“And now,” said Vorbis, “the matter of Ephebe.”
Bishop Drunah shrugged.*
“Of no consequence, they say. No threat.”
The two men looked at Vorbis, a man who never raised his voice. It was very hard to tell what Vorbis was thinking, often even after he had told you.
“Really? Is this what we’ve come to?” he said. “No threat? After what they did to poor Brother Murduck? The insults to Om? This must not pass. What is proposed to be done?”
“No more fighting,” said Fri’it. “They fight like madmen. No. We’ve lost too many already.”
“They have strong gods,” said Drunah.
“They have better bows,” said Fri’it.
“There is no God but Om,” said Vorbis. “What the Ephebians believe they worship are nothing but djinns and demons. If it can be called worship. Have you seen this?”
He pushed forward a scroll of paper.
“What is it?” said Fri’it cautiously.
“A lie. A history that does not exist and never existed…the…the things…” Vorbis hesitated, trying to remember a word that had long since fallen into disuse, “…like the…tales told to children, who are too young…words for people to say…the…”
“Oh. A play,” said Fri’it. Vorbis’s gaze nailed him to the wall.
“You know of these things?”
“I—when I traveled in Klatch once—” Fri’it stuttered. He visibly pulled himself together. He had commanded one hundred thousand men in battle. He didn’t deserve this.
He found he didn’t dare look at Vorbis’s expression.
“They dance dances,” he said limply. “On their holy days. The women have bells on their…And sing songs. All about the early days of the worlds, when the gods—”
He faded. “It was disgusting,” he said. He clicked his knuckles, a habit of his whenever he was worried.
“This one has their gods in it,” said Vorbis. “Men in masks. Can you believe that? They have a god of wine. A drunken old man! And people say Ephebe is no threat! And this—”
He tossed another, thicker scroll on to the table.
“This is far worse. For while they worship false gods in error, their error is in their choice of gods, not in their worship. But this—”
Drunah gave it a cautious examination.
“I believe there are other copies, even in the Citadel,” said Vorbis. “This one belonged to Sasho. I believe you recommended him to my service, Fri’it?”
“He always struck me as an intelligent and keen young man,” said the general.
“But disloyal,” said Vorbis, “and now receiving his just reward. It is only to be regretted that he has not been induced to give us the names of his fellow heretics.”
Fri’it fought against the sudden rush of relief. His eyes met those of Vorbis.
Drunah broke the silence.
“De Chelonian Mobile,” he said aloud. “‘The Turtle Moves.’ What does that mean?”
“Even telling you could put your soul at risk of a thousand years in hell,” said Vorbis. His eyes had not left Fri’it, who was now staring fixedly at the wall.
“I think it is a risk we might carefully take,” said Drunah.
Vorbis shrugged. “The writer claims that the world…travels through the void on the back of four huge elephants,” he said.
Drunah’s mouth dropped open.
“On the back?” he said.
“It is claimed,” said Vorbis, still watching Fri’it.
“What do they stand on?”
“The writer says they stand on the shell of an enormous turtle,” said Vorbis.
Drunah grinned nervously.
“And what does that stand on?” he said.
“I see no point in speculating as to what it stands on,” snapped Vorbis, “since it does not exist!”
“Of course, of course,” said Drunah quickly. “It was only idle curiosity.”
“Most curiosity is,” said Vorbis. “It leads the mind into speculative ways. Yet the man who wrote this walks around free, in Ephebe, now.”
Drunah glanced at the scroll.
“He says here he went on a ship that sailed to an island on the edge and he looked over and—”
“Lies,” said Vorbis evenly. “And it would make no difference even if they were not lies. Truth lies within, not without. In the words of the Great God Om, as delivered through his chosen prophets. Our eyes may deceive us, but our God never will.”
“But—”
Vorbis looked at Fri’it. The general was sweating.
“Yes?” he said.
“Well…Ephebe. A place where madmen have mad ideas. Everyone knows that. Maybe the wisest course is leave them to stew in their folly?”
