Small Gods tds-13

by Terry David John Pratchett

  "Honest, Uncle-”

  "I turn my back for half an hour and you go to sleep on the job!"

  "What job? We haven't had anything since Mr. Piloxi the farmer last week-”

  "How d'you know? How d'you know? While you were snoring dozens of people could've been goin' past, every one of 'em in need of a pers'nal philosophy!"

  "-and he only paid in olives."

  "I shall prob'ly get a good price for them olives!"

  "They're rotten, Uncle."

  "Nonsense! You said they were green!"

  "Yes, but they're supposed to be black."

  In the shadows, the tortoise's head turned back and forth like a spectator's at a tennis match.

  The young man stood up.

  "Mrs. Bylaxis came in this morning," he said. "She said the proverb you did for her last week has stopped working."

  Didactylos scratched his head.

  "Which one was that?" he said.

  "You gave her `It's always darkest before dawn.' "

  "Nothing wrong with that. Damn good philosophy."

  "She said she didn't feel any better. Anyway, she said she'd stayed up all night because of her bad leg and it was actually quite light just before dawn, so it wasn't true. And her leg still dropped off. So I gave her part exchange on `Still, it does you good to laugh.' "

  Didactylos brightened up a bit.

  "Shifted that one, eh?"

  "She said she'd give it a try. She gave me a whole dried squid for it. She said I looked like I needed feeding up."

  "Right? You're learning. That's lunch sorted out at any rate. See, Urn? Told you it would work if we stuck at it."

  "I don't call one dried squid and a box of greasy olives much of a return, master. Not for two weeks' thinking."

  "We got three obols for doing that proverb for old Grillos the cobbler."

  "No we didn't. He brought it back. His wife didn't like the color."

  "And you gave him his money back?" Yes."

  "What, all of it?"

  "Yes."

  "Can't do that. Not after he's put wear and tear on the words. Which one was it?"

  " `It's a wise crow that knows which way the camel points.' "

  "I put a lot of work in on that one."

  "He said he couldn't understand it."

  "I don't understand cobbling, but I know a good pair of sandals when I wears 'em."

  Om blinked his one eye. Then he looked at the shapes of the minds in front of him.

  The one called Urn was presumably the nephew, and had a fairly normal sort of mind, even if it did seem to have too many circles and angles in it. But Didactylos's mind bubbled and flashed like a potful of electric eels on full boil. Om had never seen anything like it. Brutha's thoughts took eons to slide into place, it was like watching mountains colliding; Didactylos's thoughts chased after one another with a whooshing noise. No wonder he was bald. Hair would have burned off from the inside.

  Om had found a thinker.

  A cheap one, too, by the sound of it.

  He looked up at the wall behind the barrel. Further along was an impressive set of marble steps leading up to some bronze doors, and over the doors, made of metal letters set in the stone, was the word LIBRVM.

  He'd spent too much time looking. Urn's hand clamped itself on to his shell, and he heard Didactylos's voice say, "Hey . . . there's good eating on one of these things . . .

  Brutha cowered.

  "You stoned our envoy!" shouted Vorbis. "An unarmed man!"

  "He brought it upon himself," said the Tyrant. "Aristocrates was there. He will tell you."

  The tall man nodded and stood up.

  "By tradition anyone may speak in the marketplace," he began.

  "And be stoned?" Vorbis demanded.

  Aristocrates held up a hand.

  "Ah," he said, "anyone can say what they like in the square. We have another tradition, though, called free listening. Unfortunately, when people dislike what they hear, they can become a little . . . testy."

  "I was there too," said another advisor. "Your priest got up to speak and at first everything was fine, because people were laughing. And then he said that Om was the only real God, and everyone went quiet. And then he pushed over a statue of Tuvelpit, the God of Wine. That's when the trouble started."

  "Are you proposing to tell me he was struck by lightning?" said Vorbis.

  Vorbis was no longer shouting. His voice was level, without passion. The thought rose in Brutha's mind: this is how the exquisitors speak. When the inquisitors have finished, the exquisitors speak . . .

  "No. By an amphora. Tuvelpit was in the crowd, you see."

