Thief of Time

through the walls,” said Susan. “Can’t seem to do it with time stopped. I think the power gets canceled out somehow.”
    “You could really walk through a solid wall?”
    “Yes. It’s a family tradition,” Susan snapped. “Come on…let’s go through the museum. At least no one moves about much in there at the best of times.”
    Ankh-Morpork had not had a king for many centuries, but palaces tend to survive. A city might not need a king, but it can always use big rooms and some handy large walls, long after the monarchy is but a memory and the building is renamed The Glorious Memorial To The People’s Industry.
    Although the last king of the city was no oil painting himself—especially when he’d been beheaded, after which no one looks at their best, not even a short king—it was generally agreed that he had amassed some pretty good works of art. Even the common people of the city had a keen eye for works like Caravati’s Three Large Pink Women and One Piece of Gauze or Mauvaise’s Man with Big Fig Leaf and, besides, a city with a history the length of Ankh-Morpork’s accumulated all kinds of artistic debris and in order to prevent congestion in the streets needed some sort of civic attic in which to store it. And thus, at little more cost than a few miles of plush red rope and a few old men in uniform to give directions to Three Large Pink Women and One Piece of Gauze , the Royal Art Museum was born.
    Lobsang and Susan hurried through the silent halls. As with Fidgett’s, it was hard to know if time had stopped here. Its passage was barely perceptible in any case. The monks at Oi Dong considered it a valuable resource.
    Susan stopped, turned to look up at a huge gilt-framed picture that occupied one whole wall of a lengthy corridor, and said quietly: “Oh…”
    “What is it?”
    “ The Battle of Ar-Gash , by Blitzt,” said Susan.
    Lobsang looked at the flaking, uncleaned paint and the yellow-brown varnish. The colors had faded to a dozen shades of mud, but something violent and evil shone through.
    “Is that meant to be Hell?” he said.
    “No, it was an ancient city in Klatch, thousands of years ago,” said Susan. “But grandfather did say that men made it Hell. Blitzt went mad when he painted it.”
    “Er…he did good storm clouds, though,” said Lobsang, swallowing. “Wonderful, er, light…”
    “Look at what’s coming out of the clouds,” said Susan.
    Lobsang squinted into the crusted cumulus and fossilized lightning.
    “Oh, yes. The Four Horsemen. You often get them in—”
    “Count again,” said Susan.
    Lobsang stared.
    “There’s two of them…”
    “Don’t be silly, there’s fi—” she began, and then followed his gaze. He hadn’t been interested in the art.
    A couple of Auditors were hurrying away from them, toward the Porcelain Room.
    “They’re running away from us!” said Lobsang. Susan grabbed his hand.
    “Not exactly,” she said. “They always consult! There has to be three of them to do that! And they’ll be back, so come on !”
    She grabbed his hand and towed him into the next gallery.
    There were gray figures at the far end. The pair ran on, past dust-encrusted tapestries and into another huge, ancient room.
    “Ye gods, there’s a picture of three huge pink women with only—” Lobsang began, as he was dragged past.
    “Pay attention, will you? The way to the main door was back there! This place is full of Auditors!”
    “But it’s just an old art gallery! There’s nothing for them here, is there?”
    They slid to a stop on the marble slabs. A wide staircase led up to the next floor.
    “We’ll be trapped up there,” said Lobsang.
    “There’s balconies all around,” said Susan. “Come on!”
    She dragged him up the stairs and through an archway. And stopped.
    The galleries were several storeys high. On the second floor, visitors could look down on to the floor below. And, in the room below, the Auditors were very busy.
    “What the hell are they doing now ?” whispered Lobsang.
    “I think,” said Susan grimly, “that they are appreciating Art.”

    Miss Tangerine was annoyed. Her body kept making strange demands of her, and the work with which she had been entrusted was going so very badly.
    The frame of what once had been Sir Robert Cuspidor’s Waggon Stuck in River was leaning against a wall in front of her. It was empty. The bare canvas was neatly rolled beside it.
    In front of the frame, carefully heaped in order of size,