Mort

'I've got some black pudding somewhere,' said Albert.

'No, I mean . . .' Mort hesitated. 'It's just that I can't see him sitting down to a couple of rashers and a fried slice.'

Albert grinned. 'Oh, he doesn't, lad. Not as a regular thing, no. Very easy to cater for, the master. I just cook for me and —' he paused — 'the young lady, of course.'

Mort nodded. 'Your daughter,' he said.

'Mine? Ha,' said Albert. 'You're wrong there. She's his.'

Mort stared down at his fried eggs. They stared back from their lake of fat. Albert had heard of nutritional values, and didn't hold with them.

'Are we talking about the same person?' he said at last. Tall, wears black, he's a bit . . . skinny.

'Adopted,' said Albert, kindly. 'It's rather a long story —'

A bell jangled by his head.

'— which will have to wait. He wants to see you in his study. I should run along if I were you. He doesn't like to be kept waiting. Understandable, really. Up the steps and first on the left. You can't miss it —'

'It's got skulls and bones around the door?' said Mort, pushing back his chair.

They all have, most of them,' sighed Albert. 'It's only his fancy. He doesn't mean anything by it.'

Leaving his breakfast to congeal, Mort hurried up the steps, along the corridor and paused in front of the first door. He raised his hand to knock.

ENTER.

The handle turned of its own accord. The door swung inward.

Death was seated behind a desk, peering intently into a vast leather book almost bigger than the desk itself. He looked up as Mort came in, keeping one calcareous finger marking his place, and grinned. There wasn't much of an alternative.

AH, he said, and then paused. Then he scratched his chin, with a noise like a fingernail being pulled across a comb.

WHO ARE YOU, BOY?

'Mort, sir,' said Mort. 'Your apprentice. You remember?'

Death stared at him for some time. Then the pinpoint blue eyes turned back at the book.

OH YES, he said, MORT. WELL, BOY, DO YOU SINCERELY WISH TO LEARN THE UTTERMOST SECRETS OF TIME AND SPACE?

'Yes, sir. I think so, sir.'

GOOD. THE STABLES ARE AROUND THE BACK. THE SHOVEL HANGS JUST INSIDE THE DOOR.

He looked down. He looked up. Mort hadn't moved.

IS IT BY ANY CHANCE POSSIBLE THAT YOU FAIL TO UNDERSTAND ME?

'Not fully, sir,' said Mort.

DUNG, BOY. DUNG. ALBERT HAS A COMPOST HEAP IN THE GARDEN. I IMAGINE THERE'S A WHEELBARROW SOMEWHERE ON THE PREMISES. GET ON WITH IT.

Mort nodded mournfully. 'Yes, sir. I see, sir. Sir?'