Split (1)

train · 2.61k rows

text stringlengths 5.39k 8.1k
He was theoretically aware that there was one, that there was a huge canonical structure with the High Priest at the top and Brutha very firmly at the bottom, but he viewed it in the same way as an amoeba might view the chain of evolution all the way between itself and, for example, a chartered accountant. It was missing links all the way to the top. I can't go asking the-” Brutha hesitated. Even the thought of talking to the Cenobiarch frightened him into silence. I can't ask anyone to ask the High Cenobiarch to come and talk to a tortoise!" "Turn into a mud leech and wither in the fires of retribution!" screamed the tortoise. "There's no need to curse," said Brutha. The tortoise bounced up and down furiously. "That wasn't a curse! That was an order! I am the Great God Om!" Brutha blinked. Then he said, "No you're not. I've seen the Great God Om," he waved a hand making the shape of the holy horns, conscientiously, "and he isn't tortoiseshaped. He comes as an eagle, or a lion, or a mighty bull. There's a statue in the Great Temple. It's seven cubits high. It's got bronze on it and everything. It's trampling infidels. You can't trample infidels when you're a tortoise. I mean, all you could do is give them a meaningful look. It's got horns of real gold. Where I used to live there was a statue one cubit high in the next village and that was a bull too. So that's how I know you're not the Great God"-holy horns-"Om. The tortoise subsided. How many talking tortoises have you met? it said sarcastically. I don't know, said Brutha. What d'you mean, you don't know? Well, they might all talk, said Brutha conscientiously, demonstrating the very personal kind of logic that got him Extra Melons. "They just might not say anything when I'm there. " I am the Great God Om, said the tortoise, in a menacing and unavoidably low voice, "and before very long you are going to be a very unfortunate priest. Go and get him. " Novice, said Brutha. What? Novice, not priest. They won't let me-” Get him!" "But I don't think the Cenobiarch ever comes into our vegetable garden," said Brutha. "I don't think he even knows what a melon is. " "I'm not bothered about that," said the tortoise. "Fetch him now, or there will be a shaking of the earth, the moon will be as blood, agues and boils will afflict mankind and diverse ills will befall. I really mean it," it added. "I'll see what I can do," said Brutha, backing away. "And I'm being very reasonable, in the circumstances!" the tortoise shouted after him. "You don't sing badly, mind you!" it added, as an afterthought. "I've heard worse!" as Brutha's grubby robe disappeared through the gateway. "Puts me in mind of that time there was the affliction of plague in Pseudopolis," it said quietly, as the footsteps faded. "What a wailing and a gnashing of teeth was there, all right. " It sighed. "Great days. Great days!" Many feel they are called to the priesthood, but what they really hear is an inner voice saying, "It's indoor work with no heavy lifting, do you want to be a ploughman like your father?" Whereas Brutha didn't just believe. He really Believed. That sort of thing is usually embarrassing when it happens in a God-fearing family, but all Brutha had was his grandmother, and she Believed too. She believed like iron believes in metal. She was the kind of woman every priest dreads in a congregation, the one who knows all the chants, all the sermons. In the Omnian Church women were allowed in the temple only on sufferance, and had to keep absolutely silent and well covered-up in their own section behind the pulpit in case the sight of one half of the human race caused the male members of the congregation to hear voices not unakin to those that plagued Brother Nhumrod through every sleeping and waking hour. The problem was that Brutha's grandmother had the kind of personality that can project itself through a lead sheet and a bitter piety with the strength of a diamond-bit auger. If she had been born a man, Omnianism would have found its 8th Prophet rather earlier than expected. As it was, she organised the temple-cleaning, statue-polishing, and stoning-of-suspected-adulteresses rotas with a terrible efficiency. So Brutha grew up in the sure and certain knowledge of the Great God Om. Brutha grew up knowing that Om's eyes were on him all the time, especially in places like the privy, and that demons assailed him on all sides and were only kept at bay by the strength of his belief and the weight of grandmother's cane, which was kept behind the door on those rare occasions when it was not being used. He could recite every verse in all seven Books of the Prophets, and every single Precept. He knew all the Laws and the Songs. Especially the Laws. The Omnians were a God-fearing people. They had a great deal to fear. Vorbis's room was in the upper Citadel, which was unusual for a mere deacon. He hadn't asked for it. He seldom had to ask for anything. Destiny has a way of marking her own. He also got visited by some of the most powerful men in the Church's hierarchy. Not, of course, the six Archpriests or the Cenobiarch himself. They weren't that important. They were merely at the top. The people who really run organisations are usually found several levels down, where it's still possible to get things done. People liked to be friends with Vorbis, mainly because of the aforesaid mental field which suggested to them, in the subtlest of ways, that they didn't want to be his enemy. Two of them were sitting down with him now. They were General Iam Fri'it, who whatever the official records might suggest was the man who ran most of the Divine Legion, and Bishop Drunah, secretary to the Congress of Iams. People might not think that was much of a position of power, but then they'd never been minutes secretary to a meeting of slightly deaf old men. Neither man was in fact there. They were not talking to Vorbis. It was one of those kinds of meeting. Lots of people didn't talk to Vorbis, and went out of their way not have meetings with him. Some of the abbots from the distant monasteries had recently been summoned to the Citadel, travelling secretly for up to a week across tortuous terrain, just so they definitely wouldn't join the shadowy figures visiting Vorbis's room. In the last few months, Vorbis had apparently had about as many visitors as the Man in the Iron Mask. Nor were they talking. But if they had been there, and if they had been having a conversation, it would have gone like this: "And now," said Vorbis, "the matter of Ephebe. " Bishop Drunah shrugged. [3] [3] Or would have done. If he had been there. But he wasn't. So he couldn't. "Of no consequence, they say. No threat. " The two men looked at Vorbis, a man who never raised his voice. It was very hard to tell what Vorbis was thinking, often even after he had told you. "Really? Is this what we've come to?" he said. "No threat? After what they did to poor Brother Murduck? The insults to Om? This must not pass. What is proposed to be done?" "No more fighting," said Fri'it. "They fight like madmen. No. We've lost too many already. " "They have strong gods," said Drunah. "They have better bows," said Fri'it. "There is no God but Om," said Vorbis. "What the Ephebians believe they worship are nothing but djinns and demons. If it can be called worship. Have you seen this?" He pushed forward a scroll of paper. "What is it?" said Fri'it cautiously. "A lie. A history that does not exist and never existed. . . the. . . the things. . . " Vorbis hesitated, trying to remember a word that had long since fallen into disuse, ". . . like the. . . tales told to children, who are too young. . . words for people to say. . . the. . . " Oh. A play, said Fri'it. Vorbis's gaze nailed him to the wall. You know of these things? I-when I travelled in Klatch once-” Fri'it stuttered. He visibly pulled himself together. He had commanded one hundred thousand men in battle. He didn't deserve this. He found he didn't dare look at Vorbis's expression. They dance dances," he said limply. "On their holy days.
