Mort

Mort strode through the cat-black corridors of the pyramid, with Ysabell hurrying along behind him. The faint glow from his sword illuminated unpleasant things; Offler the Crocodile God was a cosmetics advert compared to some of the things the people of Tsort worshipped. In alcoves along the way were statues of creatures apparently built of all the bits God had left over.

'What are they here for?' whispered Ysabell.

'The Tsortean priests say they come alive when the pyramid is sealed and prowl the corridors to protect the body of the king from tomb robbers,' said Mort.

'What a horrible superstition.'

'Who said anything about superstition?' said Mort absently.

'They really come alive?'

'All I'll say is that when the Tsorteans put a curse on a place, they don't mess about.'

Mort turned a corner and Ysabell lost sight of him for a heart-stopping moment. She scurried through the darkness and cannoned into him. He was examining a dog-headed bird.

'Urgh,' she said. 'Doesn't it send shivers up your spine?'

'No,' said Mort flatly.

'Why not?'

BECAUSE I AM MORT. He turned, and she saw his eyes glow like blue pinpoints.

'Stop it!'

I — CAN'T.

She tried to laugh. It didn't work. 'You're not Death,' she said. 'You're only doing his job.'

'DEATH IS WHOEVER DOES DEATH'S JOB.

The shocked pause that followed this was broken by a groan from further along the dark passage. Mort turned on his heel and hurried towards it.

He's right, thought Ysabell. Even the way he moves. . . .

But the fear of the darkness that the light was dragging towards her overcame any other doubts and she crept after him, around another corner and into what appeared, in the fitful glow from the sword, to be a cross between a treasury and a very cluttered attic.

'What's this place?' she whispered. 'I've never seen so much stuff!'

THE KING TAKES IT WITH HIM INTO THE NEXT WORLD, said Mort.

'He certainly doesn't believe in traveling light. Look, there's a whole boat. And a gold bathtub!'

DOUBTLESS HE WILL WISH TO KEEP CLEAN WHEN HE GETS THERE.

'And all those statues!'

THOSE STATUES, I'M SORRY TO SAY, WERE PEOPLE. SERVANTS FOR THE KING, YOU UNDERSTAND.

Ysabell's face set grimly.

THE PRIESTS GIVE THEM POISON.

There was another groan, from the other side of the cluttered room. Mort followed it to its source, stepping awkwardly over rolls of carpet, bunches of dates, crates of crockery and piles of gems. The long obviously hadn't been able to decide what he was going to leave behind on his journey, so had decided to play safe and take everything.