Vorbis shook his head. “Unfortunately, wild and unstable ideas have a disturbing tendency to move around and take hold.”
Fri’it had to admit that this was true. He knew from experience that true and obvious ideas, such as the ineffable wisdom and judgment of the Great God Om, seemed so obscure to many people that you actually had to kill them before they saw the error of their ways, whereas dangerous and nebulous and wrong-headed notions often had such an attraction for some people that they would—he rubbed a scar thoughtfully—hide up in the mountains and throw rocks at you until you starved them out. They’d prefer to die rather than see sense. Fri’it had seen sense at an early age. He’d seen it was sense not to die.
“What do you propose?” he said.
“The Council want to parley with Ephebe,” said Drunah. “You know I have to organize a deputation to leave tomorrow.”
“How many soldiers?” said Vorbis.
“A bodyguard only. We have been guaranteed safe passage, after all,” said Fri’it.
“We have been guaranteed safe passage,” said Vorbis. It sounded like a lengthy curse. “And once inside…?”
Fri’it wanted to say: I’ve spoken to the commander of the Ephebian garrison, and I think he is a man of honor, although of course he is indeed a despicable infidel and lower than the worms. But it was not the kind of thing he felt it wise to say to Vorbis.
He substituted: “We shall be on our guard.”
“Can we surprise them?”
Fri’it hesitated. “We?” he said.
“I shall lead the party,” said Vorbis. There was the briefest exchange of glances between himself and the secretary. “I…would like to be away from the Citadel for a while. A change of air. Besides, we should not let the Ephebians think they merit the attentions of a superior member of the Church. I was just musing as to the possibilities, should we be provoked—”
Fri’it’s nervous click was like a whip-crack.
“We have given them our word—”
“There is no truce with unbelievers,” said Vorbis.
“But there are practical considerations,” said Fri’it, as sharply as he dared. “The palace of Ephebe is a labyrinth. I know. There are traps. No one gets in without a guide.”
“How does the guide get in?” said Vorbis.
“I assume he guides himself,” said the general.
“In my experience there is always another way,” said Vorbis. “Into everything, there is always another way. Which the God will show in his own good time, we can be assured of that.”
“Certainly matters would be easier if there was a lack of stability in Ephebe,” said Drunah. “It does indeed harbor certain…elements.”
“And it will be the gateway to the whole of the Turn-wise coast,” said Vorbis.
“Well—”
“The Djel, and then Tsort,” said Vorbis.
Drunah tried to avoid seeing Fri’it’s expression.
“It is our duty,” said Vorbis. “Our holy duty. We must not forget poor Brother Murduck. He was unarmed and alone.”
Brutha’s huge sandals flip-flopped obediently along the stone-flagged corridor toward Brother Nhumrod’s barren cell.
He tried composing messages in his head.
Master, there’s a tortoise who says—Master, this tortoise wants—Master, guess what, I heard from this tortoise in the melons that—
Brutha would never have dared to think of himself as a prophet, but he had a shrewd idea of the outcome of any interview that began in this way.
Many people assumed that Brutha was an idiot. He looked like one, from his round open face to his splayfeet and knock-ankles. He also had the habit of moving his lips while he thought deeply, as if he was rehearsing every sentence. And this was because that was what he was doing. Thinking was not something that came easily to Brutha. Most people think automatically, thoughts dancing through their brains like static electricity across a cloud. At least, that’s how it seemed to him. Whereas he had to construct thoughts a bit at a time, like someone building a wall. A short lifetime of being laughed at for having a body like a barrel and feet that gave the impression that they were about to set out in opposite directions had given him a strong tendency to think very carefully about anything he said.
Brother Nhumrod was prostrate on the floor in front of a statue of Om Trampling the Ungodly, with his fingers in his ears. The voices were troubling him again.
Brutha coughed. He coughed again.
Brother Nhumrod raised his head.
“Brother Nhumrod?” said Brutha.
“What?”