The women have bells on their. . . And sing songs. All about the early days of the worlds, when the gods-” He faded. "It was disgusting," he said. He clicked his knuckles, a habit of his whenever he was worried. This one has their gods in it, said Vorbis. "Men in masks. Can you believe that? They have a god of wine. A drunken old man! And people say Ephebe is no threat! And this-” He tossed another, thicker scroll on to the table. "This is far worse. For while they worship false gods in error, their error is in their choice of gods, not in their worship. But this-” Drunah gave it a cautious examination. I believe there are other copies, even in the Citadel, said Vorbis. "This one belonged to Sasho. I believe you recommended him to my service, Fri'it?" He always struck me as an intelligent and keen young man, said the general. But disloyal, said Vorbis, "and now receiving his just reward. It is only to be regretted that he has not been induced to give us the names of his fellow heretics. " Fri'it fought against the sudden rush of relief. His eyes met those of Vorbis. Drunah broke the silence. De Chelonian Mobile, he said aloud. " `The Turtle Moves. ' What does that mean?" Even telling you could put your soul at risk of a thousand years in hell, said Vorbis. His eyes had not left Fri'it, who was now staring fixedly at the wall. I think it is a risk we might carefully take, said Drunah. Vorbis shrugged. "The writer claims that the world. . . travels through the void on the back of four huge elephants," he said. Drunah's mouth dropped open. On the back? he said. It is claimed, said Vorbis, still watching Fri'it. What do they stand on? The writer says they stand on the shell of an enormous turtle, said Vorbis. Drunah grinned nervously. And what does that stand on? he said. I see no point in speculating as to what it stands on, snapped Vorbis, "since it does not exist!" Of course, of course, said Drunah quickly. "It was only idle curiosity. " Most curiosity is, said Vorbis. "It leads the mind into speculative ways. Yet the man who wrote this walks around free, in Ephebe, now. " Drunah glanced at the scroll. He says here he went on a ship that sailed to an island on the edge and he looked over and-” Lies," said Vorbis evenly. "And it would make no difference even if they were not lies. Truth lies within, not without. In the words of the Great God Om, as delivered through his chosen prophets. Our eyes may deceive us, but our God never will. " "But-” Vorbis looked at Fri'it. The general was sweating. Yes? he said. Well. . . Ephebe. A place where madmen have mad ideas. Everyone knows that. Maybe the wisest course is leave them to stew in their folly? Vorbis shook his head. "Unfortunately, wild and unstable ideas have a disturbing tendency to move around and take hold. " Fri'it had to admit that this was true. He knew from experience that true and obvious ideas, such as the ineffable wisdom and judgement of the Great God Om, seemed so obscure to many people that you actually had to kill them before they saw the error of their ways, whereas dangerous and nebulous and wrongheaded notions often had such an attraction for some people that they would-he rubbed a scar thoughtfully-hide up in the mountains and throw rocks at you until you starved them out. They'd prefer to die rather than see sense. Fri'it had seen sense at an early age. He'd seen it was sense not to die. What do you propose? he said. The Council want to parley with Ephebe, said Drunah. "You know I have to organise a deputation to leave tomorrow. " How many soldiers? said Vorbis. 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 flip-flopped obediently along the stone-flagged corridor toward 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 thatBrutha 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 splayfeet 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, thoughts 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. On one wall of the cave there was a drawing. It was vaguely oval, with three little extensions at the top-the middle one slightly the largest of the three-and three at the bottom, the middle one of these slightly longer and more pointed. A child's drawing of a turtle. Of course he'll go to Ephebe, said a mask. "He won't dare not to. He'll have to dam the river of truth, at its source. " We must bail out what we can, then, said another mask. We must kill Vorbis! Not in Ephebe. When that happens, it must happen here. So that people will know. When we're strong enough. Will we ever be strong enough? said a mask. Its owner clicked his knuckles nervously. Even the peasants know there's something wrong. You can't stop the truth. Dam the river of truth? Then there are leaks of great force. Didn't we find out about Murduck? Hah! 'Killed in Ephebe,' Vorbis said. One of us must go to Ephebe and save the Master. If he really exists. He exists. His name is on the book. Didactylos. A strange name. It means Two-Fingered, you know. They must honour him in Ephebe. Bring him back here, if possible. And the Book. One of the masks seemed hesitant. His knuckles clicked again. But will people rally behind. . . a book? People need more than a book. They're peasants. They can't read. But they can listen! Even so. . . they need to be shown. . . they need a symbol. . . We have one! Instinctively, every masked figure turned to look at the drawing on the wall, indistinct in the firelight but graven on their minds. They were looking at the truth, which can often impress. The Turtle Moves! The Turtle Moves! The Turtle Moves! The leader nodded. And now, he said, "we will draw lots. . . " The Great God Om waxed wroth, or at least made a spirited attempt. There is a limit to the amount of wroth that can be waxed one inch from the ground, but he was right up against it. He silently cursed a beetle, which is like pouring water onto a pond. It didn't seem to make any difference, anyway. The beetle plodded away. He cursed a melon unto the eighth generation, but nothing happened. He tried a plague of boils. The melon just sat there, ripening slightly. Just because he was temporarily embarrassed, the whole world thought it could take advantage. Well, when Om got back to his rightful shape and power, he told himself, Steps would be Taken. The tribes of Beetles and Melons would wish they'd never been created. And something really horrible would happen to all eagles. And. . . and there would be a holy commandment involving the planting of more lettuces. . . By the time the big boy arrived back with the waxy-skinned man, the Great God Om was in no mood for pleasantries. Besides, from a tortoise-eye viewpoint even the most handsome human is only a pair of feet, a distant pointy head, and, somewhere up there, the wrong end of a pair of nostrils. What's this? he snarled. This is Brother Nhumrod, said Brutha. "Master of the novices. He is very important. " Didn't I tell you not to bring me some fat old pederast! shouted the voice in his head. "Your eyeballs will be spitted on shafts of fire for this!" Brutha knelt down. I can't go to the High Priest, he said, as patiently as possible. "Novices aren't even allowed in the Great Temple except on special occasions. I'd be Taught the Error of My Ways by the Quisition if I was caught. It's the Law. " Stupid fool! the tortoise shouted. Nhumrod decided that it was time to speak. Novice Brutha, he said, "for what reason are you talking to a small tortoise?" Because-” Brutha paused. Because it's talking to me. . . isn't it?" Brother Nhumrod looked down at the small, one-eyed head poking out of the shell. He was, by and large, a kindly man. Sometimes demons and devils did put disquieting thoughts in his head, but he saw to it that they stayed there and he did not in any literal sense deserve to be called what the tortoise called him which, in fact, if he had heard it, he would have thought was something to do with feet. And he was well aware that it was possible to hear voices attributed to demons and, sometimes, gods. Tortoises was a new one. Tortoises made him feel worried about Brutha, whom he'd always thought of as an amiable lump who did, without any sort of complaint, anything asked of him. Of course, many novices volunteered for cleaning out the cesspits and bull cages, out of a strange belief that holiness and piety had something to do with being up to your knees in dirt. Brutha never volunteered, but if he was told to do something he did it, not out of any desire to impress, but simply because he'd been told. And now he was talking to tortoises. "I think I have to tell you, Brutha," he said, "that it is not talking. " "You can't hear it?" "I cannot hear it, Brutha. " "It told me it was. . . " Brutha hesitated. "It told me it was the Great God. " He flinched. Grandmother would have hit him with something heavy now. "Ah. Well, you see, Brutha," said Brother Nhumrod, twitching gently, "this sort of thing is not unknown among young men recently Called to the Church. I daresay you heard the voice of the Great God when you were Called, didn't you? Mmm?" Metaphor was lost on Brutha. He remembered hearing the voice of his grandmother. He hadn't been Called so much as