“How long…since we came back?”
“—back? Almost a week.”
“A week!”
“He said the journey exhausted you very much.”
Brutha stared at the wall.
“And he left orders that you were to be brought to him as soon as you were fully conscious,” said Nhumrod. “He was very definite about that.” His tone of voice suggested that he wasn’t quite sure of Brutha’s state of consciousness, even now. “Do you think you can walk? I can get some novices to carry you, if you’d prefer.”
“I have to go and see him now?”
“—now. Right away. I expect you’ll want to thank him.”
Brutha had known about these parts of the Citadel only by hearsay. Brother Nhumrod had never seen them, either. Although he had not been specifically included in the summons, he had come nevertheless, fussing importantly around Brutha as two sturdy novices carried him in a kind of sedan chair normally used by the more crumbling of the senior clerics.
In the center of the Citadel, behind the Temple, was a walled garden. Brutha looked at it with an expert eye. There wasn’t an inch of natural soil on the bare rock—every spadeful that these shady trees grew in must have been carried up by hand.
Vorbis was there, surrounded by bishops and Iams. He looked around as Brutha approached.
“Ah, my desert companion,” he said, amiably. “And Brother Nhumrod, I believe. My brothers, I should like you to know that I have it in mind to raise our Brutha to archbishophood.”
There was a very faint murmur of astonishment from the clerics, and then a clearing of a throat. Vorbis looked at Bishop Treem, who was the Citadel’s archivist.
“Well, technically he is not yet even ordained,” said Bishop Treem, doubtfully. “But of course we all know there has been a precedent.”
“Ossory’s ass,” said Brother Nhumrod promptly. He put his hand over his mouth and went red with shame and embarrassment.
Vorbis smiled.
“Good Brother Nhumrod is correct,” he said. “Who had also not been ordained, unless the qualifications were somewhat relaxed in those days.”
There was a chorus of nervous laughs, such as there always is from people who owe their jobs and possibly their lives to a whim of the person who has just cracked the not very amusing line.
“Although the donkey was only made a bishop,” said Bishop “Deathwish” Treem.
“A role for which it was highly qualified,” said Vorbis sharply. “And now, you will all leave. Including Subdeacon Nhumrod,” he added. Nhumrod went from red to white at this sudden preferment. “But Archbishop Brutha will remain. We wish to talk.”
The clergy withdrew.
Vorbis sat down on a stone chair under an elder tree. It was huge and ancient, quite unlike its short-lived relatives outside the garden, and its berries were ripening.
The Prophet sat with his elbows on the stone arms of the chair, his hands interlocked in front of him, and gave Brutha a long, slow stare.
“You are…recovered?” he said, eventually.
“Yes, lord,” said Brutha. “But, lord, I cannot be a bishop, I cannot even—”
“I assure you the job does not require much intelligence,” said Vorbis. “If it did, bishops would not be able to do it.”
There was another long silence.
When Vorbis next spoke, it was as if every word was being winched up from a great depth.
“We spoke once, did we not, of the nature of reality?”
“Yes.”
“And about how often what is perceived is not that which is fundamentally true?”
“Yes.”
Another pause. High overhead, an eagle circled, looking for tortoises.
“I am sure you have confused memories of our wanderings in the wilderness.”
“No.”
“It is only to be expected. The sun, the thirst, the hunger…”
“No, lord. My memory does not confuse readily.”
“Oh, yes. I recall.”
“So do I, lord.”
Vorbis turned his head slightly, looking sidelong at Brutha as if he was trying to hide behind his own face.
“In the desert, the Great God Om spoke to me.”
“Yes, lord. He did. Every day.”
“You have a mighty if simple faith, Brutha. When it comes to people, I am a great judge.”
“Yes, lord. Lord?”
“Yes, my Brutha?”
“Nhumrod said you led me through the desert, lord.”
“Remember what I said about fundamental truth, Brutha? Of course you do. There was a physical desert, indeed, but also a desert of the soul. My God led me, and I led you.”
