PEOPLE USUALLY PREFER ME NOT TO.
Keeble scrabbled among his papers, giggling hysterically.
'You want to do something else?' he said. Tooth fairy? Water sprite? Sandman?'
DO NOT BE FOOLISH. I SIMPLY – FEEL I WANT A CHANGE.
Keeble's frantic rustling at last turned up the paper he'd been searching for. He gave a maniacal laugh and thrust it into Death's hands.
Death read it.
THIS is A JOB? PEOPLE ARE PAID TO DO THIS?
'Yes, yes, go and see him, you're just the right type. Only don't tell him I sent you.'
Binky moved at a hard gallop across the night, the Disc unrolling far below his hooves. Now Mort found that the sword could reach out further than he had thought, it could reach the stars themselves, and he swung it across the deeps of space and into the heart of a yellow dwarf which went nova most satisfactorily. He stood in the saddle and whirled the blade around his head, laughing as the blue flame fanned across the sky leaving a trail of darkness and embers.
And didn't stop. Mort struggled as the sword cut through the horizon, grinding down the mountains, drying up the seas, turning green forests into punk and ashes. He heard voices behind him, and the brief screams of friends and relatives as he turned desperately. Dust storms whirled from the dead earth as he fought to release his own grip, but the sword burned icy cold in his hand, dragging him on in a dance that would not end until there was nothing left alive.
And that time came, and Mort stood alone except for Death, who said, 'A fine job, boy.'
And Mort said, MORT.
'Mort! Mort! Wake up!'
Mort surfaced slowly, like a corpse in a pond. He fought against it, clinging to his pillow and the horrors of sleep, but someone was tugging urgently at his ear.
'Mmmph?' he said.
'Mort!'
'Wsst?'
'Mort, it's father!'
He opened his eyes and stared up blankly into Ysabell's face. Then the events of the previous night hit him like a sock full of damp sand.
Mort swung his legs out of bed, still wreathed in the remains of his dream.
'Yeah, okay,' he said. 'I'' go and see him directly.'
'He's not here! Albert's going crazy!' Ysabell stood by the bed, tugging a handkerchief between her hands. 'Mort, do you think something bad has happened to him?'
He gave her a blank look. 'Don't be bloody stupid,' he said, 'he's Death.' He scratched his skin. He felt hot and dry and itchy.
'But he's never been away this long! Not even when there was that big plague in Pseudopolis! I mean, he has to be here in the mornings to do the books and work out the nodes and —'
Mort grabbed her arms. 'All right, all right,' he said, as soothingly as he could manage. 'I'm sure everything's okay. Just settle down, I'll go and check . . . why have you got your eyes shut?'
'Mort, please put some clothes on,' said Ysabell in a tight little voice.
Mort looked down.
'Sorry,' he said meekly, 'I didn't realise . . . Who put me to bed?'
'I did,' she said. 'But I looked the other way.'
Mort dragged on his breeches, shrugged into his shirt and hurried out towards Death's study with Ysabell on his heels. Albert was in there, jumping from foot to foot like a duck on a griddle. When Mort came in the look on the old man's face could almost have been gratitude.