Thief of Time tds-26

by Terry Pratchett

  “It's okay, it's okay,” said Susan, as patiently as she could. “This sort of thing always comes as a shock. When it happened to me there wasn't anyone around, so consider yourself lucky.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “I found out who my grandfather was. And don't ask. Now, concentrate. Where ought you to be?”

  “Uh, uh…” Lobsang looked around. “Uh… over that way, I think.”

  “I wouldn't dream of asking you how you know,” said Susan. “And it's away from that mob.”

  She smiled. “Look on the bright side,” she added. “We're young, we've got all the time in the world…” She swung the wrench onto her shoulder. “Let's go clubbing.”

  If there had been such a thing as time, it would have been a few minutes after Susan and Lobsang left that a small robed figure, about six inches high, strutted into the workshop. It was followed by a raven, which perched on the door and regarded the glowing clock with considerable suspicion.

  “Looks dangerous to me,” it said.

  SQUEAK? said the Death of Rats, advancing on the clock.

  “No, don't you go trying to be a hero,” said Quoth.

  The rat walked up to the base of the clock, stared up at it with a the-bigger-they-are-the-harder-they-fall expression, and then whacked it with its scythe.

  Or, at least, tried to. There was a flash as the blade made contact. For a moment the Death of Rats was a ring-shaped, black-and-white blur around the clock, and then it vanished.

  “Told yer,” said the raven, preening its feathers. “I bet you feel like Mister Silly now, right?”

  “…and then I thought, what's a job that really needs someone with my talents?” said Ronnie. “To me, time is just another direction. And then I thought, everyone wants fresh milk, yes? And everyone wants it delivered early in the morning.”

  “Got to be better than the window-cleaning,” said Lu-Tze.

  “I only went into that after they invented windows,” said Ronnie. “It was the jobbing gardening before that. More rancid yak butter in that?”

  “Please,” said Lu-Tze, holding out his cup.

  Lu-Tze was eight hundred years old, and that was why he was having a rest. A hero would have leapt up and rushed out into the silent city and then—

  And there you had it. Then a hero would have had to wonder what to do next. Eight hundred years had taught Lu-Tze that what happens stays happened. It might stay happened in a different set of dimensions, if you wanted to get technical, but you couldn't make it un-happen. The clock had struck, and time had stopped. Later, a solution would present itself. In the meantime, a cup of tea and conversation with his serendipitous rescuer might speed that time. After all, Ronnie was not your average milkman..

  Lu-Tze had long considered that everything happens for a reason, except possibly football.

  “It's the real stuff you got there, Ronnie,” he said, taking a sip. “The butter we're getting these days, you wouldn't grease a cart with it.”

  “It's the breed,” said Ronnie. “I go and get this from the highland herds six hundred years ago.”

  “Cheers,” said Lu-Tze, raising his cup. “Funny, though. I mean, if you said to people there were originally five Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and then one of them left and became a milkman, well, they'd be a bit surprised. They'd wonder about why you…”

  For a moment Ronnie's eyes blazed silver.

  “Creative differences,” he growled. “The whole ego thing. Some people might say… no, I don't like to talk about it. I wish them all the luck in the world, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Lu-Tze, keeping his expression opaque.

  “And I've watched their careers with great interest.”

  “I'm sure.”

  “Do you know I even got written out of the official history?” said Ronnie.

  He held up a hand and a book appeared in it. It looked brand new.

  “This was before,” he said sourly. “Book of Om. Prophecies of Tobrun. Ever meet him? Tall man, beard, tendency to giggle at nothing?”

  “Before even my time, Ronnie.”

  Ronnie handed the book over.

  “First edition. Try Chapter 2, verse 7,” he said.

  And Lu-Tze read: “And the Angel clothed all in white opened the Iron Book, and a fifth rider appeared in a chariot of burning ice, and there was a snapping of laws and a breaking of bonds and the multitudes cried ‘Oh God, we're in trouble now!’”

  “That was me,” said Ronnie proudly.

  Lu-Tze's eyes strayed to verse 8: “And I saw, sort of like rabbits, in many colours but basically a plaid pattern, kind of spinning around, and there was a sound as of like big syrupy things.”