“Ah. Yes. I see.”
Overhead, the spiraling dot that was the eagle appeared to hang motionless in the air for a moment. Then it folded its wings and fell—
“Much was given to me in the desert, Brutha. Much was learned. Now I must tell the world. That is the duty of a prophet. To go where others have not been, and bring back the truth of it.”
—faster than the wind, its whole brain and body existing only as a mist around the sheer intensity of its purpose—
“I did not expect it to be this soon. But Om guided my steps. And now that we have the Cenobiarchy, we shall…make use of it.”
Somewhere out on the hillsides the eagle swooped, picked something up, and strove for height…
“I’m just a novice, Lord Vorbis. I am not a bishop, even if everyone calls me one.”
“You will get used to it.”
It sometimes took a long time for an idea to form in Brutha’s mind, but one was forming now. It was something about the way Vorbis was sitting, something about the edge in his voice.
Vorbis was afraid of him.
Why me? Because of the desert? Who would care? For all I know, it was always like this—probably it was Ossory’s ass that carried him in the wilderness, who found the water, who kicked a lion to death.
Because of Ephebe? Who would listen? Who would care? He is the Prophet and the Cenobiarch. He could have me killed just like that. Anything he does is right. Anything he says is true.
Fundamentally true.
“I have something to show you that may amuse you,” said Vorbis, standing up. “Can you walk?”
“Oh, yes. Nhumrod was just being kind. It’s mainly sunburn.”
As they moved away, Brutha saw something he hadn’t noticed before. There were members of the Holy Guard, armed with bows, in the garden. They were in the shade of trees, or amongst bushes—not too obvious, but not exactly hidden.
Steps led from the garden to the maze of underground tunnels and rooms that underlay the Temple and, indeed, the whole of the Citadel. Noiselessly, a couple of guards fell in behind them at a respectful distance.
Brutha followed Vorbis through the tunnels to the artificers’ quarter, where forges and workshops clustered around one wide, deep light-well. Smoke and fumes billowed up around the hewn rock walls.
Vorbis walked directly to a large alcove that glowed red with the light of forge fires. Several workers were clustered around something wide and curved.
“There,” said Vorbis. “What do you think?”
It was a turtle.
The iron-founders had done a pretty good job, even down to the patterning on the shell and the scales on the legs. It was about eight feet long.
Brutha heard a rushing noise in his ears as Vorbis spoke.
“They speak poisonous gibberish about turtles, do they not? They think they live on the back of a Great Turtle. Well, let them die on one.”
Now Brutha could see the shackles attached to each iron leg. A man, or a woman, could with great discomfort lie spread-eagled on the back of the turtle and be chained firmly at the wrists and ankles.
He bent down. Yes, there was the firebox underneath. Some aspects of Quisition thinking never changed.
That much iron would take ages to heat up to the point of pain. Much time, therefore
, to reflect on things…
“What do you think?” said Vorbis.
A vision of the future flashed across Brutha’s mind.
“Ingenious,” he said.
“And it will be a salutary lesson for all others tempted to stray from the path of true knowledge,” said Vorbis.
“When do you intend to, uh, demonstrate it?”
“I am sure an occasion will present itself,” said Vorbis.
When Brutha straightened up, Vorbis was staring at him so intently that it was as if he was reading Brutha’s thoughts off the back of his head.
“And now, please leave,” said Vorbis. “Rest as much as you can…my son.”
Brutha walked slowly across the Place, deep in unaccustomed thought.
“Afternoon, Your Reverence.”
“You know already?”
Cut-Me-Own-Hand-Off Dhblah beamed over the top of his lukewarm ice-cold sherbet stand.
“Heard it on the grapevine,” he said. “Here, have a slab of Klatchian Delight. Free. Onna stick.”
The Place was more crowded than usual. Even Dhblah’s hot cakes were selling like hot cakes.
