She also spent a little while going through Madam’s private papers, and this has to be said about Susan: it did not occur to her that there was anything wrong about this, although she’d quite understand that it was probably wrong if you weren’t Susan Sto Helit, of course. The papers were in quite a good safe that would have occupied a competent thief for at least twenty minutes. The fact that the door swung open at her touch suggested that special rules applied here.
No door was closed to Miss Susan. It ran in the family. Some genetics are passed on via the soul.
When she’d brought herself up to date on the school’s affairs, mostly to indicate to the rat that she wasn’t just someone who could be summoned at a moment’s notice, she stood up.
‘All right,’ she said wearily. ‘You’re just going to pester me, aren’t you? For ever and ever and ever.’
The Death of Rats looked at her with its skull on one side.
SQUEAK, it said winsomely.
‘Well, yes, I like him,’ she said. ‘In a way. But, I mean, you know, it’s not right. Why does he need me? He’s Death! He’s not exactly powerless! I’m just human!’
The rat squeaked again, jumped down onto the floor and ran through the closed door. It reappeared for a moment and beckoned to her.
‘Oh, all right,’ said Susan to herself. ‘Make that mostly human.’
Tick
And who is this Lu-Tze?
Sooner or later every novice had to ask this rather complex question. Sometimes it would be years before they found out that the little man who swept their floors and uncomplainingly carted away the contents of the dormitory cesspit and occasionally came out with outlandish foreign sayings was the legendary hero they’d been told they would meet one day. And then, when they’d confronted him, the brightest of them confronted themselves.
Mostly sweepers came from the villages in the valley. They were part of the staff of the monastery but they had no status. They did all the tedious, unregarded jobs. They were … figures in the background, pruning the cherry trees, washing the floors, cleaning out the carp pools and, always, sweeping. They had no names. That is, a thoughtful novice would understand that the sweepers must have names, some form by which they were known to other sweepers, but within the temple grounds at least they had no names, only instructions. No-one knew where they went at night. They were just sweepers. But so was Lu-Tze.
One day a group of senior novices, for mischief, kicked over the little shrine that Lu-Tze kept beside his sleeping mat.
Next morning, no sweepers turned up for work. They stayed in their huts, with the doors barred. After making enquiries, the abbot, who at that time was fifty years old again, summoned the three novices to his room. There were three brooms leaning against the wall. He spoke as follows:
‘You know that the dreadful Battle of Five Cities did not happen because the messenger got there in time?’
They did. They learned this early in their studies. And they bowed nervously, because this was the abbot, after all.
‘And you know, then, that when the messenger’s horse threw a shoe he espied a man trudging beside the road carrying a small portable forge and pushing an anvil on a barrow?’
They knew.
‘And you know that man was Lu-Tze?’
They did.
‘You surely know that Janda Trapp, Grand Master of okidoki, toro-fu and chang-fu, has only ever yielded to one man?’
They knew.
‘And you know that man is Lu-Tze?’
They did.
‘You know the little shrine you kicked over last night?’
They knew.
‘You know it had an owner?’
There was silence. Then the brightest of the novices looked up at the abbot in horror, swallowed, picked up one of the three brooms and walked out of the room.
The other two were slower of brain and had to follow the story all the way through to the end.
Then one of them said, ‘But it was only a sweeper’s shrine!’
‘You will take up the brooms and sweep,’ said the abbot, ‘and you will sweep every day, and you will sweep until the day you find Lu-Tze and dare to say “Sweeper, it was I who knocked over and scattered your shrine and now I will in humility accompany you to the dojo of the Tenth Djim, in order to learn the Right Way.” Only then, if you are still able, may you resume your studies here. Understood?’[6]
Older monks sometimes complained, but someone would always say, ‘Remember that Lu-Tze’s Way is not our Way. Remember he learned everything by sweeping unheeded while students were being educated. Remember, he has been everywhere and done many things. Perhaps he is a little … strange, but remember that he walked into a citadel full of armed men and traps and nevertheless saw to it that the Pash of Muntab choked innocently on a fish bone. No monk is better than Lu-Tze at finding the Time and the Place.’
Some, who did not know, might say: ‘What is this Way that gives him so much power?’
And they would be told: ‘It is the Way of Mrs Marietta Cosmopilite, 3 Quirm Street, Ankh-Morpork, Rooms For Rent, Very Reasonable.{11} No, we don’t understand it, either. Some subsendential rubbish, apparently.’
Tick
Lu-Tze listened to the senior monks, while leaning on his broom. Listening was an art he had developed over the years, having learned that if you listened hard and long enough people would tell you more than they thought they knew.
‘Soto is a good field operative,’ he said at last. ‘Weird but good.’
‘The fall even showed up on the Mandala,’ said Rinpo. ‘The boy knew none of the appropriate actions. Soto said he’d done it reflexively. He said he thought the boy was as close to null as he has ever witnessed. He had him put on a cart for the mountains within the hour. He then spent three whole days performing the Closing of the Flower at the Guild of Thieves, where the boy had apparently been left as a baby.’
‘The closure was successful?’
‘We authorized the run time of two Procrastinators. Perhaps a few people will have faint memories, but the Guild is a large and busy place.’
‘No brothers, no sisters. No love of parents. Just the brotherhood of thieves,’ said Lu-Tze sadly.
‘He was, however, a good thief.’
‘I’ll bet. How old is he?’
‘Sixteen or seventeen, it appears.’
‘Too old to teach, then.’
The senior monks exchanged glances.
‘We cannot teach him anything,’ said the Master of Novices. ‘He—’
Lu-Tze held up a skinny hand. ‘Let me guess. He knows it already?’
‘It’s as though he’s being told something that had momentarily slipped his memory,’ said Rinpo. ‘And then he gets bored and angry. He’s not all there, in my opinion.’
Lu-Tze scratched in his stained beard. ‘Mystery boy,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Naturally talented.’
‘And we ask ourselves wanna potty wanna potty poo why now, why at this time?’ said the abbot, chewing the foot of a toy yak.
‘Ah, but is it not said, “There is a Time and a Place for Everything”?’ said Lu-Tze. ‘Anyway, reverend sirs, you have taught pupils for hundreds of years. I am but a sweeper.’ Absentmindedly, he stuck out his hand just as the yak left the fumbling fingers of the abbot, and caught it in mid-air.
6
And the story continues: The novice who had protested that it was only the shrine of a sweeper ran away from the temple, the student who said nothing remained a sweeper for the rest of his life, and the student who had seen the inevitable shape of the story went, after much agonizing and several months of meticulous sweeping, to Lu-Tze and knelt and asked to be shown the Right Way. Whereupon the Sweeper took him to the dojo of the Tenth Djim, with its terrible multi-bladed fighting machines and its fearsome serrated weapons such as the clong-clong and the uppsi. The story runs that the Sweeper then opened a cupboard at the back of the dojo and produced a broom and spake thusly: ‘One hand here and the other here, understand? People never get it right. Use good, even strokes and let the broom do most of the work. Never try to sweep up a big pile, you’ll end up sweeping every bit of dust twice. Use your dustpan wisely, and remember: a small brush for the corners.’