Mort by Terry Pratchett Page B

neighborhood as an ecology, like a great land-based coral reef. There were the humans, all right, humanoid equivalents of lobsters, squid, shrimps and so on. And sharks.
    Mort wandered hopelessly along the winding streets. Anyone hovering at rooftop height would have noticed a certain pattern in the crowds behind him, suggesting a number of men converging nonchalantly on a target, and would rightly have concluded that Mort and his gold had about the same life expectancy as a three-legged hedgehog on a six-lane motorway.
    It is probably already apparent that The Shades was not the sort of place to have inhabitants. It had denizens. Periodically Mort would try to engage one in conversation, to find the way to a good horse dealer. The denizen would usually mutter something and hurry away, since anyone wishing to live in The Shades for longer than maybe three hours developed very specialized senses indeed and would no more hang around near Mort than a peasant would stand near a tall tree in thundery weather.
    And so Mort came at last to the river Ankh, greatest of rivers. Even before it entered the city, it was slow and heavy with the silt of the plains, and by the time it got to The Shades even an agnostic could have walked across it. It was hard to drown in the Ankh, but easy to suffocate.
    Mort looked at the surface doubtfully. It seemed to be moving. There were bubbles in it. It had to be water.
    He sighed, and turned away.
    Three men had appeared behind him, as though extruded from the stonework. They had the heavy, stolid look of those thugs whose appearance in any narrative means that it’s time for the hero to be menaced a bit, although not too much, because it’s also obvious that they’re going to be horribly surprised.
    They were leering. They were good at it.
    One of them had drawn a knife, which he waved in little circles in the air. He advanced slowly towards Mort, while the other two hung back to provide immoral support.
    “Give us the money,” he rasped.
    Mort’s hand went to the bag on his belt.
    “Hang on a minute,” he said. “What happens then?”
    “What?”
    “I mean, is it my money or my life?” said Mort. “That’s the sort of thing robbers are supposed to demand. Your money or your life. I read that in a book once,” he added.
    “Possibly, possibly,” conceded the robber. He felt he was losing the initiative, but rallied magnificently. “On the other hand, it could be your money and your life. Pulling off the double, you might say.” The man looked sideways at his colleagues, who sniggered on cue.
    “In that case—” said Mort, and hefted the bag in one hand preparatory to chucking it as far out into the Ankh as he could, even though there was a reasonable chance it would bounce.
    “Hey, what are you doing,” said the robber. He started to run forward, but halted when Mort gave the bag a threatening jerk.
    “Well,” said Mort, “I look at it like this. If you’re going to kill me anyway, I might as well get rid of the money. It’s entirely up to you.” To illustrate his point he took one coin out of the bag and flicked it out across the water, which accepted it with an unfortunate sucking noise. The thieves shuddered.
    The leading thief looked at the bag. He looked at his knife. He looked at Mort’s face. He looked at his colleagues.
    “Excuse me,” he said, and they went into a huddle.
    Mort measured the distance to the end of the alley. He wouldn’t make it. Anyway, these three looked as though chasing people was another thing they were good at. It was only logic that left them feeling a little stretched.
    Their leader turned back to Mort. He gave a final glance at the other two. They both nodded decisively.
    “I think we kill you and take a chance on the money,” he said. “We don’t want this sort of thing to spread.”
    The other two drew their knives.
    Mort swallowed. “This could be unwise,” he said.
    “Why?”
    “Well, I won’t like it, for