“Busy today,” said Brutha, hardly thinking about it.
“Time of the Prophet, see,” said Dhblah, “when the Great God is manifest in the world. And if you think it’s busy now, you won’t be able to swing a goat here in a few days’ time.”
“What happens then?”
“You all right? You look a bit peaky.”
“What happens then?”
“The Laws. You know. The Book of Vorbis? I suppose—” Dhblah leaned toward Brutha—you wouldn’t have a hint, would you? I suppose the Great God didn’t happen to say anything of benefit to the convenience food industry?”
“I don’t know. I think he’d like people to grow more lettuce.”
“Really?”
“It’s only a guess.”
Dhblah grinned evilly. “Ah, yes, but it’s your guess. A nod’s as good as a poke with a sharp stick to a deaf camel, as they say. I know where I can get my hands on a few acres of well-irrigated land, funnily enough. Perhaps I ought to buy now, ahead of the crowd?”
“Can’t see any harm in it, Mr. Dhblah.”
Dhblah sidled closer. This was not hard. Dhblah sidled everywhere. Crabs thought he walked sideways.
“Funny thing,” he said. “I mean…Vorbis?”
“Funny?” said Brutha.
“Makes you think. Even Ossory must have been a man who walked around, just like you and me. Got wax in his ears, just like ordinary people. Funny thing.”
“What is?”
“The whole thing.”
Dhblah gave Brutha another conspiratorial grin and then sold a footsore pilgrim a bowl of hummus that he would come to regret.
Brutha wandered down to his dormitory. It was empty at this time of day, hanging around dormitories being discouraged in case the presence of the rock-hard mattresses engendered thoughts of sin. His few possessions were gone from the shelf by his bunk. Probably he had a room of his own somewhere, although no one had told him.
Brutha felt totally lost.
He lay down on the bunk, just in case, and offered up a prayer to Om. There was no reply. There had been no reply for almost all of his life, and that hadn’t been too bad, because he’d never expected one. And before, there’d always been the comfort that perhaps Om was listening and simply not deigning to say anything.
Now, there was nothing to hear.
He might as well be talking to himself, and listening to himself.
Like Vorbis.
That thought wouldn’t go away. Mind like a steel ball, Om had said. Nothing got in or out. So all Vorbis could hear were the distant echoes of his own soul. And out of the distant echoes he would forge a Book of Vorbis, and Brutha suspected he knew what the commandments would be. There would be talk of holy wars and blood and crusades and blood and piety and blood.
Brutha got up, feeling like a fool. But the thoughts wouldn’t go away.
He was a bishop, but he didn’t know what bishops did. He’d only seen them in the distance, drifting along like earthbound clouds. There was only one thing he felt he knew how to do.
Some spotty boy was hoeing the vegetable garden. He looked at Brutha in amazement when he took the hoe, and was stupid enough to try to hang on to it for a moment.
“I am a bishop, you know,” said Brutha. “Anyway, you aren’t doing it right. Go and do something else.”
Brutha jabbed viciously at the weeds around the seedlings. Only away a few weeks and already there was a haze of green on the soil.
You’re a bishop. For being good. And here’s the iron turtle. In case you’re bad. Because…
…there were two people in the desert, and Om spoke to one of them.
It had never occurred to Brutha like that before.
Om had spoken to him. Admittedly, he hadn’t said the things that the Great Prophets said he said. Perhaps he’d never said things like that…
He worked his way along to the end of the row. Then he tidied up the bean vines.
Lu-Tze watched Brutha carefully from his little shed by the soil heaps.
It was another barn. Urn was seeing a lot of barns.
They’d started with a cart, and invested a lot of time in reducing its weight as much as possible. Gearing had been a problem. He’d been doing a lot of thinking about gears. The ball wanted to spin much faster than the wheels wanted to turn. That was probably a metaphor for something or other.
“And I can’t get it to go backward,” he said.