Sent. But he nodded anyway. "And in your. . . enthusiasm, it's only natural that you should think you hear the Great God talking to you," Nhumrod went on. The tortoise bounced up and down. "Smite you with thunderbolts!" it screamed. "I find healthy exercise is the thing," said Nhumrod. "And plenty of cold water. " "Writhe on the spikes of damnation!" Nhumrod reached down and picked up the tortoise, turning it over. Its legs waggled angrily. "How did it get here, mmm?" "I don't know, Brother Nhumrod," said Brutha dutifully. "Your hand to wither and drop off!" screamed the voice in his head. "There's very good eating on one of these, you know," said the master of novices. He saw the expression on Brutha's face. "Look at it like this," he said. "Would the Great God Om"-holy horns-"ever manifest Himself in such a lowly creature as this? A bull, yes, of course, an eagle, certainly, and I think on one occasion a swan. . . but a tortoise?" "Your sexual organs to sprout wings and fly away!" "After all," Nhumrod went on, oblivious to the secret chorus in Brutha's head, "what kind of miracles could a tortoise do? Mmm?" "Your ankles to be crushed in the jaws of giants!" "Turn lettuce into gold, perhaps?" said Brother Nhumrod , in the jovial tones of those blessed with no sense of humour "Crush ants underfoot? Ahaha. " "Haha," said Brutha dutifully. "I shall take it along to the kitchen, out of your way," said the master of novices. "They make excellent soup. And then you'll hear no more voices, depend upon it. Fire cures all Follies, yes?" "Soup?" "Er. . . " said Brutha. "Your intestines to be wound around a tree until you are sorry!" Nhumrod looked around the garden. It seemed to be full of melons and pumpkins and cucumbers. He shuddered. "Lots of cold water, that's the thing," he said. "Lots and lots. " He focused on Brutha again. "Mmm?" He wandered off toward the kitchens. The Great God Om was upside down in a basket in one of the kitchens, half-buried under a bunch of herbs and some carrots. An upturned tortoise will try to right itself firstly by sticking out its neck to its fullest extent and trying to use its head as a lever. If this doesn't work it will wave its legs frantically, in case this will rock it upright.
An upturned tortoise is the ninth most pathetic thing in the entire multiverse. An upturned tortoise who knows what's going to happen to it next is, well, at least up there at number four. The quickest way to kill a tortoise for the pot is to plunge it into boiling water. Kitchens and storerooms and craftsmen's workshops belonging to the Church's civilian population honeycombed the Citadel. [4] This was only one of them, a smoky-ceilinged cellar whose focal point was an arched fireplace. [4] It takes forty men with their feet on the ground to keep one man with his head in the air. Flames roared up the flue. Turnspit dogs trotted in their treadmills. Cleavers rose and fell on the chopping blocks. Off to one side of the huge hearth, among various other blackened cauldrons, a small pot of water was already beginning to seethe. "The worms of revenge to eat your blackened nostrils!" screamed Om, twitching his legs violently. The basket rocked. A hairy hand reached in and removed the herbs. "Hawks to peck your liver!" A hand reached in again and took the carrots. "Afflict you with a thousand cuts!" A hand reached in and took the Great God Om. "The cannibal fungi of-!" "Shut up!" hissed Brutha, shoving the tortoise under his robe. He sidled toward the door, unnoticed in the general culinary chaos. One of the cooks looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "Just got to take this back," Brutha burbled, bringing out the tortoise and waving it helpfully. "Deacon's orders. " The cook scowled, and then shrugged. Novices were regarded by one and all as the lowest form of life, but orders from the hierarchy were to be obeyed without question, unless the questioner wanted to find himself faced with more important questions like whether or not it is possible to go to heaven after being roasted alive. When they were out in the courtyard Brutha leaned against the wall and breathed out. "Your eyeballs to-!" the tortoise began. "One more word," said Brutha, "and it's back in the basket. " The tortoise fell silent. "As it is, I shall probably get into trouble for missing Comparative Religion with Brother Whelk," said Brutha. "But the Great God has seen fit to make the poor man shortsighted and he probably won't notice I'm not there, only if he does I shall have to say what I've done because telling lies to a Brother is a sin and the Great God will send me to hell for a million years. " "In this one case I could be merciful," said the tortoise. "No more than a thousand years at the outside. " "My grandmother told me I shall go to hell when I die anyway," said Brutha, ignoring this. "Being alive is sinful. It stands to reason, because you have to sin every day when you're alive. " He looked down at the tortoise. I know you're not the Great God Om-holy horns-"because if I was to touch the Great God Om"-holy horns-"my hands would burn away. The Great God would never become a tortoise, like Brother Nhumrod said. But it says in the Book of the Prophet Cena that when he was wandering in the desert the spirits of the ground and the air spoke unto him, so I wondered if you were one of those. " The tortoise gave him a one-eyed stare for a while. Then it said: "Tall fellow? Full beard? Eyes wobbling all over the place?" What? said Brutha. I think I recall him, said the tortoise. "Eyes wobbled when he talked. And he talked all the time. To himself. Walked into rocks a lot. " He wandered in the wilderness for three months, said Brutha. That explains it, then, said the tortoise. "There's not a lot to eat there that isn't mushrooms. " Perhaps you are a demon, said Brutha. "The Septateuch forbids us to have discourse with demons. Yet in resisting demons, says the Prophet Fruni, we may grow strong in faith-” "Your teeth to abscess with red-hot heat!" "Pardon?" "I swear to me that I am the Great God Om, greatest of gods!" Brutha tapped the tortoise on the shell. "Let me show you something, demon. " He could feel his faith growing, if he listened hard. This wasn't the greatest statue of Om, but it was the closest. It was down in the pit level reserved for prisoners and heretics. And it was made of iron plates riveted together. The pits were deserted except for a couple of novices pushing a rough cart in the distance. "It's a big bull," said the tortoise. "The very likeness of the Great God Om in one of his worldly incarnations!" said Brutha proudly. "And you say you're him?" "I haven't been well lately," said the tortoise. Its scrawny neck stretched out further. "There's a door on its back," it said. "Why's there a door on its back?" "So that the sinful can be put in," said Brutha. "Why's there another one in its belly?" "So the purified ashes can be let out," said Brutha. "And the smoke issues forth from the nostrils, as a sign to the ungodly. " The tortoise craned its neck round at the rows of barred doors. It looked up at the soot-encrusted walls. It looked down at the now empty fire trench under the iron bull. It reached a conclusion. It blinked its one eye. "People?" it said eventually. "You roast people in it?" "There!" said Brutha triumphantly. "And thus you prove you are not the Great God! He would know that of course we do not burn people in there. Burn people in there? That would be unheard of!" "Ah," said the tortoise. "Then what-?" "It is for the destruction of heretical materials and other such rubbish," said Brutha. "Very sensible," said the tortoise. "Sinners and criminals are purified by fire in the Quisition's pits or sometimes in front of the Great Temple," said Brutha. "The Great God would know that. " "I think I must have forgotten," said the tortoise quietly. "The Great God Om"-holy horns-"would know that He Himself said unto the Prophet Wallspur-” Brutha coughed and assumed the creased-eyebrow squint that meant serious thought was being undertaken. " `Let the holy fire destroy utterly the unbeliever. ' That's verse sixty-five. " Did I say that? In the Year of the Lenient Vegetable the Bishop Kreeblephor converted a demon by the power of reason alone, said Brutha. "It actually joined the Church and became a subdeacon. Or so it is said. " Fighting I don't mind, the tortoise began. Your lying tongue cannot tempt me, reptile, said Brutha. "For I am strong in my faith!" The tortoise grunted with effort. Smite you with thunderbolts! A small, a very small black cloud appeared over Brutha's head and a small, a very small bolt of lightning lightly singed an eyebrow. It was about the same strength as the spark off a cat's fur in hot dry weather. Ouch! Now do you believe me? said the tortoise. There was a bit of breeze on the roof of the Citadel. It also offered a good view of the high desert. Fri'it and Drunah waited for a while to get their breath back. Then Fri'it said, "Are we safe up here?" Drunah looked up. An eagle circled over the dry hills. He found himself wondering how good an eagle's hearing was. It certainly was good at something. Was it hearing? It could hear a creature half a mile below in the silence of the desert. What the hells-it couldn't talk as well, could it? Probably, he said. Can I trust you? said Fri'it. Can I trust you? Fri'it drummed his fingers on the parapet. Uh, he said. And that was the problem. It was the problem of all really secret societies. They were secret. How many members did the Turtle Movement have? No one knew, exactly. What was the name of the man beside you? Two other members knew, because they would have introduced him, but who were they behind these masks? Because knowledge was dangerous. If you knew, the inquisitions could wind it slowly out of you. So you made sure you didn't know. This made conversation much easier during cell meetings, and impossible outside of them. It was the problem of all tentative conspirators throughout history: how to conspire without actually uttering words to an untrusted possible fellow-conspirator which, if reported, would point the accusing red-hot poker of guilt. The little beads of sweat on Drunah's forehead, despite the warm breeze, suggested that the secretary was agonising along the same lines.
