Small Gods

‘Do you know, Brutha,’ he said, ‘I do not think there is a single person in the Citadel who would dare to interrupt me at prayer? They would fear the Quisition. Everyone fears the Quisition. Except you, it appears. Do you fear the Quisition?’

Brutha looked into the black-on-black eyes. Vorbis looked into a round pink face. There was a special face that people wore when they spoke to an exquisitor. It was flat and expressionless and glistened slightly, and even a half-trained exquisitor could read the barely concealed guilt like a book. Brutha just looked out of breath but then, he always did. It was fascinating.

‘No, lord,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

‘The Quisition protects us, lord. It is written in Ossory, chapter VII, verse—’

Vorbis put his head on one side.

‘Of course it is. But have you ever thought that the Quisition could be wrong?’

‘No, lord,’ said Brutha.

‘But why not?’

‘I do not know why, Lord Vorbis. I just never have.’

Vorbis sat down at a little writing table, no more than a board that folded down from the hull.

‘And you are right, Brutha,’ he said. ‘Because the Quisition cannot be wrong. Things can only be as the God wishes them. It is impossible to think that the world could run in any other way, is this not so?’

A vision of a one-eyed tortoise flickered momentarily in Brutha’s mind.

Brutha had never been any good at lying. The truth itself had always seemed so incomprehensible that complicating things even further had always been beyond him.

‘So the Septateuch teaches us,’ he said.

‘Where there is punishment, there is always a crime,’ said Vorbis. ‘Sometimes the crime follows the punishment, which only serves to prove the foresight of the Great God.’

‘That’s what my grandmother used to say,’ said Brutha automatically.

‘Indeed? I would like to know more about this formidable lady.’

‘She used to give me a thrashing every morning because I would certainly do something to deserve it during the day,’ said Brutha.

‘A most complete understanding of the nature of mankind,’ said Vorbis, with his chin on one hand. ‘Were it not for the deficiency of her sex, it sounds as though she would have made an excellent inquisitor.’

Brutha nodded. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.

‘And now,’ said Vorbis, with no change in his tone, ‘you will tell me what you saw in the desert.’

‘Uh. There were six flashes. And then a pause of about five heartbeats. And then eight flashes. And another pause. And two flashes.’

Vorbis nodded thoughtfully.

‘Three-quarters,’ he said. ‘All praise to the Great God. He is my staff and guide through the hard places. And you may go.’

Brutha hadn’t expected to be told what the flashes meant, and wasn’t going to enquire. The Quisition asked the questions. They were known for it.

Next day the ship rounded a headland and the bay of Ephebe lay before it, with the city a white smudge on the horizon which time and distance turned into a spilling of blindingly white houses, all the way up a rock.

It seemed of considerable interest to Sergeant Simony. Brutha had not exchanged a word with him. Fraternization between clergy and soldiers was not encouraged; there was a certain tendency to unholiness about soldiers …

Brutha, left to his own devices again as the crew made ready for port, watched the soldier carefully. Most soldiers were a bit slovenly and generally rude to minor clergy. Simony was different. Apart from anything else, he gleamed. His breastplate hurt the eyes. His skin looked scrubbed.

The sergeant stood at the prow, staring fixedly as the city drew nearer. It was unusual to see him very far away from Vorbis. Wherever Vorbis stood there was the sergeant, hand on sword, eyes scanning the surroundings for … what?

And always silent, except when spoken to. Brutha tried to be friends.

‘Looks very … white, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘The city. Very white. Sergeant Simony?’

The sergeant turned slowly, and stared at Brutha.

Vorbis’s gaze was dreadful. Vorbis looked through your head to the sins inside, hardly interested in you except as a vehicle for your sins. But Simony’s glance was pure, simple hatred.

Brutha stepped back.

‘Oh. I’m sorry,’ he muttered. He walked back sombrely to the blunt end, and tried to keep out of the soldier’s way.

Anyway, there were more soldiers, soon enough …

The Ephebians were expecting them. Soldiers lined the quay, weapons held in a way that stopped just short of being a direct insult. And there were a lot of them.

Brutha trailed along, the voice of the tortoise insinuating itself in his head.

‘So the Ephebians want peace, do they?’ said Om. ‘Doesn’t look like that. Doesn’t look like we’re going to lay down the law to a defeated enemy. Looks like we took a pasting and don’t want to take any more. Looks like we’re suing for peace. That’s what it looks like to me.’

‘In the Citadel everyone said it was a glorious victory,’ said Brutha. He found he could talk now with his lips hardly moving at all; Om seemed able to pick up his words as they reached his vocal chords.