Thief of Time - Terry Pratchett [130]
“What are you going to do now?” she said.
“I do not know.”
“Well, if I can help in any way…”
It was, she realized later, one of those phrases like “how are you?” People were supposed to understand that it wasn’t a real question. But Unity hadn’t learned that, either.
“Thank you. You can, indeed, help. I wish to do something human.”
“Uh, fine, if—”
“I wish to die.”
And, galloping out of the sunset, some riders were approaching.
Tick
Small fires burned in the rubble, brightening the night. Most of the house had been completely destroyed, although, Soto considered, the word “shredded” was much more accurate.
He was sitting by the side of the street, watching carefully, with his begging bowl in front of him. There were, of course, far more interesting and complex ways for a history monk to avoid being noticed, but he’d adopted the begging-bowl method ever since Lu-Tze had shown him that people never see anyone who wants them to give him money.
He’d watched the rescuers drag the bodies out of the house. Initially, they’d thought that one of them had been hideously mutilated in the explosion, until it had sat up and explained that it was an Igor and in very good shape for an Igor, thank you very much. The other he’d recognized as Dr. Hopkins of the Guild of Clockmakers, who was miraculously unharmed.
Soto did not believe in miracles, however. He was also suspicious about the fact that the ruined house was full of oranges, that Dr. Hopkins was babbling about getting sunlight out of them, and that his sparkling little abacus was telling him that something enormous had happened.
He decided to make a report and see what the boys at Oi Dong said.
Soto picked up the bowl and set off through the network of alleys back to his base. He didn’t bother much about concealment now; Lu-Tze’s time in the city had been a process of accelerated education for many citizens of the lurking variety. The people of Ankh-Morpork knew all about Rule One.
At least, they had known up until now. Three figures lurched out of the dark, and one of them swung a length of wood that would have connected with Soto’s head if he hadn’t ducked.
He was used to this sort of thing, of course. There was always the occasional slow learner, but they presented no peril that a neat slice couldn’t handle.
He straightened up, ready to ease his way out of there, and a thick lock of black hair fell onto his shoulder, slithered down his robe, and flopped onto the ground. It made barely a sound, but the expression on his face, as Soto looked down and then up at his attackers, made them draw back.
He could see through the blood-red rage that they all wore stained gray clothes and looked even crazier than the usual alley people; they looked like accountants gone mad.
One of them reached out toward the begging bowl.
Everyone has a conditional clause in their life, some little unspoken addition to the rules like, “Except when I really need to,” or “Unless no one is looking,” or, indeed, “Unless the first one was nougat.” Soto had for centuries embraced a belief in the sanctity of all life and the ultimate uselessness of violence, but his personal conditional clause was, “But not the hair. No one touches the hair, okay?”
Even so, everyone ought to have a chance.
The attackers recoiled as he threw the bowl against the wall, where the hidden blades buried themselves in the woodwork.
Then it began to tick.
Soto ran back down the alley, skidded around the corner, and then shouted, “Duck!”
Unfortunately for the Auditors, alas, he was just a tiny, tiny fraction of a second too late—
Tick
Lu-Tze was in his Garden of Five Surprises when the air sparkled and fragmented and swirled into a shape in front of him.
He looked up from his ministrations to the yodeling stick insect, who’d been off its food.
Lobsang stood on the path. The boy was wearing a black robe dotted with stars, which blew and rattled its rags around