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’
It
’
s
not
midnight
until
the
last
stroke
,
’
said
Mort
,
distantly
.
Lezek
shrugged
.
The
sheer
strength
of
Mort
’
s
obstinacy
was
defeating
him
.
’
All
right
,
’
he
said
.
’
We
’
ll
wait
,
then
.
’
And
then
they
heard
the
clip
-
clop
of
hooves
,
which
boomed
rather
more
loudly
around
the
chilly
square
than
common
acoustics
should
really
allow
.
In
fact
clip
-
clop
was
an
astonishingly
inaccurate
word
for
the
kind
of
noise
which
rattled
around
Mort
’
s
head
;
clip
-
clop
suggested
a
rather
jolly
little
pony
,
quite
possibly
wearing
a
straw
hat
with
holes
cut
out
for
its
ears
.
An
edge
to
this
sound
made
it
very
clear
that
straw
hats
weren
’
t
an
option
.
The
horse
entered
the
square
by
the
Hub
road
,
steam
curling
off
its
huge
damp
white
flanks
and
sparks
striking
up
from
the
cobbles
beneath
it
.
It
trotted
proudly
,
like
a
war
charger
.
It
was
definitely
not
wearing
a
straw
hat
.
The
tall
figure
on
its
back
was
wrapped
up
gainst
the
cold
.
When
the
horse
reached
the
centre
of
the
square
the
rider
dismounted
,
slowly
,
and
fumbled
with
something
behind
the
saddle
.
Eventually
he
–
or
she
–
produced
a
nosebag
,
fastened
it
over
the
horse
’
s
ears
,
and
gave
it
a
friendly
pat
on
the
neck
.
The
air
took
on
a
thick
,
greasy
feel
,
and
the
deep
shadows
around
Mort
became
edged
with
blue
and
purple
rainbows
.
The
rider
strode
towards
him
,
black
cloak
billowing
and
feet
making
little
clicking
sounds
on
the
cobbles
.
They
were
the
only
noises
–
silence
clamped
down
on
the
square
like
great
drifts
of
cotton
wool
.
The
impressive
effect
was
rather
spoilt
by
a
patch
of
ice
.
OH
,
BUGGER
.
