* * *
‘… and then I thought, what’s a job that really needs someone with my talents?’ said Ronnie. ‘To me, time is just another direction. And then I thought, everyone wants fresh milk, yes? And everyone wants it delivered early in the morning.’
‘Got to be better than the window-cleaning,’ said Lu-Tze.
‘I only went into that after they invented windows,’ said Ronnie. ‘It was the jobbing gardening before that. More rancid yak butter in that?’
‘Please,’ said Lu-Tze, holding out his cup.
Lu-Tze was eight hundred years old, and that was why he was having a rest. A hero would have leapt up and rushed out into the silent city and then-
And there you had it. Then a hero would have had to wonder what to do next. Eight hundred years had taught Lu-Tze that what happens stays happened. It might stay happened in a different set of dimensions, if you wanted to get technical, but you couldn’t make it un-happen. The clock had struck, and time had stopped. Later, a solution would present itself. In the meantime, a cup of tea and conversation with his serendipitous rescuer might speed that time. After all, Ronnie was not your average milkman..
Lu-Tze had long considered that everything happens for a reason, except possibly football.
‘It’s the real stuff you got there, Ronnie,’ he said, taking a sip. ‘The butter we’re getting these days, you wouldn’t grease a cart with it.’
‘It’s the breed,’ said Ronnie. ‘I go and get this from the highland herds six hundred years ago.’
‘Cheers,’ said Lu-Tze, raising his cup. ‘Funny, though. I mean, if you said to people there were originally five Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and then one of them left and is a milkman, well, they’d be a bit surprised. They’d wonder about why you…’
For a moment Ronnie’s eyes blazed silver.
‘Creative differences,’ he growled. ‘The whole ego thing. Some people might say… No, I don’t like to talk about it. I wish them all the luck in the world, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Lu-Tze, keeping his expression opaque.
‘And I’ve watched their careers with great interest.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Do you know I even got written out of the official history?’ said Ronnie. He held up a hand and a book appeared in it. It looked brand new.
‘This was before,’ he said sourly. ‘Book of Om. Ever meet him? Tall man, beard, tendency to giggle at nothing?’
‘Before my time, Ronnie.’
Ronnie handed the book over. ‘First edition. Try Chapter 2, verse 7,’ he said.
And Lu-Tze read: ‘ “And the Angel clothèd all in white opened the Iron Book, and a fifth rider appeared in a chariot of burning ice, and there was a snapping of laws and a breaking of bonds and the multitude cried ‘Oh God, we’re in trouble now!’ ” ‘
‘That was me,’ said Ronnie proudly.
Lu-Tze’s eyes strayed to verse 8: ‘ “And I saw, sort of like rabbits, in many colours but basically a plaid pattern, kind of spinning around, and there was a sound as of like big syrupy things.”‘
‘That verse got cut for the next edition,’ said Ronnie. ‘Very open to visions of all sorts, old Tobrun. The fathers of Omnianism could pick and mix what they wanted. Of course, in those days everything was new. Death was Death, of course, but the rest were really just Localized Crop Failure, Scuffles and Spots.’
‘And you-?’ Lu-Tze ventured.
‘The public wasn’t interested in me any more,’ said Ronnie. ‘Or so I was told. Back in those days we were only playing to very small crowds. One plague of locusts, some tribe’s waterhole drying up, a volcano exploding… We were glad of any gig going. There wasn’t room for five.’ He sniffed. ‘So I was told.’
Lu-Tze put down his cup. ‘Well, Ronnie, it’s been very nice talking to you, but time’s… time’s not rushing, you see.’
‘Yeah. Heard about that. The streets are full of the Law.’ Ronnie’s eyes blazed again.
‘Law?’
‘Dhlang. The Auditors. They’ve had the glass clock built again.’
‘You know that?’
‘Look, I might not be one of the Fearsome Four, but I do keep my eyes and ears open,’ said Ronnie.
‘But that’s the end of the world!’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Ronnie calmly. ‘Everything’s still here.’
‘But it’s not going anywhere!’
‘Oh, well, that’s not my problem, is it?’ said Ronnie. ‘I do milk and dairy products.’
