'The princess's assassination at the age of fifteen,' he read, 'was followed by the union of Sto Lat with Sto Helit and, indirectly, the collapse of the city states of the central plain and the rise of—'
He read on, unable to stop. Occasionally he groaned again.
Finally he put the book back, hesitated, and then shoved it behind a few other volumes. He could still feel it there as he climbed down the ladder, shrieking its incriminating existence to the world.
There were few ocean-going ships on the Disc. No captain liked to venture out of sight of a coastline. It was a sorry fact that ships which looked from a distance as though they were going over the edge of the world weren't in fact disappearing over the horizon, they were in fact dropping over the edge of the world.
Every generation or so a few enthusiastic explorers doubted this and set out to prove it wrong. Strangely enough, none of them had ever come back to announce the result of their researches.
The following analogy would, therefore, have been meaningless to Mort.
He felt as if he'd been shipwrecked on the Titanic but in the nick of time had been rescued. By the Lusitonia.
He felt as though he'd thrown a snowball on the spur of the moment and watched the ensuing avalanche engulf three ski resorts.
He felt history unravelling all around him.
He felt he needed someone to talk to, quickly.
That had to mean either Albert or Ysabell, because the thought of explaining everything to those tiny blue pinpoints was not one he cared to contemplate after a long night. On the rare occasions Ysabell deigned to look in his direction she made it clear that the only difference between Mort and a dead toad was the colour. As for Albert. . . .
All right, not the perfect confidant, but definitely the best in a field of one.
Mort slid down the steps and threaded his way back through the bookshelves. A few hours' sleep would be a good idea, too.
Then he heard a gasp, the brief patter of running feet, and the slam of a door. When he peered around the nearest bookcase there was nothing there except a stool with a couple of books on it. He picked one up and glanced at the name, then read a few pages. There was a damp lace handkerchief lying next to it.
Mort rose late, and hurried towards the kitchen expecting at any moment the deep tones of disapproval. Nothing happened.
Albert was at the stone sink, gazing thoughtfully at his chip pan, probably wondering whether it was time to change the fat or let it bide for another year. He turned as Mort slid into a chair.
'You had a busy tune of it, then,' he said. 'Gallivanting all over the place until all hours, I heard. I could do you an egg. Or there's porridge.'
'Egg, please,' said Mort. He'd never plucked up the courage to try Albert's porridge, which led a private life of its own in the depths of its saucepan and ate spoons.
'The master wants to see you after,' Albert added, 'but he said you wasn't to rush.'
'Oh.' Mort stared at the table. 'Did he say anything else?'
'He said he hadn't had an evening off in a thousand years,' said Albert. 'He was humming. I don't like it. I've never seen him like this.'
'Oh.' Mort took the plunge. 'Albert, have you been here long?'
Albert looked at him over the top of his spectacles.
'Maybe,' he said. 'It's hard to keep track of outside time, boy. I bin here since just after the old king died.'
'Which king, Albert?'
'Artorollo, I think he was called. Little fat man. Squeaky voice. I only saw him the once, though.'
'Where was this?'
'In Ankh, of course.'
'What?' said Mort. They don't have kings in Ankh-Morpork, everyone knows that!'
'This was back a bit, I said,' said Albert. He poured himself a cup of tea from Death's personal teapot and sat down, a dreamy look in his crusted eyes. Mort waited expectantly.