  “That verse got cut for the next edition,” said Ronnie. “Very open to visions of all sorts, old Tobrun. The fathers of Omnianism could pick and mix what they wanted. Of course, in those days everything was new. Death was Death, of course, but the rest were really just Localized Crop Failure, Scuffles and Spots.”

  “And you—?” Lu-Tze ventured.

  “The public wasn't interested in me any more,” said Ronnie. “Or so I was told. Back in those days we were only playing to very small crowds. One plague of locusts, some tribe's waterhole drying up, a volcano exploding… We were glad of any gig going. There wasn't room for five.” He sniffed. “So I was told.”

  Lu-Tze put down his cup. “Well, Ronnie, it's been very nice talking to you, but time's… time's not rushing, you see.”

  “Yeah. Heard about that. The streets are full of the Law.” Ronnie's eyes blazed again.

  “Law?”

  “Dhlang. The Auditors. They've had the glass clock built again.”

  “You know that?”

  “Look, I might not be one of the Fearsome Four, but I do keep my eyes and ears open,” said Ronnie.

  “But that's the end of the world!”

  “No, it's not,” said Ronnie calmly. “Everything's still here.”

  “But it's not going anywhere!”

  “Oh, well, that's not my problem, is it?” said Ronnie. “I do milk and dairy products.”

  Lu-Tze looked around the sparkling dairy, at the glistening bottles, at the gleaming churns. What a job for a timeless person. The milk would always be fresh.

  He looked back at the bottles, and an unbidden thought rose in his mind.

  The Horsemen were people-shaped, and people are vain. Knowing how to use other people's vanity was a martial art all in itself, and Lu-Tze had been doing it for a long time.

  “I bet I can work out who you were,” he said. “I bet I can work out your real name.”

  “Hah. Not a chance, monk,” said Ronnie.

  “Not a monk, just a sweeper,” said Lu-Tze calmly. “Just a sweeper. You called them the Law, Ronnie. There's got to be a law, right? They make the rules, Ronnie. And you've got to have rules, isn't that true?”

  “I do milk and milk products,” said Ronnie, but a muscle twitched under his eye. “Also eggs by arrangement. It's a good steady business. I'm thinking of taking on more staff for the shop.”

  “Why?” said Lu-Tze. “There won't be anything for them to do.”

  “And expand the cheese side,” said Ronnie, not looking at the sweeper. “Big market for cheese. And I thought maybe I could get a c-mail address, people could send in orders, it could be a big market.”

  “All the rules have won, Ronnie. Nothing moves any more. Nothing is unexpected because nothing happens.”

  Ronnie sat staring at nothing.

  “I can see you've found your niche, then, Ronnie,” said Lu-Tze soothingly. “And you keep this place like a new pin, there's no doubt about it. I expect the rest of the lads'd be really pleased to know that you're, you know, getting on all right. Just one thing, uh… Why did you rescue me?”

  “What? Well, it was my charitable duty—”

  “You're the Fifth Horseman, Mr Soak. Charitable duty?” Except, Lu-Tze thought, you've been human-shaped a long time. You want me to f
ind out… You want me to. Thousands of years of a life like this. It's curled you in on yourself. You'll fight me all the way, but you want me to drag your name out of you.

  Ronnie's eyes glowed. “I look after my own, Sweeper.”

  “I'm one of yours, am I?”

  “You have… certain worthwhile points.”

  They stared at one another.

  “I'll take you back to where I found you,” said Ronnie Soak. “That's all. I don't do that other stuff any more.”

  The Auditor lay on its back, mouth open. Occasionally it made a weak little noise, like the whimper of a gnat.

  “Try again, Mr—”

  “Dark Avocado, Mr White.”

  “Is that a real colour?”

  “Yes, Mr White!” said Mr Dark Avocado, who wasn't entirely sure that it was.

  “Try again, then, Mr Dark Avocado.”

  Mr Dark Avocado, with great reluctance, reached down towards the supine figure's mouth. His fingers were a few inches away when, apparently of its own volition, the figure's left hand moved in a blur and gripped them. There was a crackle of bone.