But it didn't prove it. And for Fri'it, not dying had become a habit. He clicked his knuckles nervously. A holy war, he said. That was safe enough. The sentence included no verbal clue to what Fri'it thought about the prospect. He hadn't said, "Ye god, not a damn holy war, is the man insane? Some idiot missionary gets himself killed, some man writes some gibberish about the shape of the world, and we have to go to war?" If pressed, and indeed stretched and broken, he could always claim that his meaning had been "At last! A not-to-be-missed opportunity to die gloriously for Om, the one true God, who shall Trample the Unrighteous with Hooves of Iron!" It wouldn't make a lot of difference, evidence never did once you were in the deep levels where accusation had the status of proof, but at least it might leave one or two inquisitors feeling that they might just have been wrong. Of course, the Church has been far less militant in the last century or so, said Drunah, looking out over the desert. "Much taken up with the mundane problems of the empire. " A statement. Not a crack in it where you could insert a bone-disjointer. There was the crusade against the Hodgsonites, said Fri'it distantly. "And the Subjugation of the Melchiorites. And the Resolving of the false prophet Zeb. And the Correction of the Ashelians, and the Shriving of the-” "But all that was just politics," said Drunah. "Hmm. Yes. Of course, you are right. " "And, of course, no one could possibly doubt the wisdom of a war to further the worship and glory of the Great God. " "No. None could doubt it," said Fri'it, who had walked across many a battlefield the day after a glorious victory, when you had ample opportunity to see what winning meant. The Omnians forbade the use of all drugs. At times like that the prohibition bit hard, when you dared not go to sleep for fear of your dreams. "Did not the Great God declare, through the Prophet Abbys, that there is no greater and more honourable sacrifice than one's own life for the God?" "Indeed he did," said Fri'it. He couldn't help recalling that Abbys had been a bishop in the Citadel for fifty years before the Great God had Chosen him. Screaming enemies had never come at him with a sword. He'd never looked into the eyes of someone who wished him dead-no, of course he had, all the time, because of course the Church had its politics-but at least they hadn't been holding the means to that end in their hands at the time. "To die gloriously for one's faith is a noble thing," Drunah intoned, as if reading the words off an internal notice-board. "So the prophets tell us," said Fri'it, miserably. The Great God moved in mysterious ways, he knew. Undoubtedly He chose His prophets, but it seemed as if He had to be helped. Perhaps He was too busy to choose for Himself. There seemed to be a lot more meetings, a lot more nodding, a lot more exchanging of glances even during the services in the Great Temple. Certainly there was a glow about young Vorbis-how easy it was to slip from one thought to the other. There was a man touched by destiny. A tiny part of Fri'it, the part that had lived for much of its life in tents, and been shot at quite a lot, and had been in the middle of melees where you could just as easily be killed by an ally as an enemy, added: or at least by something. It was a part of him that was due to spend all the eternities in all the hells, but it had already had a lot of practice. "You know I travelled a lot when I was much younger?" he said. "I have often heard you talk most interestingly of your travels in heathen lands," said Drunah politely. "Often bells are mentioned. " "Did I ever tell you about the Brown Islands?" "Out beyond the end of the world," said Drunah. "I remember. Where bread grows on trees and young women find little white balls in oysters. They dive for them, you said, while wearing not a stitc-” Something else I remember, said Fri'it. It was a lonely memory, out here with nothing but scrubland under a purple sky. "The sea is strong there. There are big waves, much bigger than the ones in the Circle Sea, you understand, and the men paddle out beyond them to fish. On strange planks of wood. And when they wish to return to shore, they wait for a wave, and then. . . they stand up, on the wave, and it carries them all the way to the beach. " I like the story about the young swimming women best, said Drunah. Sometimes there are very big waves, said Fri'it, ignoring him. "Nothing would stop them. But if you ride them, you do not drown. This is something I learned. " Drunah caught the glint in his eye. Ah, he said, nodding. "How wonderful of the Great God to put such instructive examples in our path. " The trick is to judge the strength of the wave, said Fri'it. "And ride it. " What happens to those who don't? They drown. Often. Some of the waves are very big. Such is often the nature of waves, I understand. The eagle was still circling. If it had understood anything, then it wasn't showing it. Useful facts to bear in mind, said Drunah, with sudden brightness. "If ever one should find oneself in heathen parts. " Indeed. From prayer towers up and down the contours of the Citadel the deacons chanted the duties of the hour. Brutha should have been in class. But the tutor priests weren't too strict with him. After all, he had arrived word-perfect in every Book of the Septateuch and knew all the prayers and hymns off by heart, thanks to grandmother. They probably assumed he was being useful. Usefully doing something no one else wanted to do. He hoed the bean rows for the look of the thing. The Great God Om, although currently the small god Om, ate a lettuce leaf. All my life, Brutha thought, I've known that the Great God Om-he made the holy horns sign in a fairly half-hearted way-was a. . . a. . . great big beard in the sky, or sometimes, when He comes down into the world, as a huge bull or a lion or. . . something big, anyway. Something you could look up to. Somehow a tortoise isn't the same. I'm trying hard. . . but it isn't the same. And hearing him talk about the SeptArchs as if they were just. . . just some mad old men. . . it's like a dream. . . In the rain-forests of Brutha's subconscious the butterfly of doubt emerged and flapped an experimental wing, all unaware of what chaos theory has to say about this sort of thing. . . I feel a lot better now, said the tortoise. "Better than I have for months. " Months? said Brutha. "How long have you been. . . ill?" The tortoise put its foot on a leaf. What day is it? it said. Tenth of Grune, said Brutha. Yes? What year? Er. . . Notional Serpent. . . what do you mean, what year? Then. . . three years, said the tortoise. "This is good lettuce. And it's me saying it. You don't get lettuce up in the hills. A bit of plantain, a thorn bush or two. Let there be another leaf:" Brutha pulled one off the nearest plant. And lo, he thought, there was another leaf. And you were going to be a bull? he said. Opened my eyes. . . my eye. . . and I was a tortoise. Why? How should I know? I don't know! lied the tortoise. But you. . . you're omnicognisant, said Brutha. That doesn't mean I know everything. Brutha bit his lip. "Um. Yes. It does. " You sure? Yes. Thought that was omnipotent. No. That means you're all-powerful. And you are. That's what it says in the Book of Ossory. He was one of the Great Prophets, you know. I hope, Brutha added. Who told him I was omnipotent? You did. No I didn't. Well, he said you did. Don't even remember anyone called Ossory, the tortoise muttered. You spoke to him in the desert, said Brutha. "You must remember. He was eight feet tall? With a very long beard? And a huge staff? And the glow of the holy horns shining out of his head?" He hesitated. But he'd seen the statues and the holy icons. They couldn't be wrong. Never met anyone like that, said the small god Om. Maybe he was a bit shorter, Brutha conceded. Ossory. Ossory, said the tortoise. "No. . . no. . . can't say I-” "He said that you spoke unto him from out of a pillar of flame," said Brutha.