  "And striking honest men is considered proper godly behavior, is it?"

  "Your missionary had said that people who did not believe in Om would suffer endless punishment. I have to tell you that the crowd considered this rude."

  "And so they threw stones at him . . ."

  "Not many. They only hurt his pride. And only after they'd run out of vegetables."

  "They threw vegetables?"

  "When they couldn't find any more eggs."

  "And when we came to remonstrate-”

  "I am sure sixty ships intended more than remonstrating," said the Tyrant. "And we have warned you, Lord Vorbis. People find in Ephebe what they seek. There will be more raids on your coast. We will harass your ships. Unless you sign."

  "And passage through Ephebe?" said Vorbis.

  The Tyrant smiled.

  "Across the desert? My lord, if you can cross the desert, I am sure you can go anywhere." The Tyrant looked away from Vorbis and towards the sky, visible between the pillars.

  "And now I see it is nearing noon," he said. "And the day heats up. Doubtless you will wish to discuss our . . . uh . . . proposals with your colleagues. May I suggest we meet again at sunset?"

  Vorbis appeared to give this some consideration.

  "I think," he said eventually, "that our deliberations may take longer. Shall we say . . . tomorrow morning?"

  The Tyrant nodded.

  "As you wish. In the meantime, the palace is at your disposal. There are many fine temples and works of art should you wish to inspect them. When you require meals, mention the fact to the nearest slave."

  "Slave is an Ephebian word. In Om we have no word for slave," said Vorbis.

  "So I understand," said the Tyrant. "I imagine that fish have no word for water." He smiled the fleeting smile again. "And there are the baths and the Library, of course. Many fine sights. You are our guests."

  Vorbis inclined his head.

  "I pray," he said, "that one day you will be a guest of mine."

  "And what sights I shall see," said the Tyrant.

  Brutha stood up, knocking over his bench and going redder with embarrassment.

  He thought: they lied about Brother Murduck. They beat him within an inch of his life, Vorbis said, and flogged him the rest of the way. And Brother Nhumrod said he saw the body, and it was really true. Just for talking! People who would do that sort of thing deserve . . . punishment. And they keep slaves. People forced to work against their will. People treated like animals. And they even call their ruler a Tyrant!

  And why isn't any of this exactly what it seems?

  Why don't I believe any of it?

  Why do I know it isn't true?

  And what did he mean about fish not having a word for water?

  The Omnians were half-escorted, half-led back to their compound. Another bowl of fruit was waiting on the table in Brutha's cell, with some more fish and a loaf of bread.

  There was also a man, sweeping the floor.

  "Um," said Brutha. "Are you a slave?"

  "Yes, master."

  "That must be terrible."

  The man leaned on his broom. "You're right. It's terrible. Really terrible. D'you know, I only get one day off a week?"

  Brutha, who had never heard the words "day off" before, and who was in any case unfamiliar with the concept, nodded uncertai
nly.

  "Why don't you run away?" he said.

  "Oh, done that," said the slave. "Ran away to Tsort once. Didn't like it much. Came back. Run away for a fortnight in Djelibeybi every winter, though."

  "Do you get brought back?" said Brutha.

  "Huh!" said the slave. "No, I don't. Miserable skinflint, Aristocrates. I have to come back by myself. Hitching lifts on ships, that kind of thing."

  "You come back?"

  "Yeah. Abroad's all right to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there. Anyway, I've only got another four years as a slave and then I'm free. You get the vote when you're free. And you get to keep slaves." His face glazed with the effort of recollection as he ticked off points on his fingers. "Slaves get three meals a day, at least one with meat. And one free day a week. And two weeks being-allowed-to-run­away every year. And I don't do ovens or heavy lifting, and worldly-wise repartee only by arrangement."

  "Yes, but you're not free, " said Brutha, intrigued despite himself.

  "What's the difference?"

  "Er . . . you don't get any days off." Brutha scratched his head. "And one less meal."

  "Really? I think I'll give freedom a miss then, thanks."

  "Er . . . have you seen a tortoise anywhere around here?" said Brutha.