  “I feel extreme pain, Mr White.”

  “What is in its mouth, Mr Dark Avocado?”

  “It appears to be cooked fermented grain product, Mr White. The extreme pain is continuing.”

  “A foodstuff?”

  “Yes, Mr White. The sensations of pain are really quite noticeable at this point.”

  “Did I not give an order that there should be no eating or drinking or unnecessary experimentation with sensory apparatus?”

  “Indeed you did, Mr White. The sensation known as extreme pain, which I mentioned previously, is now really quite acute. What shall I do now?”

  The concept of “orders” was yet another new and intensely unfamiliar one for any Auditor. They were used to decisions by committee, reached only when the possibilities of doing nothing whatsoever about the matter in question had been exhausted. Decisions made by everyone were decisions made by no one, which therefore precluded any possibility of blame.

  But the bodies understood orders. This was clearly something that made humans human, and so the Auditors went along with it in a spirit of investigation. There was no choice, in any case. All kinds of sensations arose when they were given instructions by a man holding an edged weapon. It was surprising how smoothly the impulse to consult and discuss metamorphosed into a pressing desire to do what the weapon said.

  “Can you not persuade him to let go of your hand?”

  “He appears to be unconscious, Mr White. His eyes are bloodshot. He is making a little sighing noise. Yet the body seems determined that the bread should not be removed. Could I raise again the issue of the unbearable pain?”

  Mr White signalled to two other Auditors. With considerable effort, they pried Mr Dark Avocado's fingers loose.

  “This is something we will have to learn more about,” said Mr White. “The renegade spoke of it. Mr Dark Avocado?”

  “Yes, Mr White?”

  “Do the sensations of pain persist?”

  “My hand feels both hot and cold, Mr White.”

  “How strange,” said Mr White. “I see that we will need to investigate pain in greater depth.” Mr Dark Avocado found that a little voice in the back of his head screamed at the thought of this, while Mr White went on: “What other foodstuffs are there?”

  “We know the names of three thousand, seven hundred and nineteen foods,” said Mr Indigo-Violet, stepping forward. He had become the expert on such matters, and this was another new thing for the Auditors. They had never had experts before. What one knew, all knew. Knowing something that others did not know marked one as, in a small way, an individual. Individuals could die. But it also gave you power and value, which meant that you might not die quite so easily. It was a lot to deal with, and like some of the other Auditors he was already assembling a number of facial tics and twitches as his mind tried to cope.

  “Name one,” said Mr White.

  “Cheese,” said Mr Indigo-Violet smartly. “It is rotted bovine lactation.”

  “We will find some cheese,” said Mr White.

  Three Auditors went past.

  Susan peered out of a doorway. “Are you sure we're going the right way?” she said. “We're leaving the city centre.”

  “This is the way I should be going,” said Lobsang.

  “All right, but I don't like these narrow streets. I don't like hiding. I'm not a hiding kind of person.”

  “Yes, I've noticed.”

  “What's that place ahead?”

  “That's the back of the Royal Art Museum. Broad Way's on the other side,” said Lobsang. “And that's the way we need to go.”

  “You know your way around, for a man from the mountains.”

  “I grew up here. I know five different ways to break into the museum, too. I used to be a thief.”

  “I used to be able to walk through the walls,” said Susan. “Can't seem to do it with time stopped. I think the power gets cancelled out somehow.”

  “You could really walk through a solid wall?”

  “Yes. It's a family tradition,” Susan snapped. “Come on, let's go through the museum. At least no one moves about much in there at the best of times.”

  Ankh-Morpork had not had a king for many centuries, but palaces tend to survive. A city might not need a king, but it can always use big rooms and some handy large walls, long after the monarchy is but a memory and the building is renamed the Glorious Memorial to the People's Industry.

  Besides, although the last king of the city was no oil painting himself—especially when he'd been beheaded, after which no one looks their best, not even a short king—it was generally agreed that he had amassed some pretty good works of art. Even the common people of the city had a keen eye for works like Caravati's Three Large Pink Women and One Piece of Gauze or Mauvaise's Man with Big Figleaf and, besides, a city with a history the length of Ankh-Morpork's accumulated all kinds of artistic debris, and in order to prevent congestion in the streets it needed some sort of civic attic in which to store it. And thus, at little more cost than a few miles of plush red rope and a few old men in uniform to give directions to Three Large Pink Women and One Piece of Gauze, the Royal Art Museum was born.

