Death - Duke

Mort cast around until he saw the figure standing in a little group in the center of the crowd,
leaning over slightly the better to hear what a rather short courtier was saying to him. He was a tall,
heavily-built man with the kind of stolid, patient face that one would confidently buy a used horse
from.

“He doesn’t look a bad king,” said Mort. “Why would anyone want to kill him?”
SEE THE MAN NEXT TO HIM? WITH THE LITTLE MOUSTACHE AND THE GRIN LIKE A LIZARD? Death
pointed with his scythe.

“Yes?”

HIS COUSIN, THE DUKE OF STO HELIT. NOT THE NICEST OF PEOPLE, said Death. A HANDY MAN WITH
A BOTTLE OF POISON. FIFTH IN LINE TO THE THRONE LAST YEAR, NOW SECOND IN LINE. BIT OF A SOCIAL
CLIMBER, YOU MIGHT SAY. He fumbled inside his robe and produced an hourglass in which black sand
coursed between a spiked iron latticework. He gave it an experimental shake. AND DUE TO LIVE
ANOTHER THIRTY, THIRTY-FIVE YEARS, he said, with a sigh.

“And he goes around killing people?” said Mort. He shook his head. “There’s no justice.”
Death sighed. No, he said, handing his drink to a page who was surprised to find he was
suddenly holding an empty glass, THERE’S JUST ME.

***

Mort p35