Read Discworld 26 - The Thief of Time for Free Online Page A

Jeremy began, but the cart was already moving off, with the merry
jingle and tinkle of fragile items.
     
 
  
It started to rain. Jeremy peered at the label on the crate. It was certainly addressed to him, in
a neat round hand, and just above it was the seal with the double-headed bat of Uberwald.
There was no other marking except, near the bottom, the words:
THIS SIDE UP [?this text upside down]
Then the crate started to swear. It was muffled, and in a foreign language, but all swearing
has a certain international content.
'Er ... hello?' said Jeremy.
The crate rocked, and landed on one of the long sides, with extra cursing. There was some
thumping from inside, some louder swearing, and the crate teetered upright again with the
alleged top the right way up.
A piece of board slid aside and a crowbar dropped out and onto the street with a clang. The
voice that had lately been swearing said, 'If you would be tho good?'
Jeremy inserted the bar into a likely-looking crack, and pulled.
The crate sprang apart. He dropped the bar. There was a... a creature inside.
'I don't know,' it said, pulling bits of packing material off itself. 'Eight bloody dayth with no
problemth, and thothe idiotth get it wrong on the doorthtep.' It nodded at Jeremy. 'Good
morning, thur. I thuppothe you are Mithter Jeremy?'
'Yes, but-'
'My name ith Igor, thur. My credentialth, thur.'
A hand like an industrial accident held together with stitches thrust a sheaf of papers towards
Jeremy. He recoiled instinctively, and then felt embarrassed and took them.
'I think there has been a mistake,' he said.
'No, no mithtake,' said Igor, pulling a carpet bag out of the ruins of the crate. 'You need an
athithtant. And when it cometh to athithtantth, you cannot go wrong with an Igor. Everyone
knowth that. Could we go in out of the rain, thur? It maketh my kneeth rutht.'
'But I don't need an assist-' Jeremy began, but that was wrong, wasn't it? He just couldn't keep
assistants. They always left within a week.
'Morning, sir!' said a cheery voice.
Another cart had pulled up. This one was painted a gleaming, hygienic white and was full of
milk churns, and had 'Ronald Soak, Dairyman' painted on the side. Distracted, Jeremy looked
up at the beaming face of Mr Soak, who was holding a bottle of milk in each hand.
'One pint, squire, as per usual. And perhaps another one if you've got company?'
     
 
  
'Er, er, er ... yes, thank you.'
'And the yoghurt is particularly fine this week, squire,' said Mr Soak encouragingly.
'Er, er, I think not, Mr Soak.'
'Need any eggs, cream, butter, buttermilk or cheese?'
'Not as such, Mr Soak.'
'Right you are, then,' said Mr Soak, unabashed. 'See you tomorrow, then.'
'Er, yes,' said Jeremy, as the cart moved on. Mr Soak was a friend, which in Jeremy's limited
social vocabulary meant 'someone I speak to once or twice a week'. He approved of the
milkman, because he was regular and punctual and had the bottles at the doorstep every
morning on the stroke of 7a.m. 'Er, er ... goodbye,' he said.
He turned to Igor.
'How did you know I needed-' he tried. But the strange man had gone indoors, and a frantic
Jeremy tracked him down in the workshop.
'Oh yeth, very nithe,' said Igor, who was taking it all in with the air of a connoisseur. 'Thatth a
Turnball Mk3 micro-lathe, ithn't it? I thaw it in their catalogue. Very nithe indee-'
'I didn't ask anyone for an assistant!' said Jeremy. 'Who sent you?'
'We are Igorth, thur.'
'Yes, you said! Look, I don't-'
'No, thur. “We R Igorth”, thur. The organithathion, thur.'
'What organization?'
'For plathementth, thur. You thee, thur, the thing ith ... an Igor often findth himthelf between
marthterth through no fault of hith own, you thee. And on the other hand-'
'-you have two thumbs,' breathed Jeremy, who had just noticed and couldn't stop himself.
'Two on each hand.!'
'Oh, yeth thur, very handy,' said Igor, not even glancing down. 'On the other hand