He’d learned about the Turtle, there. It had all made sense. He’d thought: it sounds
Vorbis knew about him. He must do. There were spies everywhere. Sasho had been useful. How much had Vorbis got out of him? Had he said what he knew?
Of course he’d say what he knew …
Something went snap inside Fri’it.
He glanced at his sword, hanging on the wall.
And why not? After all, he was going to spend all eternity in a thousand hells …
The knowledge was freedom, of a sort. When the least they could do to you was everything, then the most they could do to you suddenly held no terror. If he was going to be boiled for a lamb, then he might as well be roasted for a sheep.
He staggered to his feet and, after a couple of tries, got the swordbelt off the wall. Vorbis’s quarters weren’t far away, if he could manage the steps. One stroke, that’s all it would take. He could cut Vorbis in half without trying. And maybe … maybe nothing would happen afterwards. There were others who felt like him — somewhere. Or, anyway, he could get down to the stables, be well away by dawn, get to Ephebe, maybe, across the desert …
He reached the door and fumbled for the handle.
It turned of its own accord.
Fri’it staggered back as the door swung inwards.
Vorbis was standing there. In the flickering light of the oil lamp, his face registered polite concern.
‘Excuse the lateness of the hour, my lord,’ he said. ‘But I thought we should talk. About tomorrow.’
The sword clattered out of Fri’it’s hand.
Vorbis leaned forward.
‘Is there something wrong, brother?’ he said.
He smiled, and stepped into the room. Two hooded inquisitors slipped in behind him.
‘Brother,’ Vorbis said again. And shut the door.
‘How is it in there?’ said Brutha.
‘I’m going to rattle around like a pea in a pot,’ grumbled the tortoise.
‘I could put some more straw in. And, look, I’ve got these.’
A pile of greenstuff dropped on Om’s head.
‘From the kitchen,’ said Brutha. ‘Peelings and cabbage. I stole them,’ he added, ‘but then I thought it can’t be stealing if I’m doing it for you.’
The fetid smell of the half-rotten leaves suggested strongly that Brutha had committed his crime when the greens were halfway to the midden, but Om didn’t say so. Not now.
‘Right,’ he mumbled.
There must be others, he told himself. Sure. Out in the country. This place is too sophisticated. But … there had been all those pilgrims in front of the Temple. They weren’t just country people, they were the devoutest ones. Whole villages clubbed together to send one person carrying the petitions of many. But there hadn’t been the flame. There had been fear, and dread, and yearning, and hope. All those emotions had their flavour. But there hadn’t been the flame.
The eagle had dropped him near Brutha. He’d … woken up. He could dimly remember all that time as a tortoise. And now he remembered being a god. How far away from Brutha would he still remember? A mile? Ten miles? How would it be … feeling the knowledge drain away, dwindling back to nothing but a lowly reptile? Maybe there would be a part of him that would always remember, helplessly …
He shuddered.
Currently Om was in a wickerwork box slung from Brutha’s shoulder. It wouldn’t have been comfortable at the best of times, but now it shook occasionally as Brutha stamped his feet in the pre-dawn chill.
After a while some of the Citadel grooms arrived, with horses. Brutha was the subject of a few odd looks. He smiled at everyone. It seemed the best way.
He began to feel hungry, but didn’t dare leave his post. He’d been
The courtyard here was U-shaped, around a wing of the Citadel buildings, and around the corner it looked as though another party was preparing to set out.
Brutha knew about camels. There had been a couple in his grandmother’s village. There seemed to be hundreds of them here, though, complaining like badly oiled pumps and smelling like a thousand damp carpets. Men in
Brutha wandered over to the nearest creature. A man was strapping water-bottles round its hump.
‘Good morning, brother,’ said Brutha.
‘Bugger off,’ said the man without looking round.
‘The Prophet Abbys tells us (chap. XXV, verse 6): “Woe unto he who defiles his mouth with curses
‘Does he? Well, he can bugger off too,’ said the man, conversationally.
Brutha hesitated. Technically, of course, the man had bought himself vacant possession of a thousand hells and a month or two of the attentions of the Quisition, but now Brutha could see that he was a member of the Divine Legion; a sword was half-hidden under the desert robes.