Small Gods

‘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. Any 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 uncertainly.

‘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-run-away 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.