Small Gods

by Terry Pratchett

Page 12

 

  “But suppose something went wrong,” it insisted.

  “Im not any good at theology,” said Brutha. “But the testament of Ossory is very clear on the matter. They must have done something, otherwise you in your wisdom would not direct the Quisition to them. ”

  “Would I?” said Om, still thinking of that face. “Its their fault they get tortured. Did I really say that?”

  “ `We are judged in life as we are in death . . . Ossory III, chapter VI, verse 56. My grandmother said that when people die they come before you, they have to cross a terrible desert and you weigh their heart in some scales,” said Brutha. “And if it weighs less than a feather, they are spared the hells. ”

  “Goodness me,” said the tortoise. And it added: “Has it occurred to you, lad, that I might not be able to do that and be down here walking around with a shell on?”

  “You could do anything you wanted to,” said Brutha.

  Om looked up at Brutha.

  He really believes, he thought. He doesnt know how to lie.

  The strength of Bruthas belief burned in him like a flame.

  And then the truth hit Om like the ground hits tortoises after an attack of eagles.

  “Youve got to take me to this Ephebe place,” he said urgently.

  “Ill do whatever you want,” said Brutha. “Are you going to scourge it with hoof and flame?”

  “Could be, could be,” said Om. “But youve got to take me. ” He was trying to keep his innermost thoughts calm, in case Brutha heard. Dont leave me behind!

  “But you could get there much quicker if I left you,” said Brutha. “They are very wicked in Ephebe. The sooner it is cleansed, the better. You could stop being a tortoise and fly there like a burning wind and scourge the city. ”

  A burning wind, thought Om. And the tortoise thought of the silent wastes of the deep desert, and the chittering and sighing of the gods who had faded away to mere djinns and voices on the air.

  Gods with no more believers.

  Not even one. One was just enough.

  Gods who had been left behind.

  And the thing about Bruthas flame of belief was this: in all the Citadel, in all the day, it was the only one the God had found.

  Friit was trying to pray.

  He hadnt done so for a long time.

  Oh, of course there had been the eight compulsory prayers every day, but in the pit of the wretched night he knew them for what they were. A habit. A time for thought, perhaps. And method of measuring time.

  He wondered if hed ever prayed, if hed ever opened heart and mind to something out there, or up there. He must have done, mustnt he? Perhaps when he was young. He couldnt even remember that. Blood had washed away the memories.

  It was his fault. It had to be his fault. Hed been to Ephebe before, and had rather liked the white marble city on its rock overlooking the blue Circle Sea. And hed visited Djelibeybi, those madmen in their little river valley who believed in gods with funny heads and put their dead in pyramids. Hed even been to far Ankh-Morpork, across the water, where theyd worship any god at all so long as he or she had money. Yes, Ankh-Morpork-where there were streets and streets of gods, squeezed together like a deck of cards. And none of them wanted to set fire to anyone else, or at least any more than was normally the case in Ankh?-Morpork. They just wanted to be left in peace, so that everyone went to heaven or hell in their own way.

  And hed drunk too much tonight, from a secret cache of wine whose discovery would deliver him into the machinery of the inquisitors within ten minutes.

  Yes, you could say this for old Vorbis. Once upon a time the Quisition had been bribable, but not anymore. The chief exquisitor had gone back to fundamentals. Now there was a democracy of sharp knives. Better than that, in fact. The search for heresy was pursued even more vigorously among the higher levels in the Church. Vorbis had made it clear: the higher up the tree, the blunter the saw.

  Give me that old-time religion . . .

  He squeezed his eyes shut again, and all he could see were the horns of the temple, or fragmented suggestions of the carnage to come, or . . . the face of Vorbis.

  Hed liked that white city.

  Even the slaves had been content. There were rules about slaves. There were things you couldnt do to slaves. Slaves had value.

  Hed learned about the Turtle, there. It had all made sense. Hed thought: it sounds right. It makes sense. But sense or not, that thought was sending him to hell.

  Vorbis knew about him. He must do. There were spies everywhere. Sasho had been useful. How much had Vorbis got out of him? Had he said what he knew?

  Of course hed say what he knew . . .

  Something went snap inside Friit.

  He glanced at his sword, hanging on the wall.

  And why not? After all, he was going to spend all eternity in a thousand hells . . .

  The knowledge was freedom, of a sort. When the least they could do to you was everything, then the most they could do to you suddenly held no terror. If he was going to be boiled for a lamb, then he might as well be roasted for a sheep.

  He staggered to his feet and, after a couple of tries, got the swordbelt off the wall. Vorbiss quarters werent far away, if he could manage the steps. One stroke, thats all it would take. He could cut Vorbis in half without trying. And maybe . . . maybe nothing would happen afterward. There were others who felt like him-somewhere. Or, anyway, he could get down to the stables, be well away by dawn, get to Ephebe, maybe, across the desert . . .

  He reached the door and fumbled for the handle.

  It turned of its own accord.

  Friit staggered back as the door swung inward.

  Vorbis was standing there. In the flickering light of the oil lamp, his face registered polite concern.

