Thief of Time

“It is written, ‘There's no time like the present,’” said Lu-Tze. “Behold, the Fifth Surprise!”

He reached into his robe.

Lobsang floated closer.

The sweeper produced a cheap carnival mask. It was one of those that consisted of a fake pair of spectacles, glued above a big pink nose, and finished with a heavy black moustache.

He put it on and waggled his ears once or twice.

“Boo,” he said.

“What?” said Lobsang, bewildered.

“Boo,” Lu-Tze repeated. “I never said it was a particularly imaginative surprise, did I?”

He waggled his ears again, and then waggled his eyebrows.

“Good, eh?” he said, and grinned.

Lobsang laughed. Lu-Tze grinned wider. Lobsang laughed louder, and lowered himself to the mat.

The blows came out of nowhere. They caught him in the stomach, on the back of his neck, in the small of his back and swept his legs from under him. He landed on his stomach, with Lu-Tze pinning him down in the Straddle of the Fish. The only way to get out of that was to dislocate your own shoulders.

There was a sort of collective sigh from the hidden watchers.

“Déjà-fu!”

“What?” said Lobsang, into the mat. “You said none of the monks knew déjà-fu!”

“I never taught it to 'em, that's why!” said Lu-Tze. “Promise not to harm me, would you? Thank you so very much! Submit?”

“You never told me you knew it!” Lu-Tze's knees, rammed into the secret pressure points, were turning Lobsang's arms into powerless lumps of flesh.

“I may be old but I'm not daft!” Lu-Tze shouted. “You don't think I'd give away a trick like that, do you?”

“That's not fair—”

Lu-Tze leaned down until his mouth was an inch from Lobsang's ear.

“Didn't say ‘fair’ on the box, lad. But you can win, you know. You could turn me into dust, just like that. How could I stop Time?”

“I can't do that!”

“You mean you won't, and we both know it. Submit?”

Lobsang could feel parts of his body trying to shut themselves down. His shoulders were on fire. I can discarnate, he thought. Yes, I can, I could turn him to dust with a thought. And lose. I'd walk out and he'd be dead and I'd have lost.

“Nothing to worry about, lad,” said Lu-Tze, calmly now. “You just forgot Rule Nineteen. Submit?”

“Rule Nineteen?” said Lobsang, almost pushing himself off the mat until terrible pain forced him down again. “What the hell is Rule Nineteen? Yes, yes, submit, submit!”

“‘Remember Never to Forget Rule One’,” said Lu-Tze. He released his grip. “And always ask yourself: how come it was created in the first place, eh?”

Lu-Tze got to his feet, and went on: “But you have performed well, all things considered, and therefore as your master I have no hesitation in recommending you for the yellow robe. Besides,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “everyone peeking in here has seen me beat Time and that's the sort of thing that'll look really good on my curriculum vitae, if you catch my meaning. Def'nitely give the o'l Rule One a fillip. Let me give you a hand up.”

He reached down.

Lobsang was about to take the hand when he hesitated. Lu-Tze grinned again, and gently pulled him upright.

“But only one of us can leave, Sweeper,” said Lobsang, rubbing his shoulders.

“Really?” said Lu-Tze. “But playing the game changes the rules. I say the hell with it.”

The remains of the door were pushed aside by the hands of many monks. There was the sound of someone being hit with a rubber yak. “Bikkit!”

“…and the abbot, I believe, is ready to present you with the robe,” said Lu-Tze. “Don't make any comment if he dribbles on it, please.”

They left the dojo and, followed now by every soul in Oi Dong, headed for the long terrace.

It was, Lu-Tze reminisced later, an unusual ceremony. The abbot did not appear overawed, because babies generally aren't and will throw up over anyone. Besides, Lobsang might have been master of the gulfs of time, but the abbot was master of the valley, and therefore respect was a line that travelled in both directions.

But the handing over of the robe had caused a difficult moment.

Lobsang had refused it. It had been left to the chief acolyte to ask why, while the whispered current of surprise washed through the crowd.

“I am not worthy, sir.”

“Lu-Tze has declared that you have completed your apprenticeship, my lo—Lobsang Ludd.”

Lobsang bowed. “Then I will take the broom and the robe of a sweeper, sir.”

This time the current was a tsunami. It crashed over the audience. Heads turned. There were gasps of shock, and one or two nervous laughs. And, from the lines of sweepers who had been allowed to pause in their tasks to watch the event, there was a watchful, intent silence.

The chief acolyte licked his suddenly dehydrated lips.

“But… but… you are the incarnation of Time…”

“In this valley, sir,” said Lobsang firmly, “I am as worthy as a sweeper.”