Thief of Time

pair of fighters whirled past, arms and legs blurring as each sought an opening, paring time into thinner and thinner slivers—
    “You! Sweeper!”
    He looked around, but the shout had been directed at Lu-Tze. A ting , only just elevated to the Third Djim by the fresh look of his belt, was advancing on the little man, his face red with fury.
    “What for are you coming in here, cleaner of filth? This is forbidden!”
    Lu-Tze’s little smile didn’t change. But he reached in his robe and brought out a small bag.
    “’S a shortcut,” he said. He pulled a pinch of tobacco and, while the ting loomed over him, began to roll a cigarette. “And there’s dirt everywhere, too. I’ll certainly have a word with the man who does this floor.”
    “How dare you insult!” screamed the monk. “Back to the kitchens with you, sweeper!”
    Cowering behind Lu-Tze, Lobsang realized that the entire dojo had stopped to watch this. One or two of the monks were whispering to one another. The man in the brown robe of the dojo master was watching impassively from his chair, with his chin on his hand.
    With great patience and infuriating delicacy, like a samurai arranging flowers, Lu-Tze marshaled the shreds of tobacco in the flimsy cigarette paper.
    “No, I reckon I’ll go out of that door over there, if you don’t mind,” he said.
    “Impudence! Then you are ready to fight, enemy of dust?” The man leapt back and raised his hands to form the Combat of the Hake. He spun around and planted a kick on a heavy leather sack, hitting it so hard that its supporting chain broke. Then he was back to face Lu-Tze, hands now held in the Advancement of the Snake.
    “Ai! Shao! Hai-eee—” he began.
    The dojo master stood up.
    “Hold!” he commanded. “Do you not want to know the name of the man you are about to destroy?”
    The fighter held his stance, glaring at Lu-Tze.
    “I don’t need to know name of sweeper,” he said.
    Lu-Tze rolled the cigarette into a skinny cylinder and winked at the angry man, which only stoked the anger.
    “It is always wise to know the name of a sweeper, boy,” said the dojo master. “And my question was not addressed to you.”
    Tick
    Jeremy stared at his bedsheets.
    They were covered in writing. His own handwriting.
    It trailed across the pillow and onto the wall. There were sketches, too, scored deeply into the plaster.
    He found his pencil under the bed. He’d even sharpened it. In his sleep, he’d sharpened a pencil! And by the look of it, he’d been writing and drawing for hours.
    Trying to draw a dream.
    With, down one side of his eiderdown, a list of parts.
    It had all made absolute sense when he’d seen it, like a hammer or a stick or Wheelbright’s Gravity Escapement. It had been like meeting an old friend. And now…he stared at the scrawled lines. He’d been writing so fast he’d ignored punctuation and some of the letters, too. But he could see some sense in there.
    He’d heard of this sort of thing. Great inventions sometimes did arise from dreams and daydreams. Didn’t Hepzibah Whitlow have the idea of the adjustable pendulum clock as a result of his work as the public hangman? Didn’t Wilframe Balderton always say that the idea for the Fish Tail Escapement came after he’d eaten too much lobster?
    Yes, it had all been so clear in the dream. By daylight, it needed a bit more work.
    There was a clatter of dishes from the little kitchen behind his workshop. He hurried down, dragging the sheet behind him.
    “I usually have—” he began.
    “—toatht, thur,” said Igor, turning away from the range. “Lightly browned, I thuthpect.”
    “How did you know that?”
    “An Igor learnth to antithipate, thur,” said Igor. “What a wonderful little kitchen, thur. I’ve never theen a drawer marked ‘Thpoonth’ which jutht hath thpoonth in it.”
    “Are you any good at working with glass, Igor?” said Jeremy, ignoring this.
    “No, thur,” said Igor, buttering the toast.
    “You’re not?”
    “No, thur. I am bloody amathing at it, thur. Many of my marthterth had needed… thpethial apparatuth not readily obtainable elthwhere, thur. What wath it you wanted?”
    “How would we go about building this ?”
    Jeremy spread the sheet on the table.
    The slice of toast dropped from Igor’s black-nailed fingers.
    “Is there something wrong?” said Jeremy.
    “I thought thomeone wath walking over my grave, thur,” said Igor, still looking shocked.
    “Er…you haven’t