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They
strolled
back
to
the
house
in
silence
.
When
Mort
went
back
to
the
study
he
found
that
Death
had
gone
,
leaving
four
hourglasses
on
the
desk
.
The
big
leather
book
was
lying
on
a
lectern
,
securely
locked
shut
.
There
was
a
note
tucked
under
the
glasses
.
Mort
had
imagined
that
Death
’
s
handwriting
would
either
be
gothic
or
else
tombstone
angular
,
but
Death
had
in
fact
studied
a
classic
work
on
graphology
before
selecting
a
style
and
had
adopted
a
hand
that
indicated
a
balanced
,
well
-
adjusted
personality
.
It
said
:
Gone
fyshing
.
Theyre
ys
ane
execution
in
Pseudopoiis
,
a
naturral
in
Krull
,
a
faytal
fall
in
the
Carrick
Mtns
,
ane
ague
in
Ell
-
Kinte
.
Thee
rest
of
thee
day
’
s
your
own
.
Mort
thought
that
history
was
thrashing
around
like
a
steel
hawser
with
the
tension
off
,
twanging
backwards
and
forwards
across
reality
in
great
destructive
sweeps
.
History
isn
’
t
like
that
.
History
unravels
gently
,
like
an
old
sweater
.
It
has
been
patched
and
darned
many
times
,
reknitted
to
suit
different
people
,
shoved
in
a
box
under
the
sink
of
censorship
to
be
cut
up
for
the
dusters
of
propaganda
,
yet
it
always
–
eventually
–
manages
to
spring
back
into
its
old
familiar
shape
.
History
has
a
habit
of
changing
the
people
who
think
they
are
changing
it
.
History
always
has
a
few
tricks
up
its
frayed
sleeve
.
It
’
s
been
around
a
long
time
.
This
is
what
was
happening
:
The
misplaced
stroke
of
Mort
’
s
scythe
had
cut
history
into
two
separate
realities
.
In
the
city
of
Sto
Lat
Princess
Keli
still
ruled
,
with
a
certain
amount
of
difficulty
and
with
the
full
time
aid
of
the
Royal
Recogniser
,
who
was
put
on
the
court
payroll
and
charged
with
the
duty
of
remembering
that
she
existed
.
In
the
lands
outside
,
though
–
beyond
the
plain
,
in
the
Ramtops
,
around
the
Circle
Sea
and
all
the
way
to
the
Rim
–
the
traditional
reality
still
held
sway
and
she
was
quite
definitely
dead
,
the
duke
was
king
and
the
world
was
proceeding
sedately
according
to
plan
,
whatever
that
was
.
