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

there ith no
thortage of people wanting an Igor. Tho my Aunt Igorina runth our thelect little agenthy.'
'For ... lots of Igors?' said Jeremy.
'Oh, there'th a fair number of uth. We're a big family.' Igor handed Jeremy a card.
He read:
     
 
  
We R Igors
'A Spare Hand When Needed'
The Old Rathaus
Bad Schüschein
c-mail: Yethmarthter Uberwald
Jeremy stared at the semaphore address. His normal ignorance of anything that wasn't to do
with clocks did not apply here. He'd been quite interested in the new cross-continent
semaphore system after hearing that it made quite a lot of use of clockwork mechanisms to
speed up the message flow. So you could send a clacks message to hire an Igor? Well, that
explained the speed, at least.
'Rathaus,' he said. 'That means something like a council hall, doesn't it?'
'Normally, thur ... normally,' said Igor reassuringly.
'Do you really have semaphore addresses in Uberwald?'
'Oh, yeth. We are ready to grathp the future with both handth, thur.'
'-and four thumbs-'
'Yeth, thur. We can grathp like anything.'
'And then you mailed yourself here?'
'Thertainly, thur. We Igorth are no thtrangerth to dithcomfort.'
Jeremy looked down at the paperwork he'd been handed, and a name caught his eye.
The top paper was signed. In a way, at least. There was a message in neat capitals, as neat as
printing, and a name at the end.
HE WILL BE USEFUL LEJEAN
He remembered. 'Oh, Lady LeJean is behind this. She had you sent to me?'
'That'th correct, thur.'
Feeling that Igor was expecting more of him, Jeremy made a show of reading through the rest
of what turned out to be references. Some of them were written in what he could only hope
was dried brown ink, one was in crayon, and several were singed around the edges. They
were all fulsome. After a while, though, a certain tendency could be noted amongst the
signatories.
     
 
  
'This one is signed by someone called Mad Doctor Scoop,' he said.
'Oh, he wathn't actually named mad, thur. It wath more like a nickname, ath it were.'
'Was he mad, then?'
'Who can thay, thur?' said Igor calmly.
'And Crazed Baron Haha? It says under Reason for Leaving that he was crushed by a burning
windmill.'
'Cathe of mithtaken identity, thur.'
'Really?'
'Yeth, thur. I underthtand the mob mithtook him for Thcreaming Doctor Bertherk, thur.'
'Oh. Ah, yes.' Jeremy glanced down. 'Who you also worked for, I see.'
'Yeth, thur.'
'And who died of blood poisoning?'
'Yeth, thur. Cauthed by a dirty pitchfork.'
'And... Nipsie the Impaler?'
'Er, would you believe he ran a kebab thop, thur?'
'Did he?'
'Not conventhionally tho, thur.'
'You mean he was mad too?'
'Ah. Well, he did have hith little wayth, I mutht admit, but an Igor never patheth judgement
on hith marthter or mithtreth, thur. That ith the Code of the Igorth, thur,' he added patiently. It
would be a funny old world if we were all alike, thur.'
Jeremy was completely baffled as to his next move. He'd never been very good at talking to
people, and this, apart from Lady LeJean and a wrangle with Mr Soak over an unwanted
cheese, was the longest conversation he'd had for a year. Perhaps it was because it was hard
to think of Igor as coming under the heading of people. 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!'
'Thalth 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'll be down shortly,' he said, and hurried up the
stairs.
Igor's gaze took in the racks of tools. There was not a