Mort by Terry Pratchett Page A

the faintest of lines.
    Binky slowed to a canter. Mort looked down at the roof of a forest, dusted with snow that was either early or very, very late; it could have been either, because the Ramtops hoarded their weather and doled it out with no real reference to the time of year.
    A gap opened up beneath them. Binky slowed again, wheeled around and descended towards a clearing that was white with drifted snow. It was circular, with a tiny cottage in the exact middle. If the ground around it hadn’t been covered in snow, Mort would have noticed that there were no tree stumps to be seen; the trees hadn’t been cut down in the circle, they’d simply been discouraged from growing there. Or had moved away.
    Candlelight spilled from one downstairs window, making a pale orange pool on the snow.
    Binky touched down smoothly and trotted across the freezing crust without sinking. He left no hoofprints, of course.
    Mort dismounted and walked towards the door, muttering to himself and making experimental sweeps with the scythe.
    The cottage roof had been built with wide eaves, to shed snow and cover the logpile. No dweller in the high Ramtops would dream of starting a winter without a logpile on three sides of the house. But there wasn’t a logpile here, even though spring was still a long way off.
    There was, however, a bundle of hay in a net by the door. It had a note attached, written in big, slightly shaky capitals: FOR THEE HORS.
    It would have worried Mort if he’d let it. Someone was expecting him. He’d learned in recent days, though, that rather than drown in uncertainty it was best to surf right over the top of it. Anyway Binky wasn’t worried by moral scruples and bit straight in.
    It did leave the problem of whether to knock. Somehow, it didn’t seem appropriate. Supposing no one answered, or told him to go away?
    So he lifted the thumb latch and pushed at the door. It swung inwards quite easily, without a creak.
    There was a low-ceilinged kitchen, its beams at trepanning height for Mort. The light from the solitary candle glinted off crockery on a long dresser and flagstones that had been scrubbed and polished into iridescence. The fire in the cave-like inglenook didn’t add much light, because it was no more than a heap of white ash under the remains of a log. Mort knew, without being told, that it was the last log.
    An elderly lady was sitting at the kitchen table, writing furiously with her hooked nose only a few inches from the paper. A grey cat curled on the table beside her blinked calmly at Mort.
    The scythe bumped off a beam. The woman looked up.
    ‘Be with you in a minute,’ she said. She frowned at the paper. ‘I haven’t put in the bit about being of sound mind and body yet, lot of foolishness anyway, no one sound in mind and body would be dead. Would you like a drink?’
    ‘Pardon?’ said Mort. He recalled himself, and repeated, P ARDON ?
    ‘If you drink, that is. It’s raspberry port. On the dresser. You might as well finish the bottle.’
    Mort eyed the dresser suspiciously. He felt he’d rather lost the initiative. He pulled out the hourglass and glared at it. There was a little heap of sand left.
    ‘There’s still a few minutes yet,’ said the witch, without looking up.
    ‘How, I mean,’ HOW DO YOU KNOW ?
    She ignored him, and dried the ink in front of the candle, sealed the letter with a drip of wax, and tucked it under the candlestick. Then she picked up the cat.
    ‘Granny Beedle will be around directly tomorrow to tidy up and you’re to go with her, understand? And see she lets Gammer Nutley have the pink marble washstand, she’s had her eye on it for years.’
    The cat yawped knowingly.
    ‘I haven’t, that is, I HAVEN’T GOT ALL NIGHT, YOU KNOW ,’ said Mort reproachfully.
    ‘You have, I haven’t, and there’s no need to shout,’ said the witch. She slid off her stall and then Mort saw how bent she was, like a bow. With some difficulty she unhooked a tall pointed hat from