Thief of Time

Never Complain: an Igor would never say “But that'th a thouthand mileth away!”

Never Make Personal Remarks: no Igor would dream of saying anything like “I thould have thomething done about that laugh, if I wath you.”

And never, ever Ask Questions. Admittedly, Igor knew, that meant never ask BIG questions. “Would thur like a cup of tea around now?” was fine, but “What do you need a hundred virginth for?” or “Where do you ecthpect me to find a brain at thith time of night?” was not. An Igor stood for loyal, dependable, discreet service with a smile, or at least a sort of lopsided grin, or possibly just a curved scar in the right place.12

And, therefore, Igor was getting worried. Things were wrong, and when an Igor thinks that, they are really wrong. Great difficulty lay in getting this across to Jeremy without breaking the Code, though. Igor was increasingly ill at ease with someone so clearly stark, staring sane. Nevertheless, he tried.

“Her ladythip will be along again thith morning,” he said, as they watched yet another crystal grow in its solution. And I know you know that, he thought, because you've smoothed your hair down with soap and put on a clean shirt.

“Yes,” said Jeremy. “I wish we had better progress to report. However, I'm sure we're nearly there now.”

“Yeth, that'th very thtrange, ithn't it,” said Igor, seizing the opening.

“Strange, you say?”

“Call me Mithter Thilly, thur, but it theemth to me that we're alwayth on the point of thuctheth when her ladythip payth uth a vithit, but when thee'th gone we ecthperienth new difficultieth.”

“What are you suggesting, Igor?”

“Me, thur? I'm not a thuggethtive perthon, thur. But latht time part of the divider array had cracked.”

“You know I think that was because of dimensional instability!”

“Yeth, thur.”

“Why are you giving me that funny look, Igor?”

Igor shrugged. That is, one shoulder was momentarily as high as the other one. “Goeth with the fathe, thur.”

“She'd hardly pay us so handsomely and then sabotage the project, would she? Why would she do that?”

Igor hesitated. He had his back right up against the Code now.

“I am thtill wondering if thee ith all thee theemth, thur.”

“Sorry? I didn't catch that.”

“I wonder if we can trutht her, thur,” said Igor patiently.

“Oh, go and calibrate the complexity resonator, will you?”

Grumbling, Igor obeyed.

The second time Igor'd followed their benefactor she'd gone to a hotel. Next day she'd headed for a large house in Kings Way, where she'd been met by an oily man who'd made a great play of presenting her with a key. Igor had followed the oleaginous man back to his office in a nearby street where—because there are few things that are kept from a man with a face full of stitches—he'd learned that she'd just bought the lease for a very large bar of gold.

After that, Igor had resorted to an ancient Ankh-Morpork tradition and paid someone to follow her ladyship. There was enough gold in the workshop, heavens knew, and the master took no interest in it.

Lady LeJean went to the opera. Lady LeJean went to art galleries. Lady LeJean was living life to the fullest. Except that Lady LeJean, as far as Igor could determine, never visited restaurants and had no food delivered to the house.

Lady LeJean was up to something. Igor could spot this easily. Lady LeJean also did not appear in Twurp's Peerage or the Almanack de Gothic or any of the other reference books Igor had checked as a matter of course, which meant that she had something to hide. Of course, he had worked for masters who occasionally had a great deal to hide, sometimes in deep holes at midnight. But this situation was morally different for two reasons. Her ladyship wasn't his master, Jeremy was, and that was where his loyalty lay. And Igor had decided it was morally different.

Now he reached the glass clock.

It looked almost complete. Jeremy had designed a mechanism to go behind the face and Igor had got it made up, all in glass. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the other mechanism, which flickered away down behind the pendulum and took up a disconcertingly small amount of room now that it was assembled; quite a few of its parts were no longer sharing the same set of dimensions as the rest of it. But the clock had a face, and a face needed hands, and so the glass pendulum swung and the glass hands moved and told normal, everyday time. The “tick” had a slightly bell-like quality, as though someone were flicking a wineglass with a fingernail.

Igor looked at his hand-me-down hands. They were beginning to worry him. Now that the glass clock looked like a clock, they began to shake every time Igor came near it.

Tick

No one noticed Susan in the library of the Guild of Historians, leafing her way through a pile of books. Occasionally she made a note.