Thief of Time

It was like walking in sunsets, although the sun was fixed high in the sky and barely moved. The world ahead shaded towards violet, and the world behind, when Lobsang looked round, was the shade of old blood. And it was lonely. But the worst of it, Lobsang realized, was the silence. There was noise, of a sort, but it was just a deep sizzle at the edge of hearing. His footsteps sounded strange and muffled, and the sound arrived in his ears out of sync with the tread of his feet.

They reached the edge of the valley and stepped out of the perpetual springtime into the real world of the snows. Now the cold crept in, slowly, like a sadist's knife.

Lu-Tze strode on ahead, seemingly oblivious of it.

Of course, that was one of the stories about him. Lu-Tze, it was said, would walk for miles during weather when the clouds themselves would freeze and crash out of the sky. Cold did not affect him, they said.

And yet—

In the stories Lu-Tze had been bigger, stronger… not a skinny little bald man who preferred not to fight.

“Sweeper!”

Lu-Tze stopped and turned. His outline blurred slightly, and Lobsang unwrapped himself from time. Colour came back into the world, and while the cold ceased to have the force of a drill it still struck hard.

“Yes, lad?”

“You're going to teach me, right?”

“If there's anything left that you don't know, wonder boy,” said Lu-Tze drily. “You're slicing well, I can see that.”

“I don't know how you can stand this cold!”

“Ah, you don't know the secret?”

“Is it the Way of Mrs Cosmopilite that gives you such power?”

Lu-Tze hitched up his robe and did a little dance in the snow, revealing skinny legs encased in thick, yellowing tubes.

“Very good, very good,” he said. “She still sends me these double-knit combinations, silk on the inside, then three layers of wool, reinforced gussets and a couple of handy trapdoors. Very reasonably priced at six dollars a pair because I'm an old customer. For it is written, ‘Wrap up warm or you'll catch your death.’”

“It's just a trick?”

Lu-Tze looked surprised. “What?” he said.

“Well, I mean, it's all tricks, isn't it? Everyone thinks you're a great hero and… you don't fight, and they think you possess all kinds of strange knowledge and… and it's just… tricking people. Isn't it? Even the abbot? I thought you were going to teach me… things worth knowing…”

“I've got her address, if that's what you want. If you mention my name—Oh. I see you don't mean that, right?”

“I don't want to be ungrateful I just thought—”

“You thought I should use mysterious powers derived from a lifetime of study just to keep my legs warm? Eh?”

“Well—”

“Debase the sacred teachings for the sake of my knees, you think?”

“If you put it like that—”

Then something made Lobsang look down.

He was standing in six inches of snow. Lu-Tze was not. His sandals were standing in two puddles. The ice was melting away around his toes. His pink, warm toes.

“Toes, now, that's another matter,” said the sweeper. “Mrs Cosmopilite is a wizard with longjohns, but she can't turn a heel worth a damn.” Lobsang looked up into a wink. “Always remember Rule One, eh?”

Lu-Tze patted the shaken boy on the arm. “But you're doing well” he said. “Let's have a quiet sit down and a brew-up.” He pointed to some rocks, which at least offered some protection from the wind; snow had piled up against them in big white mounds.

“Lu-Tze?”

“Yes, lad?”

“I've got a question. Can you give me a straight answer?”

“I'll try, of course.”

“What the hell is going on?”

Lu-Tze brushed the snow off a rock.

“Oh,” he said. “One of the difficult questions.”

Tick

Igor had to admit it. When it came to getting weird things done, sane beat mad hands down.

He'd been used to masters who, despite doing wonderful handstands on the edge of the mental catastrophe curve, couldn't put their own trousers on without a map. Like all Igors, he'd learned how to deal with them. In truth, it wasn't a difficult job (although sometimes you had to work the graveyard shift) and once you got them settled into their routine you could get on with your own work and they wouldn't bother you until the lightning rod needed raising.

It wasn't like that with Jeremy. He was truly a man you could set your watch by. Igor had never seen a life so organized, so slimmed down, so timed. He found himself thinking of his new master as the tick-tock man.

One of Igors former masters had made a tick-tock man, all levers and gearwheels and cranks and clockwork. Instead of a brain, it had a long tape punched with holes. Instead of a heart, it had a big spring. Provided everything in the kitchen was very carefully positioned, the thing could sweep the floor and make a passable cup of tea. If everything wasn't carefully positioned, or if the ticking, clicking thing hit an unexpected bump, then it'd strip the plaster off the walls and make a furious cup of cat.