Thief of Time

The Old Rathaus

Bad Schuschein

c-mail: Yethmarthter Uberwald

Jeremy stared at the semaphore address. His normal ignorance of anything that wasn't to do with clocks did not apply here. He'd been quite interested in the new cross-continent semaphore system after hearing that it made quite a lot of use of clockwork mechanisms to speed up the message flow. So you could send a clacks message to hire an Igor? Well, that explained the speed, at least.

“Rathaus,” he said. “That means something like a council hall, doesn't it?”

“Normally, thur… normally,” said Igor reassuringly.

“Do you really have semaphore addresses in Uberwald?”

“Oh, yeth. We are ready to grathp the future with both handth, thur.”

“—And four thumbs—”

“Yeth, thur. We can grathp like anything.”

“And then you mailed yourself here?”

“Thertainly, thur. We Igorth are no thtrangerth to dithcomfort.”

Jeremy looked down at the paperwork he'd been handed, and a name caught his eye.

The top paper was signed. In a way, at least. There was a message in neat capitals, as neat as printing, and a name at the end.

HE WILL BE USEFUL

LEJEAN

He remembered. “Oh, Lady LeJean is behind this. She had you sent to me?”

“That'th correct, thur.”

Feeling that Igor was expecting more of him, Jeremy made a show of reading through the rest of what turned out to be references. Some of them were written in what he could only hope was dried brown ink, one was in crayon, and several were singed around the edges. They were all fulsome. After a while, though, a certain tendency could be noted amongst the signatories.

“This one is signed by someone called Mad Doctor Scoop,” he said.

“Oh, he wathn't actually named Mad, thur. It wath more like a nickname, ath it were.”

“Was he mad, then?”

“Who can thay, thur?” said Igor calmly.

“And Crazed Baron Haha? It says under Reason for Leaving that he was crushed by a burning windmill.”

“Cathe of mithtaken identity, thur.”

“Really?”

“Yeth, thur. I underthtand the mob mithtook him for Thcreaming Doctor Bertherk, thur.”

“Oh. Ah, yes.” Jeremy glanced down. “Who you also worked for, I see.”

“Yeth, thur.”

“And who died of blood poisoning?”

“Yeth, thur. Cauthed by a dirty pitchfork.”

“And… Nipsie the Impaler?”

“Er, would you believe he ran a kebab thop, thur?”

“Did he?”

“Not conventhionally tho, thur.”

“You mean he was mad too?”

“Ah. Well, he did have hith little wayth, I mutht admit, but an Igor never patheth judgement on hith marthter or mithtreth, thur. That ith the Code of the Igorth, thur,” he added patiently. “It would be a funny old world if we were all alike, thur.”

Jeremy was completely baffled as to his next move. He'd never been very good at talking to people, and this, apart from Lady LeJean and a wrangle with Mr Soak over an unwanted cheese, was the longest conversation he'd had for a year. Perhaps it was because it was hard to think of Igor as coming under the heading of people. Until now, Jeremy's definition of “people” had not included anyone with more stitches than a handbag.

“I'm not sure I've got any work for you, though,” he said. “I've got a new commission, but I'm not sure how… anyway, I'm not insane!”

“Thalth not compulthory, thur.”

“I've actually got a piece of paper that says I'm not, you know.”

“Well done, thur.”

“Not many people have one of those!”

“Very true, thur.”

“I take medicine, you know.”

“Well done, thur,” said Igor. “I'll jutht go and make thome breakfatht, thall I? While you get drethed… marthter.”

Jeremy clutched at his damp dressing gown. “I'll be down shortly,” he said, and hurried up the stairs.

Igor's gaze took in the racks of tools. There was not a speck of dust on them; the files, hammers and pliers were ranged according to size, and the items on the work bench were positioned with geometrical exactitude.

He pulled open a drawer. Screws were laid in perfect rows.

He looked around at the walls. They were bare, except for the shelves of clocks. This was surprising—even Dribbling Doctor Vibes had had a calendar on the wall, which added a splash of colour. Admittedly it was from the Acid Bath and Restraint Co., in Ugli, and the colour it splashed was mostly red, but at least it showed some recognition of a world outside the four walls.

Igor was puzzled. Igor had never worked for a sane person before. He'd worked for a number of… well, the world called them madmen, and he'd worked for several normal people, in that they only indulged in minor and socially acceptable insanities, but he couldn't recall ever working for a completely sane person.

Obviously, he reasoned, if sticking screws up your nose was madness, then numbering them and keeping them in careful compartments was sanity, which was the opposite—

Ah. No. It wasn't, was it…?

He smiled. He was beginning to feel quite at home already.

Tick

Lu-Tze the sweeper was in his Garden of Five Surprises, carefully cultivating his mountains. His broom leaned against the hedge.

Above him, looming over the temple gardens, the big stone statue of Wen the Eternally Surprised sat with its face locked in its permanent wide-eyed expression of, yes, pleasant surprise.

As a hobby, mountains appeal to those people who in normal circumstances are said to have a great deal of time on their hands. Lu-Tze had no time at all. Time was something that largely happened to other people; he viewed it in the same way that people on the shore viewed the sea. It was big and it was out there, and sometimes it was an invigorating thing to dip a toe into, but you couldn't live in it all the time. Besides, it always made his skin wrinkle.

At the moment, in the never-ending, ever-recreated moment of this peaceful, sunlit little valley, he was fiddling with the little mirrors and shovels and morphic resonators and even stranger devices required to make a