“Er…Brother Nhumrod?”
“What?”
Brother Nhumrod unplugged his ears.
“Yes?” he said testily.
“Um. There’s something you ought to see. In the…in the garden. Brother Nhumrod?”
The master of novices sat up. Brutha’s face was a glowing picture of concern.
“What do you mean?” Brother Nhumrod said.
“In the garden. It’s hard to explain. Um. I found out…where the voices were coming from, Brother Nhumrod. And you did say to be sure and tell you.”
The old priest gave Brutha a sharp look. But if ever there was a person without guile or any kind of subtlety, it was Brutha.
Fear is strange soil. Mainly it grows obedience like corn, which grows in rows and makes weeding easy. But sometimes it grows the potatoes of defiance, which flourish underground.
The Citadel had a lot of underground. There were the pits and tunnels of the Quisition. There were cellars and sewers, forgotten rooms, dead ends, spaces behind ancient walls, even natural caves in the bedrock itself.
This was such a cave. Smoke from the fire in the middle of the floor found its way out through a crack in the roof and, eventually, into the maze of uncountable chimneys and light-wells above.
There were a dozen figures in the dancing shadows. They wore rough hoods over nondescript clothes—crude things made of rags, nothing that couldn’t easily be burned after the meeting so that the wandering fingers of the Quisition would find nothing incriminating. Something about the way most of them moved suggested men who were used to carrying weapons. Here and there, clues. A stance. The turn of a word.
On one wall of the cave there was a drawing. It was vaguely oval, with three little extensions at the top—the middle one slightly the largest of the three—and three at the bottom, the middle one of these slightly longer and more pointed. A child’s drawing of a turtle.
“Of course he’ll go to Ephebe,” said a mask. “He won’t dare not to. He’ll have to dam the river of truth, at its source.”
“We must bail out what we can, then,” said another mask.
“We must kill Vorbis!”
“Not in Ephebe. When that happens, it must happen here. So that people will know. When we’re strong enough.”
“Will we ever be strong enough?” said a mask. Its owner clicked his knuckles nervously.
“Even the peasants know there’s something wrong. You can’t stop the truth. Dam the river of truth? Then there are leaks of great force. Didn’t we find out about Murduck? Hah! ‘Killed in Ephebe,’ Vorbis said.”
“One of us must go to Ephebe and save the Master. If he really exists.”
“He exists. His name is on the book.”
“Didactylos. A strange name. It means Two-Fingered, you know.”
“They must honor him in Ephebe.”
“Bring him back here, if possible. And the Book.”
One of the masks seemed hesitant. His knuckles clicked again.
“But will people rally behind…a book? People need more than a book. They’re peasants. They can’t read.”
“But they can listen!”
“Even so…they need to be shown…they need a symbol…”
“We have one!”
Instinctively, every masked figure turned to look at the drawing on the wall, indistinct in the firelight but graven on their minds. They were looking at the truth, which can often impress.
“The Turtle Moves!”
“The Turtle Moves!”
“The Turtle Moves!”
The leader nodded.
“And now,” he said, “we will draw lots…”
The Great God Om waxed wroth, or at least made a spirited attempt. There is a limit to the amount of wroth that can be waxed one inch from the ground, but he was right up against it.
He silently cursed a beetle, which is like pouring water onto a pond. It didn’t seem to make any difference, anyway. The beetle plodded away.
He cursed a melon unto the eighth generation, but nothing happened. He tried a plague of boils. The melon just sat there, ripening slightly.
Just because he was temporarily embarrassed, the whole world thought it could take advantage. Well, when Om got back to his rightful shape and power, he told himself, Steps would be Taken. The tribes of Beetles and Melons would wish they’d never been created. And something really horrible would happen to all eagles. And…and there would be a holy commandment involving the planting of more lettuces…
By the time the big boy arrived back with the waxy-skinned man, the Great God Om was in no mood for pleasantries. Besides, from a tortoise-eye viewpoint even the most handsome human is only a pair of feet, a distant pointy head, and, somewhere up there, the wrong end of a pair of nostrils.
