Thief of Time

He glared at the rusted pages. “It ought to be Pestilence next,” he muttered.

“Am I late, then?” said a voice in the night.

A horse walked forward. It gleamed unhealthily, like a gangrenous wound just before the barber-surgeon would be called in with his hacksaw for a quick trim.

I THOUGHT YOU WEREN'T COMING, said Death.

“I didn't want to,” Pestilence oozed, “but humans do get such interesting diseases. I'd rather like to see how weasles turn out, too.” One crusted eye winked at Death.

“You mean measles?” said the angel.

“Weasles, I'm afraid,” said Pestilence. “People are getting really careless with this bio-artificing. We're talking boil's that really bite.”

Two of you will not suffice! snarled the Auditor in their heads.

A horse walked out of the darkness. Some toast racks had more flesh.

“I've been thinking,” said a voice. “Maybe there are things worth putting up a fight for.”

“And they are—?” said Pestilence, looking round.

“Salad-cream sandwiches. You just can't beat them. That tang of permitted emulsifiers? Marvellous.”

“Hah! You're Famine, then?” said the Angel of the Iron Book. It fumbled with the heavy pages again.

What, what, what is this nonsense of “salad cream”?18 shouted the Auditor.

Anger, thought Death. A powerful emotion.

“Do I like salad cream?” said a voice in the dark.

A second, female voice replied: “No, dear, it gives you hives.”

The horse of War was huge and red and the heads of dead warriors hung from the saddle horn. And Mrs War was hanging on to War, grimly.

“All four. Bingo!” said the Angel of the Iron Book. “So much for the Convocation of Ee!”

War had a woolly scarf round his neck. He looked sheepishly at the other Horsemen.

“He's not to strain himself,” said Mrs War sharply. “And you're not to let him do anything dangerous. He's not as strong as he thinks. And he gets confused.”

So, the gang is all here, said the Auditor.

Smugness, Death noticed. And self-satisfaction.

There was a clanging as of metal pages. The Angel of the Iron Book was looking puzzled.

“Actually, I don't think that's entirely correct,” it said.

No one paid it any attention.

Off you go on your little pantomime, said the Auditor.

And now irony and sarcasm, thought Death. They must be picking it up from the ones down in the world. All the little things that go to make up a… personality.

He looked along the row of Horsemen. They caught his eye, and there were almost imperceptible nods from Famine and Pestilence.

War turned in the saddle and spoke to his wife. “Right now, dear, I'm not confused at all. Could you get down, please?”

“Remember what happened when—” Mrs War began.

“Right now, please, my dear,” said War, and this time his voice, which was still calm and polite, had echoes of steel and bronze.

“Er… oh.” Mrs War was suddenly flustered. “That was just how you used to talk when—” She stopped, blushed happily for a moment, and slid off the horse.

War nodded at Death.

And now you must all go and bring terror and destruction and so on and so forth, said the Auditor. Correct?

Death nodded. Floating in the air above him, the Angel of the Iron Book slammed the pages back and forth in an effort to find his place.

EXACTLY. ONLY, WHILE IT IS TRUE WE HAVE TO RIDE OUT, Death added, drawing his sword, IT DOESN'T SAY ANYWHERE AGAINST WHOM.

Your meaning? hissed the Auditor, but now there was a flicker of fear. Things were happening that it didn't understand.

Death grinned. In order to fear, you had to be a me. Don't let anything happen to me. That was the song of fear.

“He means,” said War, “That he asked us all to think about whose side we're really on.”

Four swords were drawn, blazing along their edges like flame. Four horses charged.

The Angel of the Iron Book looked down at Mrs War.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but do you have a pencil?”

Susan peered round the corner into Artificers Street, and groaned. “It's full of them… and I think they've gone mad.”

Unity took a look. “No. They have not gone mad. They are being Auditors. They are taking measurements, assessing and standardizing where necessary.”

“They're taking up the paving slabs now!”

“Yes. I suspect it is because they are the wrong size. We do not like irregularities.”

“What the hell is the wrong size for a slab of rock?”

“Any size that is not the average size. I'm sorry.”

The air around Susan flashed blue. She was very briefly aware of a human shape, transparent, spinning gently, which vanished again.

But a voice in her ear, in her ear said: Nearly strong enough. Can you get to the end of the street?

“Yes. Are you sure? You couldn't do anything to the clock before!”

Before, I was not me.