  “Excuse the lateness of the hour, my lord,” he said. “But I thought we should talk. About tomorrow. ”

  The sword clattered out of Friits hand.

  Vorbis leaned forward.

  “Is there something wrong, brother?” he said.

  He smiled, and stepped into the room. Two hooded inquisitors slipped in behind him.

  “Brother,” Vorbis said again. And shut the door.

  “How is it in there?” said Brutha.

  “Im going to rattle around like a pea in a pot,” grumbled the tortoise.

  “I could put some more straw in. And, look, Ive got these. ”

  A pile of greenstuff dropped on Oms head.

  “From the kitchen,” said Brutha. “Peelings and cabbage. I stole them,” he added, “but then I thought it cant be stealing if Im doing it for you. ”

  The fetid smell of the half-rotten leaves suggested strongly that Brutha had committed his crime when the greens were halfway to the midden, but Om didnt say so. Not now.

  “Right,” he mumbled.

  There must be others, he told himself. Sure. Out in the country. This place is too sophisticated. But . . . there had been all those pilgrims in front of the Temple. They werent just country people, they were the devoutest ones. Whole villages clubbed together to send one person carrying the petitions of many. But there hadnt been the flame. There had been fear, and dread, and yearning, and hope. All those emotions had their flavor. But there hadnt been the flame.

  The eagle had dropped him near Brutha. Hed . . . woken up. He could dimly remember all that time as a tortoise. And now he remembered being a god. How far away from Brutha would he still remember? A mile? Ten miles? How would it be . . . feeling the knowledge drain away, dwindling back to nothing but a lowly reptile? Maybe there would be a part of him that would always remember, helplessly . . .

  He shuddered.

  Currently Om was in a wickerwork box slung from Bruthas shoulder. It wouldnt have been comfortable at the best of times, but now it shook occasionally as Brutha stamped his feet in the pre-dawn chill.

  After a while some of the Citadel grooms arrived, with horses. Brutha w
as the subject of a few odd looks. He smiled at everyone. It seemed the best way.

  He began to feel hungry, but didnt dare leave his post. Hed been told to be here. But after a while sounds from around the corner made him sidle a few yards to see what was going on.

  The courtyard here was U-shaped, around a wing of the Citadel buildings, and around the corner it looked as though another party was preparing to set out.

  Brutha knew about camels. There had been a couple in his grandmothers village. There seemed to be hundreds of them here, though, complaining like badly oiled pumps and smelling like a thousand damp carpets. Men in djeliba moved among them and occasionally hit them with sticks, which is the approved method of dealing with camels.

  Brutha wandered over to the nearest creature. A man was strapping water-bottles round its hump.

  “Good morning, brother,” said Brutha.

  “Bugger off,” said the man without looking round.

  “The Prophet Abbys tells us (chap. XXV, verse 6): `Woe unto he who defiles his mouth with curses for his words will be as dust, ” said Brutha.

  “Does he? Well, he can bugger off too,” said the man, conversationally.

  Brutha hesitated. Technically, of course, the man had bought himself vacant possession of a thousand hells and a month or two of the attentions of the Quisition, but now Brutha could see that he was a member of the Divine Legion; a sword was halfhidden under the desert robes.

  And you had to make special allowances for Legionaries, just as you did for inquisitors. Their often intimate contact with the ungodly affected their minds and put their souls in mortal peril. He decided to be magnanimous.

  “And where are you going to with all these camels on this fine morning, brother?”

  The soldier tightened a strap.

  “Probably to hell,” he said, grinning nastily. “Just behind you. ”

  “Really? According to the word of the Prophet Ishkible, a man needs no camel to ride to hell, yea, nor horse, nor mule; a man may ride into hell on his tongue,” said Brutha, letting just a tremor of disapproval enter his voice.

  “Does some old prophet say anything about nosy bastards being given a thump alongside the ear?” said the soldier.

  “ `Woe unto him who raises his hand unto his brother, dealing with him as unto an Infidel, ” said Brutha. “Thats Ossory, Precepts XI, verse 16. ”

  “ `Sod off and forget you ever saw us otherwise youre going to be in real trouble, my friend. Sergeant Aktar, chapter 1, verse 1,” said the soldier.

  Bruthas brow wrinkled. He couldnt remember that one.

  “Walk away,” said the voice of the God in his head. “You dont need trouble. ”

  “I hope your journey is a pleasant one,” said Brutha politely. “Whatever the destination. ”

  He backed away and headed toward the gate.

  “A man who will have to spend some time in the hells of correction, if I am any judge,” he said. The god said nothing.

  The Ephebian traveling group was beginning to assemble now. Brutha stood to attention and tried to keep out of everyones way. He saw a dozen mounted soldiers, but unlike the camel riders they were in the brightly polished fishmail and black-and-yellow cloaks that the Legionaries usually only wore on special occasions. Brutha thought they looked very impressive.

  Eventually one of the stable servants came up to him.

  “What are you doing here, novice?” he demanded.

  “I am going to Ephebe,” said Brutha.