Small Gods

‘Melons? Ah. Melons,’ said Nhumrod slowly. ‘Melons. Melons. Well, that goes some way towards explaining things, of course.’

An eyelid flickered madly.

It wasn’t just the Great God that spoke to Vorbis, in the confines of his head. Everyone spoke to an exquisitor, sooner or later. It was just a matter of stamina.

Vorbis didn’t often go down to watch the inquisitors at work these days. Exquisitors didn’t have to. He sent down instructions, he received reports. But special circumstances merited his special attention.

It has to be said … there was little to laugh at in the cellar of the Quisition. Not if you had a normal sense of humour. There were no jolly little signs saying: You Don’t Have To Be Pitilessly Sadistic To Work Here But It Helps!!!^{8}

But there were things to suggest to a thinking man that the Creator of mankind had a very oblique sense of fun indeed, and to breed in his heart a rage to storm the gates of heaven.

The mugs, for example. The inquisitors stopped work twice a day for coffee. Their mugs, which each man had brought from home, were grouped around the kettle on the hearth of the central furnace which incidentally heated the irons and knives.

They had legends on them like A Present From the Holy Grotto of Ossory, or To The World’s Greatest Daddy. Most of them were chipped, and no two of them were the same.

And there were the postcards on the wall. It was traditional that, when an inquisitor went on holiday, he’d send back a crudely coloured woodcut of the local view with some suitably jolly and risqué message on the back. And there was the pinned-up tearful letter from Inquisitor First Class Ishmale ‘Pop’ Quoom, thanking all the lads for collecting no fewer than seventy-eight obols for his retirement present and the lovely bunch of flowers for Mrs Quoom, indicating that he’d always remember his days in No.3 pit, and was looking forward to coming in and helping out any time they were short-handed.

And it all meant this: that there are hardly any excesses of the most crazed psychopath that cannot easily be duplicated by a normal, kindly family man who just comes in to work every day and has a job to do.

Vorbis loved knowing that. A man who knew that, knew everything he needed to know about people.

Currently he was sitting alongside the bench on which lay what was still, technically, the trembling body of Brother Sasho, formerly his secretary.

He looked up at the duty inquisitor, who nodded. Vorbis leaned over the chained secretary.

‘What were their names?’ he repeated.

‘… don’t know …’

‘I know you gave them copies of my correspondence, Sasho. They are treacherous heretics who will spend eternity in the hells. Will you join them?’

‘… don’t know names …’

‘I trusted you, Sasho. You spied on me. You betrayed the Church.’

‘… no names …’

‘Truth is surcease from pain, Sasho. Tell me.’

‘… truth …’

Vorbis sighed. And then he saw one of Sasho’s fingers curling and uncurling under the manacles. Beckoning.

‘Yes?’

He leaned closer over the body.

Sasho opened his one remaining eye.

‘… truth …’

‘Yes?’

‘… The Turtle Moves …’

Vorbis sat back, his expression unchanged. His expression seldom changed unless he wanted it to. The inquisitor watched him in terror.

‘I see,’ said Vorbis. He stood up, and nodded at the inquisitor.

‘How long has he been down here?’

‘Two days, lord.’

‘And you can keep him alive for—?’

‘Perhaps two days more, lord.’

‘Do so. Do so. It is, after all,’ said Vorbis, ‘our duty to preserve life for as long as possible. Is it not?’

The inquisitor gave him the nervous smile of one in the presence of a superior whose merest word could see him manacled on a bench.

‘Er … yes, lord.’

‘Heresy and lies everywhere,’ Vorbis sighed. ‘And now I shall have to find another secretary. It is too vexing.’

After twenty minutes Brutha relaxed. The siren voices of sensuous evil seemed to have gone away.

He got on with the melons. He felt capable of understanding melons. Melons seemed a lot more comprehensible than most things.

‘Hey, you!’

Brutha straightened up.

‘I do not hear you, oh foul succubus,’ he said.

‘Oh yes you do, boy. Now, what I want you to do is—’

‘I’ve got my fingers in my ears!’

‘Suits you. Suits you. Makes you look like a vase. Now—’

‘I’m humming a tune! I’m humming a tune!’

Brother Preptil, the master of the music, had described Brutha’s voice as putting him in mind of a disappointed vulture arriving too late at the dead donkey. Choral singing was compulsory for novitiates, but after much petitioning by Brother Preptil a special dispensation had been made for Brutha. The sight of his big round face screwed up in the effort to please was bad enough, but what was worse was listening to his voice, which was certainly powerful and full of intent conviction, swinging backwards and forwards across the tune without ever quite hitting it.

He got Extra Melons instead.

Up in the prayer towers a flock of crows took off in a hurry.