Small Gods

‘And, of course, one day we shall have to call you Brother Brutha,’ he said. ‘Or even Father Brutha? Rather confusing, I think. Best to be avoided. I think we shall have to see to it that you become Subdeacon Brutha just as soon as possible; what do you think of that?’

Brutha did not think anything of it. He was vaguely aware that advancement was being discussed, but his mind had gone blank.

‘Anyway, enough of this,’ said Vorbis, with the slight exasperation of someone who realizes that he is going to have to do a lot of work in this conversation. ‘Do you recognize these learned fathers on my left and right?’

Brutha shook his head.

‘Good. They have some questions to ask you.’

Brutha nodded.

The very fat man leaned forward.

‘Do you have a tongue, boy?’

Brutha nodded. And then, feeling that perhaps this wasn’t enough, presented it for inspection.

Vorbis laid a restraining hand on the fat man’s arm.

‘I think our young friend is a little overawed,’ he said mildly.

He smiled.

‘Now, Brutha — please put it away — I am going to ask you some questions. Do you understand?’

Brutha nodded.

‘When you first came into my apartments, you were for a few seconds in the anteroom. Please describe it to me.’

Brutha stared frog-eyed at him. But the turbines of recollection ground into life without his volition, pouring their words into the forefront of his mind.

‘It is a room about three metres square. With white walls. There is sand on the floor except in the corner by the door, where the flagstones are visible. There is a window on the opposite wall, about two metres up. There were three bars in the window. There is a three-legged stool. There is a holy icon of the Prophet Ossory, carved from aphacia wood and set with silver leaf. There is a scratch in the bottom left-hand corner of the frame. There is a shelf under the window. There is nothing on the shelf but a tray.’

Vorbis steepled his long thin fingers in front of his nose.

‘On the tray?’ he said.

‘I am sorry, lord?’

‘What was on the tray, my son?’

Images whirled in front of Brutha’s eyes.

‘On the tray was a thimble. A bronze thimble. And two needles. On the tray was a length of cord. There were knots in the cord. Three knots. And nine coins were on the tray. There was a silver cup on the tray, decorated with a pattern of aphacia leaves. There was a long dagger, I think it was steel, with a black handle with seven ridges on it. There was a small piece of black cloth on the tray. There was a stylus and a slate—’

‘Tell me about the coins,’ murmured Vorbis.

‘Three of them were Citadel cents,’ said Brutha promptly. ‘Two were showing the Horns, and one the sevenfold-crown. Four of the coins were very small and golden. There was lettering on them which … which I could not read, but which if you were to give me a stylus I think I could—’

‘This is some sort of trick?’ said the fat man.

‘I assure you,’ said Vorbis, ‘the boy could have seen the entire room for no more than a second. Brutha … tell us about the other coins.’

‘The other coins were large. They were bronze. They were derechmi from Ephebe.’

‘How do you know this? They are hardly common in the Citadel.’

‘I have seen them once before, lord.’

‘When was this?’

Brutha’s face screwed up with effort.

‘I am not sure—’ he said.

The fat man beamed at Vorbis.

‘Hah,’ he said.

‘I think …’ said Brutha ‘… it was in the afternoon. But it may have been the morning. Around midday. On Grune 3, in the year of the Astounded Beetle. Some merchants came to our village.’

‘How old were you at that time?’ said Vorbis.

‘I was within one month of three years old, lord.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ said the fat man.

Brutha’s mouth opened and shut once or twice. How did the fat man know? He hadn’t been there!

‘You could be wrong, my son,’ said Vorbis. ‘You are a well-grown lad of … what … seventeen, eighteen years? We feel you could not really recall a chance glimpse of a foreign coin fifteen years ago.’

‘We think that you are making it up,’ said the fat man.

Brutha said nothing. Why make anything up? When it was just sitting there in his head.

‘Can you remember everything that’s ever happened to you?’ said the stocky man, who had been watching Brutha carefully throughout the exchange. Brutha was glad of the interruption.

‘No, lord. Most things.’

‘You forget things?’

‘Uh. There are sometimes things I don’t remember.’ Brutha had heard about forgetfulness, although he found it hard to imagine. But there were times in his life, in the first few years of his life especially, when there was … nothing. Not an attrition of memory, but great locked rooms in the mansion of his recollection. Not forgotten, any more than a locked room ceases to exist, but… locked.

‘What is the first thing you can remember, my son?’ said Vorbis, kindly.

‘There was a bright light, and then someone hit me,’ said Brutha.

The three men stared at him blankly. Then they turned to one another. Brutha, through the misery of his terror, heard snatches of whispering.