  Lobsang and Susan hurried through the silent halls. As with Fidgett's, it was hard to know if time had stopped here. Its passage was barely perceptible in any case. The monks at Oi Dong considered it a valuable resource.

  Susan stopped and turned to look up at a huge, gilt-framed picture that occupied one whole wall of a lengthy corridor, and said, quietly: “Oh…”

  “What is it?”

  “The Battle of Ar-Gash, by Blitzt,” said Susan.

  Lobsang looked at the flaking, uncleaned paint and the yellow-brown varnish. The colours had faded to a dozen shades of mud, but something violent and evil shone through.

  “Is that meant to be Hell?” he said.

  “No, it was an ancient city in Klatch, thousands of years ago,” said Susan. “But Grandfather did say that men made it Hell. Blitzt went mad when he painted it.”

  “Er, he did good storm clouds, though,” said Lobsang, swallowing. “Wonderful, er, light…”

  “Look at what's coming out of the clouds,” said Susan.

  Lobsang squinted into the crusted cumulus and fossilized lightning.

  “Oh, yes. The Four Horsemen. You often get them in—”

  “Count again,” said Susan.

  Lobsang stared. “There's two—”

  “Don't be silly, there's fi—” she began, and then followed his gaze. He hadn't been interested in the art.

  A couple of Auditors were hurrying away from them, towards the Porcelain Room.

  “They're running away from us!” said Lobsang.

  Susan grabbed his hand. “Not exactly,” she said. “They always consult! There have to be three of them to do that! And they'll be back, so come on!”

  She grabbed his hand and towed hi
m into the next gallery.

  There were grey figures at the far end. The pair ran on, past dust-encrusted tapestries, and into another huge, ancient room.

  “Ye gods, there's a picture of three huge pink women with only—” Lobsang began, as he was dragged past.

  “Pay attention, will you? The way to the main door was back there! This place is full of Auditors!”

  “But it's just an old art gallery! There's nothing for them here, is there?”

  They slid to a stop on the marble slabs. A wide staircase led up to the next floor.

  “We'll be trapped up there,” said Lobsang.

  “There're balconies all round,” said Susan. “Come on!” She dragged him up the stairs and through an archway. And stopped.

  The galleries were several storeys high. On the first floor, visitors could look down on to the floor below. And, in the room below, the Auditors were very busy.

  “What the hell are they doing now?” whispered Lobsang.

  “I think,” said Susan grimly, “that they are appreciating Art.”

  Miss Tangerine was annoyed. Her body kept making strange demands of her, and the work with which she had been entrusted was going so very badly.

  The frame of what once had been Sir Robert Cuspidors Waggon Stuck In River was leaning against a wall in front of her. It was empty. The bare canvas was neatly rolled beside it. In front of the frame, carefully heaped in order of size, were piles of pigment.

  Several dozen Auditors were breaking these down into their component molecules.

  “Still nothing?” she said, striding along the line.

  “No, Miss Tangerine. Only known molecules and atoms so far,” said an Auditor, its voice shaking slightly.

  “Well, is it something to do with the proportions? The balance of molecules? The basic geometry?”

  “We are continuing to—”

  “Get on with it!”

  The other Auditors in the gallery, clustered industriously in front of what had once been a painting and in fact still was, insofar as every single molecule was still present in the room, glanced up and then bent again to their tasks.

  Miss Tangerine was getting even angrier because she couldn't work out why she was angry. One reason was probably that, when he gave her this task, Mr White had looked at her in a funny way. Being looked at was an unfamiliar experience for an Auditor in any case—no Auditor bothered to look at another Auditor very often because all Auditors looked the same—and neither were they used to the idea that you could say things with your face. Or even have a face. Or have a body that reacted in strange ways to the expression on another face belonging to, in this case, Mr White. When he looked at her like that she felt a terrible urge to claw his face off.