"Oh, that Ossory," said the tortoise. "Pillar of flame. Yes. " "And you dictated to him the Book of Ossory," said Brutha. "Which contains the Directions, the Gateways, the Abjurations, and the Precepts. One hundred and ninety-three chapters. " "I don't think I did all that," said Om doubtfully. "I'm sure I would have remembered one hundred and ninety-three chapters. " "What did you say to him, then?" "As far as I can remember it was 'Hey, see what I can do!' " said the tortoise. Brutha stared at it. It looked embarrassed, insofar as that's possible for a tortoise. "Even gods like to relax," it said. "Hundreds of thousands of people live their lives by the Abjurations and the Precepts!" Brutha snarled. "Well? I'm not stopping them," said Om. "If you didn't dictate them, who did?" "Don't ask me. I'm not omnicognisant!" Brutha was shaking with anger. "And the Prophet Abbys? I suppose someone just happened to give him the Codicils, did they?" "It wasn't me-” They're written on slabs of lead ten feet tall! Oh, well, it must have been me, yes? I always have a ton of lead slabs around in case I meet someone in the desert, yes? What! If you didn't give them to him, who did? "I don't know. Why should I know? I can't be everywhere at once!" You're omnipresent! What says so? The Prophet Hashimi! Never met the man! Oh? Oh? So I suppose you didn't give him the Book of Creation, then? What Book of Creation? You mean you don't know? No. Then who gave it to him?" "I don't know! Perhaps he wrote it himself!" Brutha put his hand over his mouth in horror. "Thaff blafhngf!" "What?" Brutha removed his hand. "I said, that's blasphemy!" "Blasphemy? How can I blaspheme? I'm a god!" "I don't believe you!" "Hah! Want another thunderbolt?" "You call that a thunderbolt?" Brutha was red in the face, and shaking. The tortoise hung its head sadly. "All right. All right. Not much of one, I admit," it said. "If I was better, you'd have been just a pair of sandals with smoke coming out. " It looked wretched. "I don't understand it. This sort of thing has never happened to me before. I intended to be a great big roaring white bull for a week and ended up a tortoise for three years. Why? I don't know, and I'm supposed to know everything. According to these prophets of yours who say they've met me, anyway. You know, no one even heard me? I tried talking to goatherds and stuff, and they never took any notice! I was beginning to think I was a tortoise dreaming about being a god. That's how bad it was getting. " "Perhaps you are," said Brutha. "Your legs to swell to tree trunks!" snapped the tortoise. "But-but," said Brutha, "you're saying the prophets were. . . just men who wrote things down! " "That's what they were!" "Yes, but it wasn't from you!" "Some of it was, perhaps," said the tortoise. "I've. . . forgotten so much, the past few years. " "But if you've been down here as a tortoise, who's been listening to the prayers? Who has been accepting the sacrifices? Who has been judging the dead?" "I don't know," said the tortoise. "Who did it before?" "You did!" "Did I?" Brutha stuck his fingers in his ears and opened up with the third verse of Lo, the infidels flee the wrath of Om. After a couple of minutes the tortoise stuck its head out from under its shell. "So," it said, "before unbelievers get burned alive. . . do you sing to them first?" "No!" "Ah. A merciful death. Can I say something?" "If you try to tempt my faith one more time-” The tortoise paused. Om searched his fading memory. Then he scratched in the dust with a claw. I. . . remember a day. . . summer day. . . you were. . . thirteen. . . The dry little voice droned on. Brutha's mouth formed a slowly widening O. Finally he said, "How did you know that?" You believe the Great God Om watches everything you do, don't you? You're a tortoise, you couldn't have-” When you were almost fourteen, and your grandmother had beaten you for stealing cream from the stillroom, which in fact you had not done, she locked you in your room and you said, 'I wish you were-' " There will be a sign, thought Vorbis. There was always a sign, for the man who watched for them. A wise man always put himself in the path of the God. He strolled through the Citadel. He always made a point of taking a daily walk through some of the lower levels, although of course always at a different time, and via a different route. Insofar as Vorbis got any pleasure in life, at least in any way that could be recognised by a normal human being, it was in seeing the faces of humble members of the clergy as they rounded a corner and found themselves face-to-chin with Deacon Vorbis of the Quisition. There was always that little intake of breath that indicated a guilty conscience. Vorbis liked to see properly guilty consciences. That was what consciences were for. Guilt was the grease in which the wheels of the authority turned. He rounded a corner and saw, scratched crudely on the wall opposite, a rough oval with four crude legs and even cruder head and tail. He smiled. There seemed to be more of them lately. Let heresy fester, let it come to the surface like a boil. Vorbis knew how to wield the lance. But the second or two of reflection had made him walk past a turning and, instead, he stepped out into the sunshine. He was momentarily lost, for all his knowledge of the byways of the church. This was one of the walled gardens. Around a fine stand of tall decorative Klatchian corn, bean vines raised red and white blossoms towards the sun; in between the bean rows, melons baked gently on the dusty soil. In the normal way, Vorbis would have noted and approved of this efficient use of space, but in the normal way he wouldn't have encountered a plump young novice, rolling back and forth in the dust with his fingers in his ears. Vorbis stared down at him. Then he prodded Brutha with his sandal. "What ails you, my son?" Brutha opened his eyes. There weren't many superior members of the hierarchy he could recognise Even the Cenobiarch was a distant blob in the crowd. But everyone recognised Vorbis the exquisitor. Something about him projected itself on your conscience within a few days of your arrival at the Citadel. The God was merely to be feared in the perfunctory ways of habit, but Vorbis was dreaded. Brutha fainted. "How very strange," said Vorbis. A hissing noise made him look round. There was a small tortoise near his foot. As he glared, it tried to back away, and all the time it was staring at him and hissing like a kettle. He picked it up and examined it carefully, turning it over and over in his hands. Then he looked around the walled garden until he found a spot in full sunshine, and put the reptile down, on its back. After a moment's thought he took a couple of pebbles from one of the vegetable beds and wedged them under the shell so that the creature's movement wouldn't tip it over. Vorbis believed that no opportunity to acquire esoteric knowledge should ever be lost, and made a mental note to come back again in a few hours to see how it was getting on, if work permitted. Then he turned his attention to Brutha. There was a hell for blasphemers. There was a hell for the disputers of rightful authority. There were a number of hells for liars. There was probably a hell for little boys who wished their grandmothers were dead. There were more than enough hells to go around. This was the definition of eternity; it was the space of time devised by the Great God Om to ensure that everyone got the punishment that was due to them. The Omnians had a great many hells. Currently, Brutha was going through all of them. Brother Nhumrod and Brother Vorbis looked down at him, tossing and turning on his bed like a beached whale. "It's the sun," said Nhumrod, almost calm now after the initial shock of having the exquisitor come looking for him. "The poor lad works all day in that garden. It was bound to happen. " "Have you tried beating him?" said Brother Vorbis. "I'm sorry to say that beating young Brutha is like trying to flog a mattress," said Nhumrod.
