Small Gods

‘A bodyguard only. We have been guaranteed safe passage, after all,’ said Fri’it.

‘We have been guaranteed safe passage,’ said Vorbis. It sounded like a lengthy curse. ‘And once inside …?’

Fri’it wanted to say: I’ve spoken to the commander of the Ephebian garrison, and I think he is a man of honour, although of course he is indeed a despicable infidel and lower than the worms. But it was not the kind of thing he felt it wise to say to Vorbis.

He substituted: ‘We shall be on our guard.’

‘Can we surprise them?’

Fri’it hesitated. ‘We?’ he said.

‘I shall lead the party,’ said Vorbis. There was the briefest exchange of glances between himself and the secretary. ‘I … would like to be away from the Citadel for a while. A change of air. Besides, we should not let the Ephebians think they merit the attentions of a superior member of the Church. I was just musing as to the possibilities, should we be provoked—’

Fri’it’s nervous click was like a whip-crack.

‘We have given them our word—’

‘There is no truce with unbelievers,’ said Vorbis.

‘But there are practical considerations,’ said Fri’it, as sharply as he dared. ‘The palace of Ephebe is a labyrinth. I know. There are traps. No one gets in without a guide.’

‘How does the guide get in?’ said Vorbis.

‘I assume he guides himself,’ said the general.

‘In my experience there is always another way,’ said Vorbis. ‘Into everything, there is always another way. Which the God will show in his own good time, we can be assured of that.’

‘Certainly matters would be easier if there was a lack of stability in Ephebe,’ said Drunah. ‘It does indeed harbour certain … elements.’

‘And it will be the gateway to the whole of the Turnwise coast,’ said Vorbis.

‘Well—’

‘The Djel, and then Tsort,’ said Vorbis.

Drunah tried to avoid seeing Fri’it’s expression.

‘It is our duty,’ said Vorbis. ‘Our holy duty. We must not forget poor Brother Murduck. He was unarmed and alone.’

Brutha’s huge sandals flipflopped obediently along the stone-flagged corridor towards Brother Nhumrod’s barren cell.

He tried composing messages in his head. Master, there’s a tortoise who says — Master, this tortoise wants — Master, guess what, I heard from this tortoise in the melons that—

Brutha would never have dared to think of himself as a prophet, but he had a shrewd idea of the outcome of any interview that began in this way.

Many people assumed that Brutha was an idiot. He looked like one, from his round open face to his splay-feet and knock-ankles. He also had the habit of moving his lips while he thought deeply, as if he was rehearsing every sentence. And this was because that was what he was doing. Thinking was not something that came easily to Brutha. Most people think automatically, thought dancing through their brains like static electricity across a cloud. At least, that’s how it seemed to him. Whereas he had to construct thoughts a bit at a time, like someone building a wall. A short lifetime of being laughed at for having a body like a barrel and feet that gave the impression that they were about to set out in opposite directions had given him a strong tendency to think very carefully about anything he said.

Brother Nhumrod was prostrate on the floor in front of a statue of Om Trampling the Ungodly, with his fingers in his ears. The voices were troubling him again.

Brutha coughed. He coughed again.

Brother Nhumrod raised his head.

‘Brother Nhumrod?’ said Brutha.

‘What?’

‘Er … Brother Nhumrod?’

‘What?’

Brother Nhumrod unplugged his ears.

‘Yes?’ he said testily.

‘Um. There’s something you ought to see. In the. In the garden. Brother Nhumrod?’

The master of novices sat up. Brutha’s face was a glowing picture of concern.

‘What do you mean?’ Brother Nhumrod said.

‘In the garden. It’s hard to explain. Um. I found out … where the voices were coming from, Brother Nhumrod. And you did say to be sure and tell you.’

The old priest gave Brutha a sharp look. But if ever there was a person without guile or any kind of subtlety, it was Brutha.

Fear is strange soil. Mainly it grows obedience like corn, which grows in rows and makes weeding easy. But sometimes it grows the potatoes of defiance, which flourish underground.

The Citadel had a lot of underground. There were the pits and tunnels of the Quisition. There were cellars and sewers, forgotten rooms, dead ends, spaces behind ancient walls, even natural caves in the bedrock itself.

This was such a cave. Smoke from the fire in the middle of the floor found its way out through a crack in the roof and, eventually, into the maze of uncountable chimneys and light-wells above.

There were a dozen figures in the dancing shadows. They wore rough hoods over nondescript clothes — crude things made of rags, nothing that couldn’t easily be burned after the meeting so that the wandering fingers of the Quisition would find nothing incriminating. Something about the way most of them moved suggested men who were used to carrying weapons. Here and there, clues. A stance. The turn of a word.