Thief of Time

borrow a broomstick. Quickest way to Ankh-Morpork. Only way to travel.”
    “Isn’t that…er, interfering with history? I mean, I was told that sort of thing is all right up in the valleys, but down here in the world…”
    “No, it’s absolutely forbidden,” said Lu-Tze, “’cos it’s Interfering With History. Got to be careful of your witch, of course. Some of them are pretty canny.” He caught Lobsang’s expression. “Look, that’s why there’s rules, understand? So that you think before you break ’em.”
    “But—”
    Lu-Tze sighed and pinched out the end of his cigarette.
    “We’re being watched,” he said.
    Lobsang spun around. There were only trees, and insects buzzing in the early morning air.
    “Up there,” said Lu-Tze.
    There was a raven perched on the broken crown of a pine tree, shattered in some winter storm. It looked at them looking at it.
    “Caw?” it said.
    “It’s just a raven,” said Lobsang. “There’s lots of them in the valley.”
    “It was watching us when we stopped for tea.”
    “There’s ravens all over the mountains, Sweeper.”
    “And when we met the yeti,” Lu-Tze persisted.
    “That settles it, then. It’s coincidence. One raven couldn’t move that fast.”
    “Maybe it’s a special raven,” said Lu-Tze. “Anyway, it’s not one of our mountain ravens. It’s a lowland raven. Mountain ravens croak. They don’t caw. Why’s it so interested in us?”
    “It’s a bit…weird, thinking you’re being followed by a bird,” said Lobsang.
    “When you get to my age you notice things in the sky,” said Lu-Tze. He shrugged, and gave a grin. “You start worrying they might be vultures.”
    They faded into time, and vanished.
    The raven ruffled its feathers.
    “Croak?” it said. “Damn.”
    Tick
    Lobsang felt around under the thatched eaves of the cottage, and his hand closed on the bristles of a broomstick that had been thrust among the reeds.
    “This is rather like stealing,” he said, as Lu-Tze helped him down.
    “No, it’s not,” said the sweeper, taking the broomstick and holding it up so he could look along its length. “And I’ll tell you why. If we sort things out, we’ll drop it off on our way back and she’ll never know it’s gone…and if we don’t sort things out, well, she’ll still never know it’s gone. Honestly, they don’t take much care of their sticks, witches. Look at the bristles on this one. I wouldn’t use it to clean a pond! Oh, well…back into clock time, lad, I’d hate to fly one of these things while I was slicing…”
    He straddled the stick and gripped the handle. It rose a little way.
    “Good suspension, at least,” he said. “You can have the comfy seat on the back. Hold tight to my own broom and make sure you wrap your robe around you. These things are pretty breezy.”
    Lobsang pulled himself aboard and the stick rose. As it drew level with the lower branches around the clearing, it brought Lu-Tze to eye level with a raven.
    It shifted uneasily and turned its head this way and that, trying to fix both eyes on him.
    “Are you going to caw or croak, I wonder,” said Lu-Tze, apparently to himself.
    “Croak,” said the raven.
    “So you’re not the raven we saw on the other side of the mountain, then.”
    “Me? Gosh, no,” said the raven. “It’s croaking territory over here.”
    “Just checking.”
    The broom rose higher and set off above the trees in a hubward direction.
    The raven ruffled his feathers, and blinked.
    “Damn!” he said. He shuffled around the tree to where the Death of Rats was sitting.
    S QUEAK?
    “Look, if you want me to do this undercover work you’ve got to get me a book on ornithology, okay?” said Quoth. “Let’s go, or I’ll never keep up.”
    Tick
    Death found Famine in a restaurant in Genua. He had a booth all to himself and was eating Duck and Dirty Rice.
    “Oh,” said Famine. “It’s you.”
    Y ES. W E MUST RIDE. Y OU MUST HAVE GOT MY MESSAGE.
    “Pull up a chair,” Famine hissed. “They do a very good alligator sausage here.”
    I SAID, WE MUST RIDE.
    “Why?”
    Death sat down and explained. Famine listened, although he never stopped eating.
    “I see,” he said at last. “Thank you, but I think I shall sit this one out.”
    S IT IT OUT? Y OU’RE A HORSEMAN!
    “Yes, of course. But what is my role here?”
    I BEG YOUR PARDON?
    “No famine appears to be involved, does it? A shortage of food per se? As such?”
    W ELL, NO. N OT AS SUCH,