"He says òw!' but I think it's only because he wants to show he's willing. Very willing lad, Brutha. He's the one I told you about. " "He doesn't look very sharp," said Vorbis. "He's not," said Nhumrod. Vorbis nodded approvingly. Undue intelligence in a novice was a mixed blessing. Sometimes it could be channelled for the greater glory of Om, but often it caused. . . well, it did not cause trouble, because Vorbis knew exactly what to do with misapplied intelligence, but it did cause unnecessary work. "And yet you tell me his tutors speak so highly of him," he said. Nhumrod shrugged. "He is very obedient," he said. "And. . . well, there's his memory. " "What about his memory?" "There's so much of it," said Nhumrod. "He has got a good memory?" "Good is the wrong word. It's superb. He's word-perfect on the entire Sept-" "Hmm?" said Vorbis. Nhumrod caught the deacon's eye. "As perfect, that is, as anything may be in this most imperfect world," he muttered. "A devoutly read young man," said Vorbis. "Er," said Nhumrod, "no. He can't read. Or write. " "Ah. A lazy boy. " The deacon was not a man who dwelt in grey areas. Nhumrod's mouth opened and shut silently as he sought for the proper words. "No," he said. "He tries. We're sure he tries. He just does not seem to be able to make the. . . he cannot fathom the link between the sounds and the letters. " "You have beaten him for that, at least?" "It seems to have little effect, deacon. " "How, then, has he become such a capable pupil?" "He listens," said Nhumrod. No one listened quite like Brutha, he reflected. It made it very hard to teach him. It was like-it was like being in a great big cave. All your words just vanished into the unfillable depths of Brutha's head. The sheer concentrated absorption could reduce unwary tutors to stuttering silence, as every word they uttered whirled away into Brutha's ears. "He listens to everything," said Nhumrod. "And he watches everything. He takes it all in. " Vorbis stared down at Brutha. "And I've never heard him say an unkind word," said Nhumrod. "The other novices make fun of him, sometimes. Call him The Big Dumb Ox. You know the sort of thing?" Vorbis's gaze took in Brutha's ham-sized hands and tree-trunk legs. He appeared to be thinking deeply. Cannot read and write, said Vorbis. "But extremely loyal, you say?" Loyal and devout, said Nhumrod. And a good memory, Vorbis murmured. It's more than that, said Nhumrod. "It's not like memory at all. " Vorbis appeared to reach a decision. Send him to see me when he is recovered, he said. Nhumrod looked panicky. I merely wish to talk to him, said Vorbis. "I may have a use for him. " Yes, lord? For, I suspect, the Great God Om moves in mysterious ways. High above. No sound but the hiss of wind in feathers. The eagle stood on the breeze, looking down at the toy buildings of the Citadel. It had dropped it somewhere, and now it couldn't find it. Somewhere down there, in that little patch of green. Bees buzzed in the bean blossoms. And the sun beat down on the upturned shell of Om. There is also a hell for tortoises. He was too tired to waggle his legs now. That was all you could do, waggle your legs. And stick your head out as far as it would go and wave it about in the hope that you could lever yourself over. You died if you had no believers, and that was what a small god generally worried about. But you also died if you died. In the part of his mind not occupied with thoughts of heat, he could feel Brutha's terror and bewilderment. He shouldn't have done that to the boy. Of course he hadn't been watching him. What god did that? Who cared what people did? Belief was the thing. He'd just picked the memory out of the boy's mind, to impress, like a conjurer removing an egg from someone's ear. I'm on my back, and getting hotter, and I'm going to die. . . And yet. . . and yet. . . that bloody eagle had dropped him on a compost heap. Some kind of clown, that eagle. A whole place built of rocks on a rock in a rocky place, and he landed on the one thing that'd break his fall without breaking him as well. And really close to a believer. Odd, that. Made you wonder if it wasn't some kin f divine providence, except that you were divine providence. . . and on your back, getting hotter, preparing to die. . . That man who'd turned him over. That expression on that mild face. He'd remember that. That expression, not of cruelty, but of some different level of being. That expression of terrible peace. . . A shadow crossed the sun. Om squinted up into the face of Lu-Tze, who gazed at him with gentle, upsidedown compassion. And then turned him the right way up. And then picked up his broom and wandered off, without a second glance. Om sagged, catching his breath. And then brightened up. Someone up there likes me, he thought. And it's Me. Sergeant Simony waited until he was back in his own quarters before he unfolded his own scrap of paper. He was not at all surprised to find it marked with a small drawing of a turtle. He was the lucky one. He'd lived for a moment like this. Someone had to bring back the writer of the Truth, to be a symbol for the movement. It had to be him. The only shame was that he couldn't kill Vorbis. But that had to happen where it could be seen. One day. In front of the Temple. Otherwise no one would believe. Om stumped along a sandy corridor. He'd hung around a while after Brutha's disappearance. Hanging around is another thing tortoises are very good at. They're practically world champions. Bloody useless boy, he thought. Served himself right for trying to talk to a barely coherent novice. Of course, the skinny old one hadn't been able to hear him. Nor had the chef. Well, the old one was probably deaf. As for the cook. . . Om made a note that, when he was restored to his full godly powers, a special fate was going to lie in wait for the cook. He wasn't sure exactly what it was going to be, but it was going to involve boiling water and probably carrots would come into it somewhere. He enjoyed the thought of that for a moment. But where did it leave him? It left him in this wretched garden, as a tortoise. He knew how he'd got in-he glared in dull terror at the tiny dot in the sky that the eye of memory knew was an eagle-and he'd better find a more terrestrial way out unless he wanted to spend the next month hiding under a melon leaf. Another thought struck him. Good eating! When he had his power again, he was going to spend quite some time devising a few new hells. And a couple of fresh Precepts, too. Thou shalt not eat of the Meat of the Turtle. That was a good one. He was surprised he hadn't thought of it before. Perspective, that's what it was. And if he'd thought of one like Thou Shalt Bloody Well Pick up Any Distressed Tortoises and Carry Them Anywhere They Want Unless, And This is Important, You're an Eagle a few years ago, he wouldn't be in this trouble now. Nothing else for it. He'd have to find the Cenobiarch himself. Someone like a High Priest would be bound to be able to hear him. And he'd be in this place somewhere. High Priests tended to stay put. He should be easy enough to find. And while he might currently be a tortoise, Om was still a god. How hard could it be? He'd have to go upwards. That's what a hierarchy meant. You found the top man by going upwards. Wobbling slightly, his shell jerking from side to side, the former Great God Om set off to explore the citadel erected to his greater glory. He couldn't help noticing things had changed a lot in three thousand years. Me? said Brutha. "But, but-” "I don't believe he means to punish you," said Nhumrod. "Although punishment is what you richly deserve, of course. We all richly deserve," he added piously. "But why?" “-why? He said he just wants to talk to you. " But there is nothing I could possibly say that a quisitor wants to hear! wailed Brutha. -Hear. I am sure you are not questioning the deacon's wishes, said Nhumrod. No. No. Of course not, said Brutha. He hung his head. Good boy, said Nhumrod. He patted as far up Brutha's back as he could reach.