Lu-Tze looked around the sparkling dairy, at the glistening bottles, at the gleaming churns. What a job for a timeless person. The milk would always be fresh.
He looked back at the bottles, and an unbidden thought rose in his mind.
The Horsemen were people-shaped, and people are vain. Knowing how to use other people’s vanity was a martial art all in itself, and Lu-Tze had been doing it for a long time.
‘I bet I can work out who you were,’ he said. ‘I bet I can work out your real name.’
‘Hah. Not a chance, monk,’ said Ronnie.
‘Not a monk, just a sweeper,’ said Lu-Tze calmly. ‘Just a sweeper. You called them the Law, Ronnie. There’s got to be a law, right? They make the rules, Ronnie. And you’ve got to have rules, isn’t that true?’
‘I do milk and milk products,’ said Ronnie, but a muscle twitched under his eye. ‘Also eggs by arrangement. It’s a good steady business. I’m thinking of taking on more staff for the shop.’
‘Why?’ said Lu-Tze. ‘There won’t be anything for them to do.’
‘And expand the cheese side,’ said Ronnie, not looking at the sweeper. ‘Big market for cheese. And I thought maybe I could get a c-mail address, people could send in orders, it could be a big market.’
‘All the rules have won, Ronnie. Nothing moves any more. Nothing is unexpected because nothing happens.’
Ronnie sat staring at nothing.
‘I can see you’ve found your niche, then, Ronnie,’ said Lu-Tze soothingly. ‘And you keep this place like a new pin, there’s no doubt about it. I expect the rest of the lads’d be really pleased to know that you’re, you know, getting on all right. Just one thing, uh … Why did you rescue me?’
‘What? Well, it was my charitable duty-‘
‘You’re the Fifth Horseman, Mr Soak. Charitable duty?’ Except, Lu-Tze thought, you’ve been human-shaped a long time. You want me to find out… You want me to. Thousands of years of a life like this. It’s curled you in on yourself. You’ll fight me all the way, but you want me to drag your name out of you.
Ronnie’s eyes glowed. ‘I look after my own, Sweeper.’
‘I’m one of yours, am I?’
‘You have… certain worthwhile points.’
They stared at one another.
‘I’ll take you back to where I found you,’ said Ronnie Soak. ‘That’s all. I don’t do that other stuff any more.’
The Auditor lay on its back, mouth open. Occasionally it made a weak little noise, like the whimper of a gnat.
‘Try again, Mr-‘
‘Dark Avocado, Mr White.’
‘Is that a real colour?’
‘Yes, Mr White!’ said Mr Dark Avocado, who wasn’t entirely sure that it was.
‘Try again, then, Mr Dark Avocado.’
Mr Dark Avocado, with great reluctance, reached down towards the supine figure’s mouth. His fingers were a few inches away when, apparently of its own volition, the figure’s left hand moved in a blur and gripped them. There was a crackle of bone.
‘I feel extreme pain, Mr White.’
‘What is in its mouth, Mr Dark Avocado?’
‘It appears to be cooked fermented grain product, Mr White. The extreme pain is continuing.’
‘A foodstuff?’
‘Yes, Mr White. The sensations of pain are really quite noticeable at this point.’
‘Did I not give an order that there should be no eating or drinking or unnecessary experimentation with sensory apparatus?’
‘Indeed you did, Mr White. The sensation known as extreme pain, which I mentioned previously, is now really quite acute. What shall I do now?’
The concept of ‘orders’ was yet another new and intensely unfamiliar one for any Auditor. They were used to decisions by committee, reached only when the possibilities of doing nothing whatsoever about the matter in question had been exhausted. Decisions made by everyone were decisions made by no one, which therefore precluded any possibility of blame.
But the bodies understood orders. This was clearly something that made humans human, and so the Auditors went along with it in a spirit of investigation. There was no choice, in any case. All kinds of sensations arose when they were given instructions by a man holding an edged weapon. It was surprising how smoothly the impulse to consult and discuss metamorphosed into a pressing desire to do what the weapon said.
‘Can you not persuade him to let go of your hand?’
‘He appears to be unconscious, Mr White. His eyes are bloodshot. He is making a little sighing noise. Yet the body seems determined that the bread should not be removed. Could I raise again the issue of the unbearable pain?’