disappeared from view,
he lowered his hand and looked at it. The handshake . . . it had felt strange.
But, somehow, he couldn't remember exactly why.
Mort listened to the clatter of stone under the horse's hooves. Then there was
the soft thud of packed earth as they reached the road, and then there was
nothing at all.
He looked down and saw the landscape spread out below him, the night etched
with
moonlight silver. If he fell off, the only thing he'd hit was air.
He redoubled his grip on the saddle.
Then Death said, ARE YOU HUNGRY, BOY?
'Yes, sir.' The words came straight from his stomach without the intervention
of
his brain.
Death nodded, and reined in the horse. It stood on the air, the great circular
panorama of the Disc glittering below it. Here and there a city was an range
glow; in the warm seas nearer the Rim there was a hint of phosphorescence. In
some of thedeep valleys the trapped daylight of the Disc, which is slow and
slightly heavy[1], was evaporating like silver steam.
But it was outshone by the glow that rose towards the stars from the Rim
itself.
Vast streamers of light shimmered and glittered across the night. Great golden
walls surrounded the world.
'It's beautiful,' said Mort softly. 'What is it?'
THE SUN is UNDER THE Disc, said Death.
'Is it like this every night?'
EVERY NIGHT, said Death. NATURE'S LIKE THAT.
'Doesn't anyone know?'
ME. You. THE GODS. GOOD, IS IT?
'Gosh!'
Death leaned over the saddle and looked down at the kingdoms of the world.
I DON'T KNOW ABOUT YOU, he Said, BUT I COULD MURDER A CURRY.
Although it was well after midnight the twin city of Ankh-Morpork was roaring
with life. Mort had thought Sheepridge looked busy, but compared to the
turmoil
of the street around him the town was, well, a morgue.
Poets have tried to describe Ankh-Morpork. They have failed. Perhaps it's the
sheer zestful vitality of the place, or maybe it's just that a city with a
million inhabitants and no sewers is rather robust for poets, who prefer
daffodils and no wonder. So let's just say that Ankh-Morpork is as full of
life
as an old cheese on a hot day, as loud as a curse in a cathedral, as bright as
an oil slick, as colourful as a bruise and as full of activity, industry,
bustle
and sheer exuberant busyness as a dead dog on a termite mound.
There were temples, their doors wide open, filling the streets with the sounds
of gongs, cymbals and, in the case of some of the more conservative
fundamentalist religions, the brief screams of the victims. There were shops
whose strange wares spilled out on to the pavement. There seemed to be rather
a
lot of friendly young ladies who couldn't afford many clothes. There were
flares, and jugglers, and assorted sellers of instant transcendence.
And Death stalked through it all. Mort had half expected him to pass through
the
crowds like smoke, but it wasn't like that at all. The simple truth was that
wherever Death walked, people just drifted out of the way.
It didn't work like that for Mort. The crowds that gently parted for his new
master closed again just in time to get in his way. His toes got trodden on,
his
ribs were bruised, people kept trying to sell him unpleasant spices and
suggestively-shaped vegetables, and a rather elderly lady said, against all
the
evidence, that he looked a well set-up young lad who would like a nice tune.
He thanked her very much, and said that he hoped he was having a nice tune
already.
Death reached the street corner, the light from the flares raising brilliant
highlights on the olished dome of his skull, and sniffed the air. A drunk
staggered up, and without quite realising why made a slight detour in his
erratic passage for no visible reason. THIS IS THE CITY, BOY, said Death. WHAT
DO YOU THINK?
'It's very big,' said Mort, uncertainly. 'I mean, why does everyone want to
live
all squeezed together like this?'
摘要：

Mort.htmThisisthebrightcandlelitroomwherethelife-timersarestored–shelfuponshelfofthem,squathourglasses,oneforeverylivingperson,pouringtheirfinesandfromthefutureintothepast.Theaccumulatedhissofthefallinggrainsmakestheroomroarlikethesea.Thisistheowneroftheroom,stalkingthroughitwithapreoccupiedair.Hisn...

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