Thief of Time

thur.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeth, thur. I underthtand the mob mithtook him for Thcreaming Doctor Berthserk, 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 thhop, thur?”
    “Did he?”
    “Not conventionally tho, thur.”
    “You mean he was mad, too?”
    “Ah. Well, he did have hith little wayth, I mutht admit, but an Igor never patheth judgment 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. Up 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!”
    “That’th 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 will 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 workbench 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 a calendar on the wall, which added a splash of color. Admittedly, it was from the Acid Bath and Restraint Co., in Ugli, and the color 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 a 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 re-created 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 mountain grow to no more than six inches high.
    The cherry trees were still in bloom. They always were in bloom, here. A gong rang, somewhere back in the temple. A flock of white doves took off from the monastery roof.
    A shadow fell over the mountain.
    Lu-Tze glanced at the person who had entered the garden. He made the perfunctory symbol of servitude to the rather annoyed-looking boy in the novice’s robe.
    “Yes, master?” he said.
    “I