Death did not look up from his book.
THAT, he said, is BECAUSE YOU ARE HERE TO LEARN.
It is a fact that although the Death of the Discworld is, in his own words, an ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION, he long ago gave up using the traditional skeletal horses, because of the bother of having to stop all the time to wire bits back on. Now his horses were always flesh-and-blood beasts, from the finest stock.
And, Mort learned, very well fed.
Some jobs offer increments. This one offered – well, quite the reverse, but at least it was in the warm and fairly easy to get the hang of. After a while he got into the rhythm of it, and started playing the private little quantity-surveying game that everyone plays in these circumstances. Let's see, he thought, I've done nearly a quarter, let's call it a third, so when I've done that corner by the hayrack it'll be more than half, call it five-eighths, which means three more wheelbarrow loads. . . . It doesn't prove anything very much except that the awesome splendour of the universe is much easier to deal with if you think of it as a series of small chunks.
The horse watched him from its stall, occasionally trying to eat his hair in a friendly sort of way.
After a while he became aware that someone else was watching him. The girl Ysabell was lean-big on the half-door, her chin in her hands.
'Are you a servant?' she said.
Mort straightened up.
'No,' he said, 'I'm an apprentice.'
That's silly. Albert said you can't be an apprentice.'
Mort concentrated on hefting a shovelful into the wheelbarrow. Two more shovelfuls, call it three if it's well pressed down, and that means four more barrows, all right, call it five, before I've done halfway to the . . .
'He says,' said Ysabell in a louder voice, 'that apprentices become masters, and you can't have more than one Death. So you're just a servant and you have to do what I say.'
. . . and then eight more barrows means it's all done all the way to the door, which is nearly two-thirds of the whole thing, which means. . . .
'Did you hear what I said, boy?'
Mort nodded. And then it'll be fourteen more barrows, only call it fifteen because I haven't swept up properly in the corner, and. . . .
'Have you lost your tongue?'
'Mort,' said Mort mildly.
She looked at him furiously. 'What?'
'My name is Mort,' said Mort. 'Or Mortimer. Most people call me Mort. Did you want to talk to me about something?'
She was speechless for a moment, staring from his face to the shovel and back again.
'Only I've been told to get on with this,' said Mort.
She exploded.
'Why are you here? Why did Father bring you here?'
'He hired me at the hiring fair,' said Mort. 'All the boys got hired. And me.'
'And you wanted to be hired?' she snapped. 'He's Death, you know. The Grim Reaper. He's very important. He's not something you become, he's something you are.'
Mort gestured vaguely at the wheelbarrow.
'I expect it'll turn out for the best,' he said. 'My father always says things generally do.'
He picked up the shovel and turned away, and grinned at the horse's backside as he heard Ysabell snort and walk away.
Mort worked steadily through the sixteenths, eighths, quarters and thirds, wheeling the barrow out through the yard to the heap by the apple tree.