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’
Mort
will
lose
either
way
,
’
said
Ysabell
,
shaking
her
head
.
Cutwell
shook
the
silver
candlestick
out
of
his
baggy
sleeve
and
tossed
it
thoughtfully
from
hand
to
hand
.
Death
hefted
the
scythe
threateningly
,
incidentally
smashing
an
hourglass
by
his
shoulder
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
in
Bes
Pelargic
the
Emperor
’
s
chief
torturer
slumped
backwards
into
his
own
acid
pit
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
and
took
another
swing
which
Mort
dodged
by
sheer
luck
.
But
only
just
.
He
could
feel
the
hot
ache
in
his
muscles
and
the
numbing
greyness
of
fatigue
poisons
in
his
brain
,
two
disadvantages
that
Death
did
not
have
to
consider
.
Death
noticed
.
YIELD
,
he
said
.
I
MAY
BE
MERCIFUL
.
To
illustrate
the
point
he
made
a
roundarm
slash
that
Mort
caught
,
clumsily
,
on
the
edge
of
his
sword
.
The
scythe
blade
bounced
up
,
splintered
a
glass
into
a
thousand
shards
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
the
Duke
of
Sto
Helit
clutched
at
his
heart
,
felt
the
icy
stab
of
pain
,
screamed
soundlessly
and
tumbled
from
his
horse
.
.
.
.
Mort
backed
away
until
he
felt
the
roughness
of
a
stone
pillar
on
his
neck
.
Death
’
s
glass
with
its
dauntingly
empty
bulbs
was
a
few
inches
from
his
head
.
Death
himself
wasn
’
t
paying
much
attention
.
He
was
looking
down
thoughtfully
at
the
jagged
remains
of
the
Duke
’
s
life
.
