Mort by Terry Pratchett

struck one in a burst of sulfurous smoke, lit a candle, found the pile of dismembered armor, pulled its sword from its scabbard and then nearly swallowed her tongue.
    Someone had just blown hot and wetly in her ear.
    “That’s Binky,” said the heap. “He’s just trying to be friendly. I expect he’d like some hay, if you’ve got any.”
    With royal self-control, Keli said, “This is the fourth floor. It’s a lady’s bedroom. You’d be amazed at how many horses we don’t get up here.”
    “Oh. Could you help me up, please?”
    She put the sword down and pulled aside a breastplate. A thin white face stared back at her.
    “First, you’d better tell me why I shouldn’t send for the guards anyway” she said. “Even being in my bedroom could get you tortured to death.”
    She glared at him.
    Finally he said, “Well—could you let my hand free, please? Thank you—firstly, the guards probably wouldn’t see me, secondly, you’ll never find out why I’m here and you look as though you’d hate not to know, and thirdly….”
    “Thirdly what?” she said.
    His mouth opened and shut. Mort wanted to say: thirdly, you’re so beautiful, or at least very attractive, or anyway far more attractive than any other girl I’ve ever met, although admittedly I haven’t met very many. From this it will be seen that Mort’s innate honesty will never make him a poet; if Mort ever compared a girl to a summer’s day, it would be followed by a thoughtful explanation of what day he had in mind and whether it was raining at the time. In the circumstances, it was just as well that he couldn’t find his voice.
    Keli held up the candle and looked at the window.
    It was whole. The stone frames were unbroken. Every pane, with its stained-glass representatives of the Sto Lat coat of arms, was complete. She looked back at Mort.
    “Never mind thirdly,” she said, “let’s get back to secondly.”
    An hour later dawn reached the city. Daylight on the Disc flows rather than rushes, because light is slowed right down by the world’s standing magical field, and it rolled across the flat lands like a golden sea. The city on the mound stood out like a sandcastle in the tide for a moment, until the day swirled around it and crept onwards.
    Mort and Keli sat side by side on her bed. The hourglass lay between them. There was no sand left in the top bulb.
    From outside came the sounds of the castle waking up.
    “I still don’t understand this,” she said. “Does it mean I’m dead, or doesn’t it?”
    “It means you ought to be dead,” he said, “according to fate or whatever. I haven’t really studied the theory.”
    “And you should have killed me?”
    “No! I mean, no, the assassin should have killed you. I did try to explain all that,” said Mort.
    “Why didn’t you let him?”
    Mort looked at her in horror.
    “Did you want to die?”
    “Of course I didn’t. But it looks as though what people want doesn’t come into it, does it? I’m trying to be sensible about this.”
    Mort stared at his knees. Then he stood up.
    “I think I’d better be going,” he said coldly.
    He folded up the scythe and stuck it into its sheath behind the saddle. Then he looked at the window.
    “You came through that,” said Keli, helpfully. “Look, when I said—”
    “Does it open?”
    “No. There’s a balcony along the passage. But people will see you!”
    Mort ignored her, pulled open the door and led Binky out into the corridor. Keli ran after them. A maid stopped, curtsied, and frowned slightly as her brain wisely dismissed the sight of a very large horse walking along the carpet.
    The balcony overlooked one of the inner courtyards. Mort glanced over the parapet, and then mounted.
    “Watch out for the duke,” he said. “He’s behind all this.”
    “My father always warned me about him,” said the princess. “I’ve got a foodtaster.”
    “You should get a bodyguard as well,” said Mort. “I must go. I have important