“What’s this?” he snarled.
“This is Brother Nhumrod,” said Brutha. “Master of the novices. He is very important.”
“Didn’t I tell you not to bring me some fat old pederast!” shouted the voice in his head. “Your eyeballs will be spitted on shafts of fire for this!”
Brutha knelt down.
“I can’t go to the High Priest,” he said, as patiently as possible. “Novices aren’t even allowed in the Great Temple except on special occasions. I’d be Taught the Error of My Ways by the Quisition if I was caught. It’s the Law.”
“Stupid fool!” the tortoise shouted.
Nhumrod decided that it was time to speak.
“Novice Brutha,” he said, “for what reason are you talking to a small tortoise?”
“Because—” Brutha paused. “Because it’s talking to me…isn’t it?”
Brother Nhumrod looked down at the small, one-eyed head poking out of the shell.
He was, by and large, a kindly man. Sometimes demons and devils did put disquieting thoughts in his head, but he saw to it that they stayed there and he did not in any literal sense deserve to be called what the tortoise called him which, in fact, if he had heard it, he would have thought was something to do with feet. And he was well aware that it was possible to hear voices attributed to demons and, sometimes, gods. Tortoises was a new one. Tortoises made him feel worried about Brutha, whom he’d always thought of as an amiable lump who did, without any sort of complaint, anything asked of him. Of course, many novices volunteered for cleaning out the cesspits and bull cages, out of a strange belief that holiness and piety had something to do with being up to your knees in dirt. Brutha never volunteered, but if he was told to do something he did it, not out of any desire to impress, but simply because he’d been told. And now he was talking to tortoises.
“I think I have to tell you, Brutha,�
� he said, “that it is not talking.”
“You can’t hear it?”
“I cannot hear it, Brutha.”
“It told me it was…” Brutha hesitated. “It told me it was the Great God.”
He flinched. Grandmother would have hit him with something heavy now.
“Ah. Well, you see, Brutha,” said Brother Nhumrod, twitching gently, “this sort of thing is not unknown among young men recently Called to the Church. I daresay you heard the voice of the Great God when you were Called, didn’t you? Mmm?”
Metaphor was lost on Brutha. He remembered hearing the voice of his grandmother. He hadn’t been Called so much as Sent. But he nodded anyway.
“And in your…enthusiasm, it’s only natural that you should think you hear the Great God talking to you,” Nhumrod went on.
The tortoise bounced up and down.
“Smite you with thunderbolts!” it screamed.
“I find healthy exercise is the thing,” said Nhumrod. “And plenty of cold water.”
“Writhe on the spikes of damnation!”
Nhumrod reached down and picked up the tortoise, turning it over. Its legs waggled angrily.
“How did it get here, mmm?”
“I don’t know, Brother Nhumrod,” said Brutha dutifully.
“Your hand to wither and drop off!” screamed the voice in his head.
“There’s very good eating on one of these, you know,” said the master of novices. He saw the expression on Brutha’s face.
“Look at it like this,” he said. “Would the Great God Om”—holy horns—“ever manifest Himself in such a lowly creature as this? A bull, yes, of course, an eagle, certainly, and I think on one occasion a swan…but a tortoise?”
“Your sexual organs to sprout wings and fly away!”
“After all,” Nhumrod went on, oblivious to the secret chorus in Brutha’s head, “what kind of miracles could a tortoise do? Mmm?”
“Your ankles to be crushed in the jaws of giants!”
“Turn lettuce into gold, perhaps?” said Brother Nhumrod, in the jovial tones of those blessed with no sense of humor. “Crush ants underfoot? Ahaha.”
“Haha,” said Brutha dutifully.
“I shall take it along to the kitchen, out of your way,” said the master of novices. “They make excellent soup. And then you’ll hear no more voices, depend upon it. Fire cures all Follies, yes?”
Small Gods: Discworld Novel, A Page 3
