"And so on," said Vorbis, nodding. "Of course. But there is another kind of light. A light that fills even the darkest of places. This has to be. For if this metalight did not exist, how could darkness be seen?"
Brutha said nothing. This sounded too much like philosophy.
"And so it is with truth," said Vorbis. "There are some things which appear to be the truth, which have all the hallmarks of truth, but which are not the real truth. The real truth must sometimes be protected by a labyrinth of lies."
He turned to Brutha. "Do you understand me?"
"No, Lord Vorbis."
"I mean, that which appears to our senses is not the fundamental truth. Things that are seen and heard and done by the flesh are mere shadows of a deeper reality. This is what you must understand as you progress in the Church."
"But at the moment, lord, I know only the trivial truth, the truth available on the outside," said Brutha. He felt as though he was at the edge of a pit.
"That is how we all begin," said Vorbis kindly.
"So did the Ephebians kill Brother Murduck?" Brutha persisted. Now he was inching out over the darkness.
"I am telling you that in the deepest sense of the truth they did. By their failure to embrace his words, by their intransigence, they surely killed him."
"But in the trivial sense of the truth," said Brutha, picking every word with the care an inquisitor might give to his patient in the depths of the Citadel, "in the trivial sense, Brother Murduck died, did he not, in Omnia, because he had not died in Ephebe, had been merely mocked, but it was feared that others in the Church might not understand the, the deeper truth, and thus it was put about that the Ephebians had killed him in, in the trivial sense, thus giving you, and those who saw the truth of the evil of Ephebe, due cause to launch a-a just retaliation."
They walked past a fountain. The deacon's steelshod staff clicked in the night.
"I see a great future for you in the Church," said Vorbis, eventually. "The time of the eighth Prophet is coming. A time of expansion, and great opportunity for those true in the service of Om."
Brutha looked into the pit.
If Vorbis was right, and there was a kind of light that made darkness visible, then down there was its opposite, the darkness where no light could ever reach: darkness that blackened light. He thought of blind Didactylos and his empty lantern.
He heard himself say, "And with people like the Ephebians, there is no truce. No treaty can be held binding, if it is between people like the Ephebians and those who follow a deeper truth?"
Vorbis nodded. "When the Great God is with us," he said, "who can stand against us? You impress me, Brutha."
There was more laughter in the darkness, and the twang of stringed instruments.
"A feast," sneered Vorbis. "The Tyrant invited us to a feast! I sent some of the party, of course. Even their generals are in there! They think themselves safe behind their labyrinth, as a tortoise thinks himself safe in his shell, not realizing it is a prison. Onward."
The inner wall of the labyrinth loomed out of the darkness. Brutha leaned against it. From far above came the chink of metal on metal as a sentry went on his rounds.
The gateway to the labyrinth was wide open. The Ephebians had never seen the point of stopping people entering. Up a short side-tunnel the guide for the first sixth of the way slumbered on a bench, a candle guttering beside him. Above his alcove hung the bronze bell that would-be traversers of the maze used to summon him. Brutha slipped past.
"Brutha?"
"Yes, lord?"
"Lead the way through the labyrinth. I know you can."
"Lord-”
"This is an order, Brutha," said Vorbis, pleasantly.
There is no hope for it, Brutha thought. It is an order.
"Then tread where I tread, lord," he whispered. "Not more than one step behind me."
"Yes, Brutha."
"If I step around a place on the floor for no reason, you step around it too."
"Yes, Brutha."
Brutha thought: perhaps I could do it wrong. No. I took vows and things. You can't just disobey. The whole world ends if you start thinking like that . . .
He let his sleeping mind take control. The way through the labyrinth unrolled in his head like a glowing wire .
. . . diagonally forward and right three and-a-half paces, and left sixty-three paces, pause two secondswhere a steely swish in the darkness suggested that one of the guardians had devised something that won him a prize-and up three steps . . .
