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 enquired.
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.
okay,' said Mort, walking heavily up the steps and into the scratching shadows of the library.
'You're not. You could do with a good night's sleep, my lad.'
'M't,' murmured Mort.
He felt Ysabell slip his arm over her shoulder. The walls were moving gently, even the sound of his own voice was coming from a long way off, and he dimly felt how nice it would be to stretch out on a nice stone slab and sleep forever.
Death'd be back soon, he told himself, feeling his unprotesting body being helped along the corridors. There was nothing for it, he'd have to tell Death. He wasn't such a bad old stick. Death would help; all he needed to do was explain things. And then he could stop all this worrying and go to slee. . . .
'And what was your previous position?'
I BEG YOUR PARDON?
'What did you do for a living?' said the thin young man behind the desk.
The figure opposite him shifted uneasily.
I USHERED SOULS INTO THE NEXT WORLD. I WAS THE GRAVE OF ALL HOPE. I WAS THE ULTIMATE REALITY. I WAS THE ASSASSIN AGAINST WHOM NO LOCK WOULD HOLD.