  "No. And I cleaned under the bed."

  "Have you seen one anywhere else today?"

  "You want one? There's good eating on a-”

  "No. No. It's all right-”

  "Brutha! "

  It was Vorbis's voice. Brutha hurried out into the courtyard and into Vorbis's cell.

  "Ah, Brutha."

  "Yes, lord?"

  Vorbis was sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at the wall.

  "You are a young man visiting a new place," said Vorbis. "No doubt there is much you wish to see."

  "There is?" said Brutha. Vorbis was using the exquisitor voice again-a level monotone, a voice like a strip of dull steel.

  "You may go where you wish. See new things, Brutha. Learn everything you can. You are my eyes and ears. And my memory. Learn about this place."

  "Er. Really, lord?"

  "Have I impressed you with my use of careless language, Brutha?"

  "No, lord."

  "Go away. Fill yourself. And be back by sunset."

  "Er. Even the Library?" said Brutha.

  "Ah? Yes, the Library. The Library that they have here. Of course. Crammed with useless and dangerous and evil knowledge. I can see it in my mind, Brutha. Can you imagine that?"

  "No, Lord Vorbis."

  "Your innocence is your shield, Brutha. No. By all means go to the Library. I have no fear of any effect on you. "

  "Lord Vorbis?"

  "Yes?"

  "The Tyrant said that they hardly did anything to Brother Murduck . . ."

  Silence unrolled its restless length.

  Vorbis said, "He lied."

  "Yes." Brutha waited. Vorbis continued to stare at the wall. Brutha wondered what he saw there. When nothing else appeared to be forthcoming, he said, "Thank you."

  He stepped back a bit before he went out, so that he could squint under the deacon's bed.

  He's probably in trouble, Brutha thought as he hurried through the palace. Everyone wants to eat tortoises.

  He tried to look everywhere while avoiding the friezes of unclad nymphs.

  Brutha was technically aware that women were a different shape from men; he hadn't left the village until he was twelve, by which time some of his contemporaries were already married. And Omnianism encouraged early marriage as a preventive against Sin, although any activity involving any part of the human anatomy between neck and knees was more or less Sinful in any case.

  Brutha wished he was a better scholar so he could ask his God why this was.

  Then he found himself wishing his God was a more intelligent God so it could answer.

  He hasn't screamed for me, he thought. I'm sure I would have heard. So maybe no one's cooking him.

  A slave polishing one of the statues directed him to the Library. Brutha pounded down an aisle of pillars.

  When he reached the courtyard in front of the Library it was crowded with philosophers, all craning to look at something. Brutha could hear the usual petulant squabbling that showed that philosophical discourse was under way.

  In this case:

  "I've got ten obols here says it can't do it again!"

  "Talking money? That's something you don't hear every day, Xeno."

  "Yeah. And it's about to say goodbye."

  "Look, don't be stupid. It's a tortoise. It's just doing a mating dance . . ."

  There was a breathless pause. Then a sort of collective sigh.

  "There!"

  "That's never a right angle!"

  "Come on! I'd like to see you do better in the circumstances!"

  "What's it doing now?"

  "The hypotenuse, I think."

  "Call that a hypotenuse? It's wiggly."

  "It's not wiggly. It's drawing it straight and you're looking at it in a wiggly way!"

  "I'll bet thirty obols it can't do a square!"

  "Here's forty obols says it can."

  There was another pause, and then a cheer.

  "Yeah!"

  "That's more of a parallelogram, if you ask me," said a petulant voice.

  "Listen, I knows a square when I sees one! And that's a square."

  "All right. Double or nothing then. Bet it can't do a dodecagon."

  "Hah! You bet it couldn't do a septagon just now."

  "Double or nothing. Dodecagon. Worried, eh! Feeling a bit avis domestica? Cluck-cluck?"

  "It's a shame to take your money . . ."

  There was another pause.

  "Ten sides? Ten sides? Hah!"

  "Told you it wasn't any good! Whoever heard of a tortoise doing geometry?"

  "Another daft idea, Didactylos?"

  "I said so all along. It's just a tortoise."

