-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Терри Пратчетт
-
- Мор - ученик смерти
-
- Стр. 1/357
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
Pestilence is a disciple of death
This
is
the
bright
candlelit
room
where
the
life
-
timers
are
stored
–
shelf
upon
shelf
of
them
,
squat
hourglasses
,
one
for
every
living
person
,
pouring
their
fine
sand
from
the
future
into
the
past
.
The
accumulated
hiss
of
the
falling
grains
makes
the
room
roar
like
the
sea
.
This
is
the
owner
of
the
room
,
stalking
through
it
with
a
preoccupied
air
.
His
name
is
Death
.
But
not
any
Death
.
This
is
the
Death
whose
particular
sphere
of
operations
is
,
well
,
not
a
sphere
at
all
,
but
the
Discworld
,
which
is
flat
and
rides
on
the
back
of
four
giant
elephants
who
stand
on
the
shell
of
the
enormous
star
turtle
Great
A
’
Tuin
,
and
which
is
bounded
by
a
waterfall
that
cascades
endlessly
into
space
.
Scientists
have
calculated
that
the
chance
of
anything
so
patently
absurd
actually
existing
are
millions
to
one
.
But
magicians
have
calculated
that
million
-
to
-
one
chances
crop
up
nine
times
out
of
ten
.
Death
clicks
across
the
black
and
white
tiled
floor
on
toes
of
bone
,
muttering
inside
his
cowl
as
his
skeletal
fingers
count
along
the
rows
of
busy
hourglasses
.
Finally
he
finds
one
that
seems
to
satisfy
him
,
lifts
it
carefully
from
its
shelf
and
carries
it
across
to
the
nearest
candle
.
He
holds
it
so
that
the
light
lints
off
it
,
and
stares
at
the
little
point
of
reflected
brilliance
.
The
steady
gaze
from
those
twinkling
eye
-
sockets
encompasses
the
world
turtle
,
sculling
through
the
deeps
of
space
,
carapace
scarred
by
comets
and
pitted
by
meteors
.
One
day
even
Great
A
’
Tuin
will
die
,
Death
knows
;
now
,
that
would
be
a
challenge
.
But
the
focus
of
his
gaze
dives
onwards
towards
the
blue
-
green
magnificence
of
the
Disc
itself
,
turning
slowly
under
its
tiny
orbiting
sun
.
Now
it
curves
away
towards
the
great
mountain
range
called
the
Ramtops
.
The
Ramtops
are
full
of
deep
valleys
and
unexpected
crags
and
considerably
more
geography
than
they
know
what
to
do
with
.
They
have
their
own
peculiar
weather
,
full
of
shrapnel
rain
and
whiplash
winds
and
permanent
thunder
-
storms
.
Some
people
say
it
’
s
all
because
the
Ramtops
are
the
home
of
old
,
wild
magic
.
Mind
you
,
some
people
will
say
anything
.
