Mort by Terry Pratchett Page B

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 color. 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 time 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.
    “And they was kings in those days, real kings, not like the sort you get now. They was monarchs ,” continued Albert, carefully pouring some tea into his saucer and fanning it primly with the end of his muffler. “I mean, they was wise and fair, well, fairly wise. And they wouldn’t think twice about cutting your head off soon as look at you,” he added approvingly. “And all the queens were tall and pale and wore them balaclava helmet things—”
    “Wimples?” said Mort.
    “Yeah, them, and the princesses were beautiful as the day is long and so noble they, they could pee through a dozen mattresses—”
    “What?”
    Albert hesitated. “Something like that, anyway,” he conceded. “And there was balls and tournaments and executions. Great days.” He smiled dreamily at his memories.
    “Not like the sort of days you get now,” he said, emerging from his reverie with bad grace.
    “Have you got any other names, Albert?” said Mort. But the brief spell had been broken and the old man wasn’t going to be drawn.
    “Oh, I know,” he snapped, “get Albert’s name and you’ll go and look him up in the library, won’t you? Prying and poking. I know you, skulking in there at all hours reading the lives of young wimmen—”
    The heralds of guilt must have flourished their tarnished trumpets in the depths of Mort’s eyes, because Albert cackled and prodded him with a bony finger.
    “You might at least put them back where you find ’em,” he said, “not leave piles of ’em around for old Albert to put back. Anyway, it’s not right, ogling the poor dead things. It