Thief of Time

“Fascinating,” said Dr Hopkins, reflecting that it could be worse. “Mm… is it me, or is there a rather… sharp smell in the air?”

“Drains,” said Jeremy. “We've been cleaning them. With acid. Which is what we needed the acid for. For cleaning the drains.”

“Drains, eh?” Dr Hopkins blinked. He wasn't at home in the world of drains. There was a crackling sound and blue light flickered under the door of the kitchen.

“Your, mm, man Igor,” he said. “All right, is he?”

“Yes, thank you, doctor. He's from Uberwald, you know.”

“Oh. Very… big, Uberwald. Very big country.” That was one of only two things Dr Hopkins knew about Uberwald. He coughed nervously, and mentioned the other one. “People there can be a bit strange, I've heard.”

“Igor says he's never had anything to do with that kind of person,” said Jeremy calmly.

“Good. Good. That is good,” said the doctor. Jeremy's fixed smile was beginning to unnerve him. “He, mm, seems to have a lot of scars and stitches.”

“Yes. It's cultural.”

“Cultural, is it?” Dr Hopkins looked relieved. He was a man who tried to see the best in everybody, but the city had got rather complicated since he was a boy, with dwarfs and trolls and golems and even zombies. He wasn't sure he liked everything that was happening, but a lot of it was “cultural”, apparently, and you couldn't object to that, so he didn't. “Cultural” sort of solved problems by explaining that they weren't really there.

The light under the door went out. A moment later Igor came in with two cups of tea on a tray.

It was good tea, the doctor had to admit, but the acid in the air was making his eyes water.

“So, mm, how is the work on the new navigation tables going?” he said.

“Ginger bithcuit, thur?” said Igor, by his ear.

“Oh, er, yes… Oh, I say, these are rather good, Mr Igor.”

“Take two, thur.”

“Thank you.” Now Dr Hopkins sprayed crumbs as he spoke. “The navigation tables—” he repeated.

“I am afraid I have not been able to make very much progress,” said Jeremy. “I have been engaged on the properties of crystals.”

“Oh. Yes. You said. Well, of course we are very grateful for any time that you feel you can spare,” said Dr Hopkins. “And if I may say so, mm, it is good to see you with a new interest. Too much concentration on one thing is, mm, conducive to ill humours of the brain.”

“I have medicine,” said Jeremy.

“Yes, of course. Er, as a matter of fact, since I happened to be going past the apothecary today…” Dr Hopkins pulled a large, paper-wrapped bottle out of his pocket.

“Thank you.” Jeremy indicated the shelf behind him. “As you can see, I have nearly run out.”

“Yes, I thought you might,” said Dr Hopkins, as if the level of the bottle on Jeremy's shelf wasn't something the clockmakers kept a very careful eye on. “Well, I shall be going, then. Well done with the crystals. I used to collect butterflies when I was a boy. Wonderful things, hobbies. Give me a killing jar and a net and I was as happy as a little lark.”

Jeremy still smiled at him. There was something glassy about the smile.

Dr Hopkins swallowed the remainder of his tea and put the cup back in the saucer.

“And now I really must be on my way,” he mumbled. “So much to do. Don't wish to keep you from your work. Crystals, eh? Wonderful things. So pretty.”

“Are they?” said Jeremy. He hesitated, as though he was trying to solve a minor problem. “Oh, yes. Patterns of light.”

“Twinkly,” said Dr Hopkins.

Igor was waiting by the street door when Dr Hopkins reached it. He nodded.

“Mm… you are sure about the medicine?” the doctor said quietly.

“Oh yeth, thur. Twithe a day I watch him pour out a thpoonful.”

“Oh, good. He can be a little, er… sometimes he doesn't get on well with people.”

“Yeth, thur?”

“Very, um, very particular about accuracy…”

“Yeth, thur.”

“…which is a good thing, of course. Wonderful thing, accuracy,” said Dr Hopkins, and sniffed. “Up to a point, of course. Well, good day to you.”

“Good day, thur.”

When Igor returned to the workshop Jeremy was carefully pouring the blue medicine into a spoon. When the spoon was exactly full, he tipped it into the sink. “They check, you know,” he said. “They think I don't notice.”

“I'm thure they mean well, thur.”

“I'm afraid I can't think so well when I take the medicine,” he said. “In fact I think I'm getting on a lot better without it, don't you? It slows me down.”

Igor took refuge in silence. In his experience, many of the world's greatest discoveries were made by men who would be considered mad by conventional standards. Insanity depended on your point of view, he always said, and if it was the view through your own underpants then everything looked fine.

But young Master Jeremy was beginning to worry him. He never laughed, and Igor liked a good maniacal laugh. You could trust it. Since giving up the medicine, Jeremy had not, as Igor had expected, begun to gibber and shout things like “Mad! They said I was mad! But I shall show them all! Ahahahaha!” He'd simply become more—focused.