I could run forward, he thought. I could hide, and he'd walk into one of the pits or a deadfall or something, and then I could sneak back to my room and who would ever know?
I would .
. . . forward nine paces, and right one pace, and forward nineteen paces, and left two paces . . .
There was a light ahead. Not the occasional white glow of moonlight from the slits in the roof, but yellow lamplight, dimming and brightening as its owner came nearer.
"Someone's coming," he whispered. "It must be one of the guides!"
Vorbis had vanished.
Brutha hovered uncertainly in the passageway as the light bobbed nearer.
An elderly voice said, "That you, Number Four?"
The light came round a corner. It half-illuminated an old man, who walked up to Brutha and raised the candle to his face.
"Where's Number Four?" he said, peering around Brutha.
A figure appeared behind the man, from out of a sidepassage. Brutha had the briefest glimpse of Vorbis, his face strangely peaceful, as he gripped the head of his staff, twisted and pulled. Sharp metal glittered for a moment in the candlelight.
Then the light went out.
Vorbis's voice said, "Take the lead again."
Trembling, Brutha obeyed. He felt the soft flesh of an outflung arm under his sandal for a moment.
The pit, he thought. Look into Vorbis's eyes, and there's the pit. And I'm in it with him.
I've got to remember about fundamental truth.
No more guides were patrolling the labyrinth. After a mere million years, the night air blew cool on his face, and Brutha stepped out under the stars.
"Well done. Can you remember the way to the gate?"
"Yes, Lord Vorbis."
The deacon pulled his hood over his face.
"Carry on."
There were a few torches lighting the streets, but Ephebe was not a city that stayed awake in darkness. A couple of passers-by paid them no attention.
"They guard their harbor," said Vorbis, conversational. "But the way to the desert . . . everyone knows that no one can cross the desert. I am sure you know that, Brutha."
"But now I suspect that what I know is not the truth," said Brutha.
"Quite so. Ah. The gate. I believe it had two guards yesterday?"
"I saw two."
"And now it is night and the gate is shut. But there will be a watchman. Wait here."
Vorbis disappeared into the gloom. After a while there was a muffled conversation. Brutha stared straight ahead of him.
The conversation was followed by muffled silence. After a while Brutha started to count to himself.
After ten, I'll go back.
Another ten, then.
All right. Make it thirty. And then I'll . . .
"Ah, Brutha. Let us go."
Brutha swallowed his heart again, and turned slowly.
"I did not hear you, lord," he managed.
"I walk softly."
"Is there a watchman?"
"Not now. Come help me with the bolts."
A small wicket gate was set into the main gate. Brutha, his mind numb with hatred, shoved the bolts aside with the heel of his hand. The door opened with barely a creak.
Outside there was the occasional light of a distant farm, and crowding darkness.
Then the darkness poured in.
Hierarchy, Vorbis said later. The Ephebians didn't think in terms of hierarchies.
&nb
sp; No army could cross the desert. But maybe a small army could get a quarter of the way, and leave a cache of water. And do that several times. And another small army could use part of that cache to go further, maybe reach halfway, and leave a cache. And another small army . . .
It had taken months. A third of the men had died, of heat and dehydration and wild animals and worse things, the worse things that the desert held . . .
You had to have a mind like Vorbis's to plan it.
And plan it early. Men were already dying in the desert before Brother Murduck went to preach; there was already a beaten track when the Omnian fleet burned in the bay before Ephebe.
You had to have a mind like Vorbis's to plan your retaliation before your attack.
It was over in less than an hour. The fundamental truth was that the handful of Ephebian guards in the palace had no chance at all.
Vorbis sat upright in the Tyrant's chair. It was approaching midnight.
A collection of Ephebian citizens, the Tyrant among them, had been herded in front of him.
He busied himself with some paperwork and then looked up with an air of mild surprise, as if he'd been completely unaware that fifty people were waiting in front of him at crossbow point.
"Ah," he said, and flashed a little smile.
