Thief of Time

mirror with cherubs and roses around it.
    The Death of Rats climbed the frame in a scrabble of claws and looked at Death expectantly from the top. Quoth fluttered over, and pecked briefly at his own reflection, on the basis that anything was worth a try.
    S HOW ME, said Death. S HOW ME…MY THOUGHTS.
    A chessboard appeared, but it was triangular and so big that only the nearest point could be seen. Right on this point was the world—turtle, elephants, the little orbiting sun and all. It was the Discworld, which existed only just this side of total improbability and, therefore, in border country. In border country, the border gets crossed and sometimes things creep into the universe that have rather more on their minds than a better life for their children and a wonderful future in the fruit-picking and domestic-service industries.
    On every other black-and-white triangle of the chessboard, all the way to infinity, was a small gray shape, rather like an empty hooded robe.
    W HY NOW? thought Death.
    He recognized them. They were not life-forms. They were…nonlife-forms. They were the observers of the operation of the universe, its clerks, its auditors. They saw to it that things spun and rocks fell.
    And they believed that for a thing to exist it had to have a position in time and space. Humanity had arrived as a nasty shock. Humanity practically was things that didn’t have a position in time and space, such as imagination, pity, hope, history, and belief. Take those away and all you had was an ape that fell out of trees a lot.
    Intelligent life was, therefore, an anomaly. It made the filing untidy. The Auditors hated things like that. Periodically, they tried to tidy things up a little.
    A year ago astronomers across the Discworld had been puzzled to see the stars gently wheel across the sky as the world-turtle executed a roll. The thickness of the world never allowed them to see why, but Great A’Tuin’s ancient head had snaked out and down and had snapped right out of the sky the speeding asteroid that would, had it hit, have meant that no one would ever have needed to buy a diary ever again.
    No, the world could take care of obvious threats like that. So now the gray robes preferred more subtle, cowardly skirmishes, in their endless desire for a universe where nothing happened that was not completely predictable.
    The buttered side–down effect was only a trivial but telling indicator. It showed an increase in activity. Give up, was their eternal message. Go back to being blobs in the ocean. Blobs were easy.
    But the great game went on at many levels, Death knew. And often it was hardly possible to know who was playing.
    E VERY CAUSE HAS ITS EFFECT , he said aloud. S O EVERY EFFECT HAS ITS CAUSE.
    He nodded at the Death of Rats.
    S HOW ME, said Death. S HOW ME…A BEGINNING.
    Tick
    It was a bitter winter’s night. The man hammered on the back door, sending snow sliding off the roof.
    The girl, who had been admiring her new hat in the mirror, tweaked the already low neckline of her dress for slightly more exposure, just in case the caller was male, and went and opened the door.
    A figure was outlined against the freezing starlight. Flakes were already building up on his cloak.
    “Mrs. Ogg? The midwife?” he said.
    “It’s Miss, actually,” she said proudly. “And witch, too, o’course.” She indicated her new, black, pointy hat. She was still at the stage of wearing it in the house.
    “You must come at once. It’s very urgent.”
    The girl looked suddenly panic-stricken. “Is it Mrs. Weaver? I didn’t reckon she was due for another couple of we—”
    “I have come a long way,” said the figure. “They say you are the best in the world.”
    “What? Me? I’ve only delivered one!” said Miss Ogg, now looking hunted. “Biddy Spective is a lot more experienced than me! And old Minnie Forthwright! Mrs. Weaver was going to be my first solo, ’cos she’s built like a wardro—”
    “I do beg your pardon. I will not trespass further on your time.”
    The stranger retreated into the flake-speckled shadows.
    “Hello?” said Miss Ogg. “Hello?”
    But there was nothing there, except footprints. Which stopped in the middle of the snow-covered path…
    Tick
    There was a hammering on the door. Mrs. Ogg put down the child that had been sitting on her knee, and went and raised the latch.
    A dark figure stood outlined against the warm summer-evening sky, and there was something strange about its