Thief of Time

The Auditor lay on its back, mouth open. Occasionally it made a weak little noise, like the whimper of a gnat.

“Try again, Mr—”

“Dark Avocado, Mr White.”

“Is that a real colour?”

“Yes, Mr White!” said Mr Dark Avocado, who wasn't entirely sure that it was.

“Try again, then, Mr Dark Avocado.”

Mr Dark Avocado, with great reluctance, reached down towards the supine figure's mouth. His fingers were a few inches away when, apparently of its own volition, the figure's left hand moved in a blur and gripped them. There was a crackle of bone.

“I feel extreme pain, Mr White.”

“What is in its mouth, Mr Dark Avocado?”

“It appears to be cooked fermented grain product, Mr White. The extreme pain is continuing.”

“A foodstuff?”

“Yes, Mr White. The sensations of pain are really quite noticeable at this point.”

“Did I not give an order that there should be no eating or drinking or unnecessary experimentation with sensory apparatus?”

“Indeed you did, Mr White. The sensation known as extreme pain, which I mentioned previously, is now really quite acute. What shall I do now?”

The concept of “orders” was yet another new and intensely unfamiliar one for any Auditor. They were used to decisions by committee, reached only when the possibilities of doing nothing whatsoever about the matter in question had been exhausted. Decisions made by everyone were decisions made by no one, which therefore precluded any possibility of blame.

But the bodies understood orders. This was clearly something that made humans human, and so the Auditors went along with it in a spirit of investigation. There was no choice, in any case. All kinds of sensations arose when they were given instructions by a man holding an edged weapon. It was surprising how smoothly the impulse to consult and discuss metamorphosed into a pressing desire to do what the weapon said.

“Can you not persuade him to let go of your hand?”

“He appears to be unconscious, Mr White. His eyes are bloodshot. He is making a little sighing noise. Yet the body seems determined that the bread should not be removed. Could I raise again the issue of the unbearable pain?”

Mr White signalled to two other Auditors. With considerable effort, they pried Mr Dark Avocado's fingers loose.

“This is something we will have to learn more about,” said Mr White. “The renegade spoke of it. Mr Dark Avocado?”

“Yes, Mr White?”

“Do the sensations of pain persist?”

“My hand feels both hot and cold, Mr White.”

“How strange,” said Mr White. “I see that we will need to investigate pain in greater depth.” Mr Dark Avocado found that a little voice in the back of his head screamed at the thought of this, while Mr White went on: “What other foodstuffs are there?”

“We know the names of three thousand, seven hundred and nineteen foods,” said Mr Indigo-Violet, stepping forward. He had become the expert on such matters, and this was another new thing for the Auditors. They had never had experts before. What one knew, all knew. Knowing something that others did not know marked one as, in a small way, an individual. Individuals could die. But it also gave you power and value, which meant that you might not die quite so easily. It was a lot to deal with, and like some of the other Auditors he was already assembling a number of facial tics and twitches as his mind tried to cope.

“Name one,” said Mr White.

“Cheese,” said Mr Indigo-Violet smartly. “It is rotted bovine lactation.”

“We will find some cheese,” said Mr White.

Three Auditors went past.

Susan peered out of a doorway. “Are you sure we're going the right way?” she said. “We're leaving the city centre.”

“This is the way I should be going,” said Lobsang.

“All right, but I don't like these narrow streets. I don't like hiding. I'm not a hiding kind of person.”

“Yes, I've noticed.”

“What's that place ahead?”

“That's the back of the Royal Art Museum. Broad Way's on the other side,” said Lobsang. “And that's the way we need to go.”

“You know your way around, for a man from the mountains.”

“I grew up here. I know five different ways to break into the museum, too. I used to be a thief.”

“I used to be able to walk through the walls,” said Susan. “Can't seem to do it with time stopped. I think the power gets cancelled out somehow.”

“You could really walk through a solid wall?”

“Yes. It's a family tradition,” Susan snapped. “Come on, let's go through the museum. At least no one moves about much in there at the best of times.”

Ankh-Morpork had not had a king for many centuries, but palaces tend to survive. A city might not need a king, but it can always use big rooms and some handy large walls, long after the monarchy is but a memory and the building is renamed the Glorious Memorial to the People's Industry.

Besides, although the last king of the city was no oil painting himself—especially when he'd been beheaded, after which no one looks their best, not even a short king—it was generally agreed that he had amassed some pretty good works of art. Even the common people of the city had a keen eye for works like Caravati's Three Large Pink Women and One Piece of Gauze or Mauvaise's Man with Big Figleaf and, besides, a city with a history the length of Ankh-Morpork's accumulated all kinds of artistic debris, and in order to prevent congestion in the streets it needed some sort of civic attic in which to store it. And thus, at little more cost than a few miles of plush red rope and a few old men in uniform to give directions to Three Large Pink Women and One Piece of Gauze, the Royal Art Museum was born.

Lobsang and Susan hurried through the silent halls. As with Fidgett's, it was hard to know if time had stopped here. Its passage was barely perceptible in any case. The monks at Oi Dong considered it a valuable resource.

Susan stopped and turned to look up at a huge, gilt-framed picture that occupied one whole wall of a lengthy corridor, and said, quietly: “Oh…”

“What is it?”

“The Battle of Ar-Gash, by Blitzt,” said Susan.

Lobsang looked at the flaking, uncleaned paint and the yellow-brown varnish. The colours had faded to a dozen shades of mud, but something violent and evil shone through.

“Is that meant to be Hell?” he said.

“No, it was an ancient city in Klatch, thousands of years ago,” said Susan. “But Grandfather did say that men made it Hell. Blitzt went mad when he painted it.”

“Er, he did good storm clouds, though,” said Lobsang, swallowing. “Wonderful, er, light…”

“Look at what's coming out of the clouds,” said Susan.

Lobsang squinted into the crusted cumulus and fossilized lightning.

“Oh, yes. The Four Horsemen. You often get them in—”

“Count again,” said Susan.

Lobsang stared. “There's two—”

“Don't be silly, there's fi—” she began, and then followed his gaze. He hadn't been interested in the