"Just you trot along," he said. I'm sure everything will be all right. And then, because he too had been brought up in habits of honesty, he added, Probably all right. There were few steps in the Citadel. The progress of the many processions that marked the complex rituals of Great Om demanded long, gentle slopes. Such steps as there were, were low enough to encompass the faltering steps of very old men. And there were so many very old men in the Citadel. Sand blew in all the time from the desert. Drifts built up on the steps and in the courtyards, despite everything that an army of brush-wielding novices could do. But a tortoise has very inefficient legs. Thou Shall Build Shallower Steps, he hissed, hauling himself up. Feet thundered past him, a few inches away. This was one of the main thoroughfares of the Citadel, leading to the Place of Lamentation, and was trodden by thousands of pilgrims every day. Once or twice an errant sandal caught his shell and spun him around. Your feet to fly from your body and be buried in a termite mound! he screamed. It made him feel a little better. Another foot clipped him and slid him across the stones. He fetched up, with a clang, against a curved metal grille set low in one wall. Only a lightning grab with his jaws stopped him slipping through it. He ended up hanging by his mouth over a cellar. A tortoise has incredibly powerful jaw muscles. He swayed a bit, legs wobbling. All right. A tortoise in a crevassed, rocky landscape was used to this sort of thing. He just had to get a leg hooked. . . Faint sounds drew themselves to his attention. There was the clink of metal, and then a very soft whimper. Om swivelled his eye around. The grille was high in one wall of a very long, low room. It was brightly illuminated by the light-wells that ran everywhere through the Citadel. Vorbis had made a point of that. The inquisitors shouldn't work in the shadows, he said, but in the light. Where they could see, very clearly, what they were doing. So could Om. He hung from the grille for some time, unable to take his eye off the row of benches. On the whole, Vorbis discouraged red-hot irons, spiked chains, and things with drills and big screws on, unless it was for a public display on an important Fast day. It was amazing what you could do, he always said, with a simple knife. . . But many of the inquisitors liked the old ways best. After a while, Om very slowly hauled himself up to the grille, neck muscles twitching. Like a creature with its mind on something else, the tortoise hooked first one front leg over a bar, then another. His back legs waggled for a while, and then he hooked a claw on to the rough stonework. He strained for a moment and then pulled himself back into the light. He walked off slowly, keeping close to the wall to avoid the feet. He had no alternative to walking slowly in any case, but now he was walking slowly because he was thinking. Most gods find it hard to walk and think at the same time. Anyone could go to the Place of Lamentation. It was one of the great freedoms of Omnianism. There were all sorts of ways to petition the Great God, but they depended largely on how much you could afford, which was right and proper and exactly how things should be. After all, those who had achieved success in the world clearly had done it with the approval of the Great God, because it was impossible to believe that they had managed it with His disapproval. In the same way, the Quisition could act without possibility of flaw. Suspicion was proof. How could it be anything else? The Great God would not have seen fit to put the suspicion in the minds of His exquisitors unless it was right that it should be there. Life could be very simple, if you believed in the Great God Om. And sometimes quite short, too. But there were always the improvident, the stupid, and those who, because of some flaw or oversight in this life or a past one, were not even able to afford a pinch of incense. And the Great God, in His wisdom and mercy as filtered through His priests, had made provision for them. Prayers and entreaties could be offered up in the Place of Lamentation. They would assuredly be heard. They might even be heeded. Behind the Place, which was a square two hundred meters across, rose the Great Temple itself. There, without a shadow of a doubt, the God listened. Or somewhere close, anyway. . . Thousands of pilgrims visited the Place every day. A heel knocked Om's shell, bouncing him off the wall. On the rebound a crutch caught the edge of his carapace and whirled him away into the crowd, spinning like a coin. He bounced up against the bedroll of an old woman who, like many others, reckoned that the efficacy of her petition was increased by the amount of time she spent in the square. The God blinked muzzily. This was nearly as bad as eagles. It was nearly as bad as the cellar. . . no, perhaps nothing was as bad as the cellar. . . He caught a few words before another passing foot kicked him away. The drought has been on our village for three years. . . a little rain, oh Lord? Rotating on the top of his shell, vaguely wondering if the right answer might stop people kicking him, the Great God muttered, "No problem. " Another foot bounced him, unseen by any of the pious, between the forest of legs. The world was a blur. He caught an ancient voice, steeped in hopelessness, saying, "Lord, Lord, why must my son be taken to join your Divine Legion? Who now will tend the farm? Could you not take some other boy?" Don't worry about it, squeaked Om. A sandal caught him under his tail and flicked him several yards across the square. No one was looking down. It was generally believed that staring fixedly at the golden horns on the temple roof while uttering the prayer gave it added potency. Where the presence of the tortoise was dimly registered as a bang on the ankle, it was disposed of by an automatic prod with the other foot. . . . my wife, who is sick with the. . . Right! Kick. . , make clean the well in our village, which is foul with. . . You got it! Kick. . . every year the locusts come, and. . . I promise, only. . . ! Kick. . . lost upon the seas these five months. . . . . . stop kicking me! The tortoise landed, right side up, in a brief, clear space. Visible. . . So much of animal life is the recognition of pattern, the shapes of hunter and hunted. To the casual eye the forest is, well, just forest; to the eye of the dove it is so much unimportant fuzzy green background to the hawk which you did not notice on the branch of a tree. To the tiny dot of the hunting buzzard in the heights, the whole panorama of the world is just a fog compared to the scurrying prey in the grass. From his perch on the Horns themselves, the eagle leapt into the sky. Fortunately, the same awareness of shapes that made the tortoise so prominent in a square full of scurrying humans made the tortoise's one eye swivel upwards in dread anticipation. Eagles are single-minded creatures. Once the idea of lunch is fixed in their mind, it tends to remain there until satisfied. There were two Divine Legionaries outside Vorbis's quarters. They looked sideways at Brutha as he knocked timorously at the door, as if looking for a reason to assault him. A small grey priest opened the door and ushered Brutha into a small, barely furnished room. He pointed meaningfully at a stool. Brutha sat down. The priest vanished behind a curtain. Brutha took one glance around the room andBlackness engulfed him. Before he could move, and Brutha's reflexes were not well coordinated at the best of times, a voice by his ear said, "Now, brother, do not panic. I order you not to panic. " There was cloth in front of Brutha's face. Just nod, boy. Brutha nodded. They put a hood over your face. All the novices knew that. Stories were told in the dormitories. They put a cloth over your face so the inquisitors didn't know who they were working on. . . Good. Now, we are going into the next room. Be careful where you tread. Hands guided him upright and across the floor.
