Mort by Terry Pratchett Page A

and flick the beads of an abacus.
    After a minute he looked up.
    Y OU’RE STILL HERE , he said. A ND 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. I S 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.
    Death sighed loudly, and pulled open a desk drawer.
    J UST WALK THERE .
    Mort nodded miserably, and took the long walk to the study door. As he pulled it open Death coughed.
    B OY ! he called, and tossed something across the room.
    Mort caught it automatically as the door creaked open.
    The doorway vanished. The deep carpet underfoot became muddy cobbles. Broad daylight poured over him like quicksilver.
    “Mort,” said Mort, to the universe at large.
    “What?” said a stallholder beside him. Mort stared around. He was in a crowded marketplace, packed with people and animals. Every kind of thing was being sold from needles to (via a few itinerant prophets) visions of salvation. It was impossible to hold any conversation quieter than a shout.
    Mort tapped the stallholder in the small of the back.
    “Can you see me?” he demanded.
    The stallholder squinted critically at him.
    “I reckon so,” he said, “or someone very much like you.”
    “Thank you,” said Mort, immensely relieved.
    “Don’t mention it. I see lots of people every day, no charge. Want to buy any bootlaces?”
    “I don’t think so,” said Mort. “What place is this?”
    “You don’t know?”
    A couple of people at the next stall were looking at Mort thoughtfully. His mind went into overdrive.
    “My master travels a lot,” he said, truthfully. “We arrived last night, and I was asleep on the cart. Now I’ve got the afternoon off.”
    “Ah,” said the stallholder. He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Looking for a good time, are you? I could fix you up.”
    “I’d quite enjoy knowing where I am,” Mort conceded.
    The man was taken aback.
    “This is Ankh-Morpork,” he said. “Anyone ought to be able to see that. Smell it, too.”
    Mort sniffed. There was a certain something about the air in the city. You got the feeling that it was air that had seen life. You couldn’t help noting with every breath that thousands of other people were very close to you and nearly all of them had armpits.
    The stallholder regarded Mort critically, noting the pale face, well-cut clothes and strange presence, a sort of coiled spring effect.
    “Look, I’ll be frank,” he said. “I could point you in the direction of a great brothel.”
    “I’ve already had lunch,” said Mort, vaguely. “But you can tell me if we’re anywhere near, I think it’s called Sto Lat?”
    “About twenty miles Hubwards, but there’s nothing there for a young man of your kidney,” said the trader hurriedly. “I know, you’re out by yourself, you want new experiences, you want excitement, romance—”
    Mort, meanwhile, had opened the bag Death had given him. It was full of small gold coins, about the size of sequins.
    An image formed again in his mind, of a pale young face under a head of red hair who had somehow known he was there. The unfocused feelings that had haunted his mind for the last few days suddenly sharpened to a point.
    “I want,” he said firmly, “a very fast horse.”

Five minutes later, Mort was lost.
    This part of Ankh-Morpork was known as The Shades, an inner-city area sorely in need either of governmental help or, for preference, a flamethrower. It couldn’t be called squalid because that would be stretching the word to breaking point. It was beyond squalor and out the other side, where by a sort of Einsteinian reversal it achieved a magnificent horribleness that it wore like an architectural award. It was noisy and sultry and smelled like a cowshed floor.
    It didn’t so much have a