  "There's good eating on one of those things . . ."

  The mass of philosophers broke up, pushing past Brutha without paying him much attention. He caught a glimpse of a circle of damp sand, covered with geometrical figures. Om was sitting in the middle of them. Behind him was a very grubby pair of philosophers, counting out a pile of coins.

  "How did we do, Urn?" said Didactylos.

  "We're fifty-two obols up, master."

  "See? Every day things improve. Pity it didn't know the difference between ten and twelve, though. Cut one of its legs off and we'll have a stew."

  "Cut off a leg?"

  "Well, a tortoise like that, you don't eat it all at once."

  Didactylos turned his face towards a plump young man with splayed feet and a red face, who was staring at the tortoise.

  "Yes?" he said.

  "The tortoise does know the difference between ten and twelve," said the fat boy.

  "Damn thing just lost me eighty obols," said Didactylos.

  "Yes. But tomorrow . . ." the boy began, his eyes glazing as if he was carefully repeating something he'd just heard ". . . tomorrow . . . you should be able to get odds of at least three to one."

  Didactylos's mouth dropped open.

  "Give me the tortoise, Urn," he said.

  The apprentice philosopher reached down and picked up Om, very carefully.

  "You know, I thought right at the start there was something funny about this creature," said Didactylos. "I said to Urn, there's tomorrow's dinner, and then he says no, it's dragging its tail in the sand and doing geometry. That doesn't come natural to a tortoise, geometry."

  Om's eye turned to Brutha.

  "I had to," he said. "It was the only way to get his attention. Now I've got him by the curiosity. When you've got 'em by the curiosity, their hearts and minds will follow."

  "He's a God," said Brutha.

  "Really? What's his name?" said the philosopher.

  "Don't tell him! Don't tell him! The local gods'll hear!"

  "I don't know," s
aid Brutha.

  Didactylos turned Om over.

  "The Turtle Moves," said Urn thoughtfully.

  "What?" said Brutha.

  "Master did a book," said Urn.

  "Not really a book," said Didactylos modestly. "More a scroll. Just a little thing I knocked off."

  "Saying that the world is flat and goes through space on the back of a giant turtle?" said Brutha.

  "Have you read it?" Didactylos's gaze was unmoving. "Are you a slave?"

  "No," said Brutha. "I am a-”

  "Don't mention my name! Call yourself a scribe or something!"

  "-scribe," said Brutha weakly.

  "Yeah," said Urn. "I can see that. The telltale callus on the thumb where you hold the pen. The inkstains all over your sleeves."

  Brutha glanced at his left thumb. "I haven't-”

  "Yeah," said Urn, grinning. "Use your left hand, do you?"

  "Er, I use both," said Brutha. "But not very well, everyone says."

  "Ah," said Didactylos. "Ambi-sinister?"

  "What?"

  "He means incompetent with both hands," said Om.

  "Oh. Yes. That's me." Brutha coughed politely. "Look . . . I'm looking for a philosopher. Um. One that knows about gods."

  He waited.

  Then he said, "You aren't going to say they're a relic of an outmoded belief system?"

  Didactylos, still running his fingers over Om's shell, shook his head.

  "Nope. I like my thunderstorms a long way off."

  "Oh. Could you stop turning him over and over? He's just told me he doesn't like it."

  "You can tell how old they are by cutting them in half and counting the rings," said Didactylos.

  "Um. He hasn't got much of a sense of humor, either."

  "You're Omnian, by the sound of it." Yes."

  "Here to talk about the treaty?"

  "I do the listening."

  "And what do you want to know about gods?"

  Brutha appeared to be listening.

  Eventually he said: "How they start. How they grow. And what happens to them afterwards."

  Didactylos put the tortoise into Brutha's hands.

  "Costs money, that kind of thinking," he said.

  "Let me know when we've used more than fifty-two obols' worth," said Brutha. Didactylos grinned.

  "Looks like you can think for yourself," he said. "Got a good memory?"

  "No. Not exactly a good one."

  "Right? Right. Come on into the Library. It's got an earthed copper roof, you know. Gods really hate that sort of thing."