"Well," he said, "I am pleased to say that we can now dispense with the peace treaty. Quite unnecessary. Why prattle of peace when there is no more war? Ephebe is now a diocese of Omnia. There will be no argument."
He threw a paper on to the floor.
"There will be a fleet here in a few days. There will be no opposition, while we hold the palace. Your infernal mirror is even now being smashed."
He steepled his fingers and looked at the assembled Ephebians.
"Who built it?"
The Tyrant looked up.
"It was an Ephebian construction," he said.
"Ah," said Vorbis, "democracy. I forgot. Then who"-he signaled one of the guards, who handed him a sack-"wrote this?"
A copy of De Chelonian Mobile was flung on to the marble floor.
Brutha stood beside the throne. It was where he had been told to stand.
He'd looked into the pit and now it was him. Everything around him was happening in some distant circle of light, surrounded by darkness. Thoughts chased one another round his head.
Did the Cenobiarch know about this? Did anyone else know about the two kinds of truth? Who else knew that Vorbis was fighting both sides of a war, like a child playing with soldiers? Was it really wrong if it was for the greater glory of . . .
. . . a god who was a tortoise. A god that only Brutha believed in?
Who did Vorbis talk to when he prayed?
Through the mental storm Brutha heard Vorbis's level tones: "If the philosopher who wrote this does not own up, the entirety of you will be put to the flame. Do not doubt that I mean it."
There was a movement in the crowd, and the sound of Didactylos's voice.
"Let go! You heard him! Anyway . . . I always wanted a chance to do this . . ."
A couple of servants were pushed aside and the philosopher stumped out of the crowd, his barren lantern held defiantly over his head.
Brutha watched the philosopher pause for a moment in the empty space, and then turn very slowly until he was directly facing Vorbis. He took a few steps forward then, and held the lantern out as he appeared to regard the deacon critically.
"Hmm," he said.
"You are the . . . perpetrator?" said Vorbis.
"Indeed. Didactylos is my name."
"You are blind?"
"Only as far as vision is concerned, my lord."
"Yet you carry a lantern," said Vorbis. "Doubtless for some catchword reason. Probably you'll tell me you're looking for an honest man?"
"I don't know, my lord. Perhaps you could tell me what he looks like?"
"I should strike you down now," said Vorbis.
"Oh, certainly."
Vorbis indicated the book.
"These lies. This scandal. This . . . this lure to drag the minds of men from the path of true knowledge. You dare to stand before me and declare"-he pushed the book with a toe-"that the world is flat and travels through the void on the back of a giant turtle?"
Brutha held his breath.
So did history.
Affirm your belief, Brutha thought. Just once, someone please stand up to Vorbis. I can't. But someone . . .
He found his eyes swiveling toward Simony, who stood on the other side of Vorbis's chair. The sergeant looked transfixed, fascinated.
Didactylos drew himself up to his full height. He half-turned and for a moment his blank gaze passed across Brutha. The lantern was extended at arm's length.
"No," he said.
"When every honest man knows that the world is a sphere, a perfect shape, bound to spin around the sphere of the Sun as Man orbits the central truth of Om," said Vorbis, "and the stars-”
Brutha leaned forward, heart pounding.
"My lord?" he whispered.
"What?" snapped Vorbis.
"He said `no,' " said Brutha.
"That's right," said Didactylos.
Vorbis sat absolutely motionless for a moment.
Then his jaw moved a fraction, as if he was rehearsing some words under his breath.
"You deny it?" he said.
"Let it be a sphere," said Didactylos. "No problem with a sphere. No doubt special arrangements are made for everything to stay on. And the Sun can be another larger sphere, a long way off. Would you like the Moon to orbit the world or the Sun? I advise the world. More hierarchical, and a splendid example to us all."
Brutha was seeing something he'd never seen before. Vorbis was looking bewildered.
"But you wrote . . . you said the world is on the back of a giant turtle! You gave the turtle a name!"
