Thief of Time

Lobsang laughed. Lu-Tze grinned wider. Lobsang laughed louder, and lowered himself to the mat.

The blows came out of nowhere. They caught him in the stomach, on the back of his neck, in the small of his back and swept his legs from under him. He landed on his stomach, with Lu-Tze pinning him down in the Straddle of the Fish. The only way to get out of that was to dislocate your own shoulders.

There was a sort of collective sigh from the hidden watchers.

“Deja-fu!”

“What?” said Lobsang, into the mat. “You said none of the monks knew deja- fu!”

“I never taught it to 'em, that's why!” said Lu-Tze. “Promise not to harm me, would you? Thank you so very much! Submit?”

“You never told me you knew it!” Lu-Tze's knees, rammed into the secret pressure points, were turning Lobsang's arms into powerless lumps of flesh.

“I may be old but I'm not daft!” Lu-Tze shouted. “You don't think I'd give away a trick like that, do you?”

“That's not fair—”

Lu-Tze leaned down until his mouth was an inch from Lobsang's ear.

“Didn't say ‘fair’ on the box, lad. But you can win, you know. You could turn me into dust, just like that. How could I stop Time?”

“I can't do that!”

“You mean you won't, and we both know it. Submit?”

Lobsang could feel parts of his body trying to shut themselves down. His shoulders were on fire. I can discarnate, he thought. Yes, I can, I could turn him to dust with a thought. And lose. I'd walk out and he'd be dead and I'd have lost.

“Nothing to worry about, lad,” said Lu-Tze, calmly now. “You just forgot Rule Nineteen. Submit?”

“Rule Nineteen?” said Lobsang, almost pushing himself off the mat until terrible pain forced him down again. “What the hell is Rule Nineteen? Yes, yes, submit, submit!”

“‘Remember Never to Forget Rule One’,” said Lu-Tze. He released his grip. “And always ask yourself: how come it was created in the first place, eh?”

Lu-Tze got to his feet, and went on: “But you have performed well, all things considered, and therefore as your master I have no hesitation in recommending you for the yellow robe. Besides,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “everyone peeking in here has seen me beat Time and that's the sort of thing that'll look really good on my curriculum vitae, if you catch my meaning. Def'nitely give the o'l Rule One a fillip. Let me give you a hand up.”

He reached down.

Lobsang was about to take the hand when he hesitated. Lu-Tze grinned again, and gently pulled him upright.

“But only one of us can leave, Sweeper,” said Lobsang, rubbing his shoulders.

“Really?” said Lu-Tze. “But playing the game changes the rules. I say the hell with it.”

The remains of the door were pushed aside by the hands of many monks. There was the sound of someone being hit with a rubber yak. “Bikkit!”

“…and the abbot, I believe, is ready to present you with the robe,” said Lu-Tze. “Don't make any comment if he dribbles on it, please.”

They left the dojo and, followed now by every soul in Oi Dong, headed for the long terrace.

It was, Lu-Tze reminisced later, an unusual ceremony. The abbot did not appear overawed, because babies generally aren't and will throw up over anyone. Besides, Lobsang might have been master of the gulfs of time, but the abbot was master of the valley, and therefore respect was a line that travelled in both directions.

But the handing over of the robe had caused a difficult moment.

Lobsang had refused it. It had been left to the chief acolyte to ask why, while the whispered current of surprise washed through the crowd.

“I am not worthy, sir.”

“Lu-Tze has declared that you have completed your apprenticeship, my lo—Lobsang Ludd.”

Lobsang bowed. “Then I will take the broom and the robe of a sweeper, sir.”

This time the current was a tsunami. It crashed over the audience. Heads turned. There were gasps of shock, and one or two nervous laughs. And, from the lines of sweepers who had been allowed to pause in their tasks to watch the event, there was a watchful, intent silence.

The chief acolyte licked his suddenly dehydrated lips.

“But… but… you are the incarnation of Time…”

“In this valley, sir,” said Lobsang firmly, “I am as worthy as a sweeper.”

The chief acolyte looked around, but there was no help anywhere. The other senior members of the monastery had no wish to share in the huge pink cloud of embarrassment. The abbot merely blew bubbles, and grinned the inward knowing grin of all babies everywhere.

“Do we have any… uh… do we present sweepers with… do we by any chance…?” the acolyte mumbled.

Lu-Tze stepped up behind him. “Can I be of any help, your acolytility?” he said, with a sort of mad keen subservience that was quite alien to his normal attitude.

“Lu-Tze? Ah…er…yes…er…”

“I could fetch a nearly new robe, sir, and the lad can have my old broom if you'll sign a chitty for me to get a new one from stores, sir,” said Lu-Tze, sweating helpfulness at every pore.

The chief acolyte, drowning well out of his depth, seized on this like a passing lifebelt.

“Oh, would you be so good, Lu-Tze? It is so kind of you…”

Lu-Tze vanished in a blur of helpful speed that, once again, quite surprised those who thought they knew him.

He reappeared with his broom and a robe made white and thin with frequent bashings on the stones by the river. He solemnly handed them over to the chief acolyte.

“Er, uh, thank you, er, is there a special ceremony for the, for the, er, for… er…” the man burbled.

“Very simple one, sir,” said Lu-Tze, still radiating eagerness. “Wording is quite loose, sir, but generally we say, ‘This is your robe, look after it, it belongs to the monastery,’ sir, and then with the broom we say something like ‘Here's your broom, treat it well, it is your friend, you will be fined if you lose it, remember they do not grow on trees,’ sir.”

“Er, um, uh,” the chief acolyte murmured. “And does the abbot—?”

“Oh no, the abbot would not make a presentation to a sweeper,” said Lobsang quickly.

“Lu-Tze, who does the, er, does, uh, does the…”

“It's generally done by a senior sweeper, your acolytility.”

“Oh? And, er, by some happy chance, er, do you happen to be—?”

Lu-Tze bobbed a bow. “Oh, yes, sir.”

To the chief acolyte, still floundering in the flood of the turning tide, this was as welcome as the imminent prospect of dry land. He beamed manically.

“I wonder, I wonder, I wonder, then, if you would be so kind, er, then, er, to—”

“Happy to, sir.” Lu-Tze swung round. “Right now, sir?”

“Oh, please, yes!”

“Right you are. Step forward, Lobsang Ludd!”

“Yes, Sweeper!”

Lu-Tze held out the worn robe and the elderly broom. “Broom! Robe! Do not lose them, we are not made of money!” he announced.

“I thank you for them,” said Lobsang. “I am honoured.”

Lobsang bowed. Lu-Tze bowed. With their heads close together and at the same height, Lu-Tze hissed, “Very surprising.”

“Thank you.”

“Nicely mythic, the whole thing, definitely one for the scrolls, but bordering on smug. Do not try it