Thief of Time by Terry Pratchett Read Free Book Online

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 thesame 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 am looking for the one they call Lu-Tze,” said the boy. “Personally, I don’t think he really exists.”
    “I’ve got glaciation,” said Lu-Tze, ignoring this. “At last. See, master? It’s only an inch long, but already it’s carving its own little valley. Magnificent, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, yes, very good,” said the novice, being kind to an underling. “Isn’t this the garden of Lu-Tze?”
    “You mean, Lu-Tze who is famous for his bonsai mountains?”
    The novice looked from the line of