'What's that?' A SHARP EDGE.
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.