“Don’t worry,” said Simony. “It won’t have to go backward. What about armor?”
Urn waved a distracted hand around his workshop.
“This is a village forge!” he said. “This thing is twenty feet long! Zacharos can’t make plates bigger than a few feet across. I’ve tried nailing them on a framework, but it just collapses under the weight.”
Simony looked at the skeleton of the steam car and the pile of plates stacked beside it.
“Ever been in a battle, Urn?” he said.
“No. I’ve got flat feet. And I’m not very strong.”
“Do you know what a tortoise is?”
Urn scratched his head. “Okay. The answer isn’t a little reptile in a shell, is it? Because you know I know that.”
“I mean a shield tortoise. When you’re attacking a fortress or a wall, and the enemy is dropping everything he’s got on you, every man holds his shield overhead so that it…kind of…slots into all the shields around it. Can take a lot of weight.”
“Overlapping,” murmured Urn.
“Like scales,” said Simony.
Urn looked reflectively at the cart.
“A tortoise,” he said.
“And the battering-ram?” said Simony.
“Oh, that’s no problem,” said Urn, not paying much attention. “Tree-trunk bolted to the frame. Big iron rammer. They’re only bronze doors, you say?”
“Yes. But very big.”
“Then they’re probably hollow. Or cast bronze plates on wood. That’s what I’d do.”
“Not solid bronze? Everyone says they’re solid bronze.”
“That’s what I’d say, too.”
“Excuse me, sirs.”
A burly man stepped forward. He wore the uniform of the palace guards.
“This is Sergeant Fergmen,” said Simony. “Yes, sergeant?”
“The doors is reinforced with Klatchian steel. Because of all the fighting in the time of the False Prophet Zog. And they opens outwards only. Like lock gates on a canal, you understand? If you push on ’em, they only locks more firmly together.”
“How are they opened, then?” said Urn.
“The Cenobiarch raises his hand and the breath of God blows them open,” said the sergeant.
“In a logical sense, I meant.”
“Oh. Well, one of the deacons goes behind a curtain and pulls a lever. But…when I was on guard down in the
crypts, sometimes, there was a room…there was gratings and things…well, you could hear water gushing…”
“Hydraulics,” said Urn. “Thought it would be hydraulics.”
“Can you get in?” said Simony.
“To the room? Why not? No one bothers with it.”
“Could he make the doors open?” said Simony.
“Hmm?” said Urn.
Urn was rubbing his chin reflectively with a hammer. He seemed to be lost in a world of his own.
“I said, could Fergmen make these hydra haulics work?”
“Hmm? Oh. Shouldn’t think so,” said Urn, vaguely.
“Could you?”
“What?”
“Could you make them work?”
“Oh. Probably. It’s just pipes and pressures, after all. Um.”
Urn was still staring thoughtfully at the steam cart. Simony nodded meaningfully at the sergeant, indicating that he should go away, and then tried the mental inter-planetary journey necessary to get to whatever world Urn was in.
He tried looking at the cart, too.
“How soon can you have it all finished?”
“Hmm?”
“I said—”
“Late tomorrow night. If we work through tonight.”
“But we’ll need it for the next dawn! We won’t have time to see if it works!”
“It’ll work first time,” said Urn.
“Really?”
“I built it. I know about it. You know about swords and spears and things. I know about things that go round and round. It will work first time.”
“Good. Well, there are other things I’ve got to do—”
“Right.”
Urn was left alone in the barn. He looked reflectively at his hammer, and then at the iron cart.
They didn’t know how to cast bronze properly here. Their iron was pathetic, just pathetic. Their copper? It was terrible. They seemed to be able to make steel that shattered at a blow. Over the years the Quisition had weeded out all the good smiths.
He’d done the best he could, but…
“Just don’t ask me about the second or third time,” he said quietly to himself.
Vorbis sat in the stone chair in his garden, papers strewn around him.
“Well?”
Small Gods: Discworld Novel, A Page 25
