THERE'S NO JUSTICE, said Mort. JUST US.

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We know that Death found Ysabell as a baby in the desert. Unless there was something about her to tell him her name (engraved locket? birth certificate?), he must have come up with it himself. But Death is so notoriously uncreative that this idea sat oddly with me. So I made up a little story to explain it.

The Office of Births, Deaths and Marriages in Ankh-Morpork was a quiet and dusty place. The post of Registry Officer was largely ceremonial, a nice little appointment that came with a salary and, for some reason, a bushel of carrots each month.
Athol Cube enjoyed his job. He would just sit with his feet on the desk, working his way through a penny dreadful, and waiting to hear the little bell over the door chime. He got a lot of reading done. He had very good night vision. He didn't often have to actually register births, deaths or marriages, since there was no legal requirement for these to be recorded, and most citizens were in fact unaware that the office existed. He was not about to advertise it. Most of the people he saw these days were dwarfs, because dwarfs were very earnest about doing things properly, and they tended to give their children amusing names, not that he was prejudiced. It suited Athol Cube very nicely.
EXCUSE ME.
Athol lowered The Lady of Lancre very slowly and looked up at the customer. This made his eyes hurt a little. He was barely conscious of a conflict somewhere at the back of his brain, as the actual input from his eyes was forcibly converted into something more acceptable to his mind. It was... a tall, dark, gentleman, yes, rather austere. Blue eyes. Blue eyes? Yes, that was one thing he was quite sure about.
'Good morning,' he said, remembering belatedly to remove his boots from the desk. He stuffed The Lady of Lancre into the desk drawer and straightened up, giving a professional smile. 'How may I help you, sir?'
Something was bothering him, and oddly, it wasn't his difficulty in seeing what the gentleman looked like. He absent-mindedly rubbed a fleck of sleeping-sand from the corner of his eye.
I WISH TO REGISTER A BABY GIRL. The gentleman spoke with some pride. MY DAUGHTER.
'Congratulations, sir!' Athol pulled over the Births ledger and opened it at the marker. He dipped his pen and prepared to head up a new entry. 'Date of birth?'
ER... The gentleman counted on his fingers. They were long, thin, white fingers. Very thin. Athol blinked at them. But something else was bothering him, some detail that wasn't quite right. The gentleman got out a small leather-bound book and consulted it, leafing quickly back.
IT WOULD BE FIVE OR SIX DAYS... YES, SIX DAYS AGO.
'Right. Twentieth of Grune,' Athol said, writing. He permitted himself a friendly smile. 'I know how it can be, believe me, sir, with a new baby in the house! We often don't get around to these details very quickly, do we?'
YOU HAVE A BABY?
'Er... no. Not myself. Not as such.' Athol shook his head, as much to clear it as to tell the gentleman no. What was it? It was really getting on his nerves. 'Name?'
WHOSE?
'Your daughter's name, sir.'
OH. The gentleman looked quite lost. SHE WILL NEED A NAME, WON'T SHE?
'It is customary, sir.'
HMM. WHAT NAME IS USUALLY GIVEN?
'Er... Emily is very popular this year, sir. Or one of the perennial favourites - perhaps Sarah?'
SHE DOESN'T LOOK LIKE A SARAH.
'What... does she look like?' It was on the tip of his tongue, that thing that wasn't quite right. If the fellow would just stop talking for a minute, he would have it. As the gentleman paused to think, it came.
'Sir!'
YES?
'When you, er, when you came in.' It sounded foolish as soon as he started to put words around it. 'Only - only, sir, there is a bell...'
The gentleman snapped his fingers with a sound like castanets. THAT'S IT.

-Fin-

Pointless Note: In the first version of this story Athol has wire-rimmed glasses, which he polishes when he is having difficulty seeing Death. But this scene must take place roughly forty-five years before the events of Mort, by Ysabell's own account of her age, and eyeglasses only came to Ankh-Morpork in The Colour of Magic, with Twoflower the tourist. Morporkians are early adopters of new technology, but I thought that was a bit premature. So I changed it. I don't like Athol wiping sleep out of his eye as much, but I couldn't think of something better. Damn continuity; damn Twoflower.

Mort © Terry Pratchett 1987. Mort and Death paintings © Paul Kidby. Just Us design and text © La Déesse 2005. This site is part of the Air & Angels network.