Didactylos shrugged. "Now I know better," he said. "Who ever heard of a turtle ten thousand miles long? Swimming through the emptiness of space? Hah. For stupidity! I am embarrassed to think of it now."
Vorbis shut his mouth. Then he opened it again.
"This is how an Ephebian philosopher behaves?" he said.
Didactylos shrugged again. "It is how any true philosopher behaves," he said. "One must always be ready to embrace new ideas, take account of new proofs. Don't you agree? And you have brought us many new points"-a gesture seemed to take in, quite by accident, the Omnian bowmen around the room-"for me to ponder. I can always be swayed by powerful argument."
"Your lies have already poisoned the world!"
"Then I shall write another book," said Didactylos calmly. "Think how it will look-proud Didactylos swayed by the arguments of the Omnians. A full retraction. Hmm? In fact, with your permission, lord-I know you have much to do, looting and burning and so on-I will retire to my barrel right away and start work on it. A universe of spheres. Balls spinning through space. Hmm. Yes. With your permission, lord, I will write you more balls than you can imagine . . ."
The old philosopher turned and, very slowly, walked towards the exit.
Vorbis watched him go.
Brutha saw him half-raise his hand to signal the guards, and then lower it again.
Vorbis turned to the Tyrant.
"So much for your-" he began.
"Coo-ee!"
The lantern sailed through the doorway and shattered against Vorbis's skull.
"Nevertheless . . . the Turtle Moves!"
Vorbis leapt to his feet.
"I-” he screamed, and then got a grip on himself. He waved irritably at a couple of the guards. "I want him caught. Now. And . . . Brutha?"
Brutha could hardly hear him for the rush of blood in his ears. Didactylos had been a better thinker than he'd thought.
"Yes, lord?"
"You will take a party of men, and you will take them to the Library . . . and then, Brutha, you will burn the Library."
Didactylos was blind, but it was dark. The pursuing guards co
uld see, except that there was nothing to see by. And they hadn't spent their lives wandering the twisty, uneven and above all many-stepped lanes of Ephebe.
"-eight, nine, ten, eleven," muttered the philosopher, bounding up a pitch-dark flight of steps and haring around a corner.
"Argh, ow, that was my knee," muttered most of the guards, in a heap about halfway up.
One made it to the top, though. By starlight he could just make out the skinny figure, bounding madly along the street. He raised his crossbow. The old fool wasn't even dodging . . .
A perfect target.
There was a twang.
The guard looked puzzled for a moment. The bow toppled from his hands, firing itself as it hit the cobbles and sending its bolt ricocheting off a statue. He looked down at the feathered shaft sticking out of his chest, and then at the figure detaching itself from the shadows.
"Sergeant Simony?" he whispered.
"I'm sorry," said Simony. "I really am. But the Truth is important."
The soldier opened his mouth to give his opinion of the truth and then slumped forward.
He opened his eyes.
Simony was walking away. Everything looked lighter. It was still dark. But now he could see in the darkness. Everything was shades of gray. And the cobbles under his hand had somehow become a coarse black sand.
He looked up.
ON YOUR FEET, PRIVATE ICHLOS.
He stood up sheepishly. Now he was more than just a soldier, an anonymous figure to chase and be killed and be no more than a shadowy bit-player in other people's lives. Now he was Dervi Ichlos, aged thirtyeight, comparatively blameless in the general scheme of things, and dead.
He raised a hand to his lips uncertainly.
"You're the judge?" he said.
NOT ME.
Ichlos looked at the sands stretching away. He knew instinctively what he had to do. He was far less sophisticated than General Fri'it, and took more notice of songs he'd learned in his childhood. Besides, he had an advantage. He'd had even less religion than the general.
JUDGEMENT IS AT THE END OF THE DESERT.
Ichlos tried to smile.
"My mum told me about this," he said. "When you're dead, you have to walk a desert. And you see everything properly, she said. And remember everything right."
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