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mister.”
    Someone lower down was a dwarf.
    “Name of Clockson?” it said.
    “Yes…?”
    A clipboard was thrust through the gap.
    “Sign ’ere, where it says ‘Sign ’Ere.’ Thank you. Okay, lads…”
    Behind him, a couple of trolls tipped up a handcart. A large wooden crate crashed onto the cobbles.
    “What is this?” said Jeremy.
    “Express package,” said the dwarf, taking the clipboard. “Come all the way from Uberwald. Must’ve cost someone a packet. Look at all them seals and stickers on it.”
    “Can’t you bring it in—” 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 anywhere except, near the bottom, the words:.
    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 toward 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 carpetbag out of the ruins of the crate. “You need an athithtant. And when it cometh to athithtanth, 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 R. S OAK , D AIRYMAN 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 yogurt 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 7 A.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 nice,” said Igor, who was taking it all in with the air of a connoisseur. “That’s a Turnball Mk3 micro-lathe, ithn’t it? I thaw it in their catalogue.