Through the mists of incomprehension he felt the brush of the curtain, and then was jolted down some steps and into a sandyfloored room. The hands spun him a few times, firmly but without apparent ill-will, and then led him along a passageway. There was the swish of another curtain, and then the indefinable sense of a larger space. Afterward, long afterward, Brutha realised: there was no terror. A hood had been slipped over his head in the room of the head of the Quisition, and it never occurred to him to be terrified. Because he had faith. There is a stool behind you. Be seated. Brutha sat. You may remove the hood. Brutha removed the hood. He blinked. Seated on stools at the far end of the room, with a Holy Legionary on either side of them, were three figures. He recognised the aquiline face of Deacon Vorbis; the other two were a short and stocky man, and a very fat one. Not heavily built, like Brutha, but a genuine lard tub. All three wore plain grey robes. There was no sign of any branding irons, or even of scalpels. All three were staring intently. Novice Brutha? said Vorbis. Brutha nodded. Vorbis gave a light laugh, the kind made by very intelligent people when they think of something that probably isn't very amusing. And, of course, one day we shall have to call you Brother Brutha, he said. "Or even Father Brutha? Rather confusing, I think. Best to be avoided. I think we shall have to see to it that you become Subdeacon Brutha just as soon as possible; what do you think of that?" Brutha did not think anything of it. He was vaguely aware that advancement was being discussed, but his mind had gone blank. Anyway, enough of this, said Vorbis, with the slight exasperation of someone who realises that he is going to have to do a lot of work in this conversation. "Do you recognise these learned fathers on my left and right?" Brutha shook his head. Good. They have some questions to ask you. Brutha nodded. The very fat man leaned forward. Do you have a tongue, boy? Brutha nodded. And then, feeling that perhaps this wasn't enough, presented it for inspection. Vorbis laid a restraining hand on the fat man's arm. I think our young friend is a little overawed, he said mildly. He smiled. Now, Brutha-please put it away-I am going to ask you some questions. Do you understand? Brutha nodded. When you first came into my apartments, you were for a few seconds in the anteroom. Please describe it to me. Brutha stared frog-eyed at him. But the turbines of recollection ground into life without his volition, pouring their words into the forefront of his mind. It is a room about three meters square. With white walls. There is sand on the floor except in the corner by the door, where the flagstones are visible. There is a window on the opposite wall, about two meters up. There were three bars in the window. There is a threelegged stool. There is a holy icon of the Prophet Ossory, carved from aphacia wood and set with silver leaf. There is a scratch in the bottom left-hand corner of the frame. There is a shelf under the window. There is nothing on the shelf but a tray. Vorbis steepled his long thin fingers in front of his nose. On the tray? he said. I am sorry, lord? What was on the tray, my son? Images whirled in front of Brutha's eyes. On the tray was a thimble. A bronze thimble. And two needles. On the tray was a length of cord. There were knots in the cord. Three knots. And nine coins were on the tray. There was a silver cup on the tray, decorated with a pattern of aphacia leaves. There was a long dagger, I think it was steel, with a black handle with seven ridges on it. There was a small piece of black cloth on the tray. There was a stylus and a slate-” Tell me about the coins," murmured Vorbis. "Three of them were Citadel cents," said Brutha promptly. "Two were showing the Horns, and one the sevenfold-crown. Four of the coins were very small and golden. There was lettering on them which. . . which I could not read, but which if you were to give me a stylus I think I could-” This is some sort of trick? said the fat man. I assure you, said Vorbis, "the boy could have seen the entire room for no more than a second. Brutha. . . tell us about the other coins. " The other coins were large. They were bronze. They were derechmi from Ephebe. How do you know this? They are hardly common in the Citadel. I have seen them once before, lord. When was this? Brutha's face screwed up with effort. I am not sure-” he said. The fat man beamed at Vorbis. Hah," he said. "I think. . . " said Brutha ". . . it was in the afternoon. But it may have been the morning. Around midday. On Grune 3, in the year of the Astounded Beetle. Some merchants came to our village. " "How old were you at that time?" said Vorbis. "I was within one month of three years old, lord. " "I don't believe this," said the fat man. Brutha's mouth opened and shut once or twice. How did the fat man know? He hadn't been there! "You could be wrong, my son," said Vorbis. "You are a wellgrown lad of. . . what. . . seventeen, eighteen years? We feel you could not really recall a chance glimpse of a foreign coin fifteen years ago. " We think that you are making it up, said the fat man. Brutha said nothing. Why make anything up? When it was just sitting there in his head. Can you remember everything that's ever happened to you? said the stocky man, who had been watching Brutha carefully throughout the exchange. Brutha was glad of the interruption. No, lord. Most things. You forget things? Uh. There are sometimes things I don't remember. Brutha had heard about forgetfulness, although he found it hard to imagine. But there were times in his life, in the first few years of his life especially, when there was. . . nothing. Not an attrition of memory, but great locked rooms in the mansion of his recollection. Not forgotten, any more than a locked room ceases to exist, but. . . locked. What is the first thing you can remember, my son? said Vorbis, kindly. There was a bright light, and then someone hit me, said Brutha. The three men stared at him blankly. Then they turned to one another. Brutha, through the misery of his terror, heard snatches of whispering. . . . is there to lose?. . . Foolishness and probably demonic. . . " "Stakes are high. . . " "One chance, and they will be expecting us. . . " And so on. He looked around the room. Furnishing was not a priority in the Citadel. Shelves, stools, tables. . . There was a rumour among the novices that priests towards the top of the hierarchy had golden furniture, but there was no sign of it here. The room was as severe as anything in the novices' quarters although it had, perhaps, a more opulent severity; it wasn't the forced bareness of poverty, but the starkness of intent. "My son?" Brutha looked back hurriedly. Vorbis glanced at his colleagues. The stocky man nodded. The fat man shrugged. "Brutha," said Vorbis, "return to your dormitory now. Before you go, one of the servants will give you something to eat, and a drink. You will report to the Gate of Horns at dawn tomorrow, and you will come with me to Ephebe. You know about the delegation to Ephebe?" Brutha shook his head. Perhaps there is no reason why you should, said Vorbis. "We are going to discuss political matters with the Tyrant. Do you understand?" Brutha shook his head. Good, said Vorbis. "Very good. Oh, and-Brutha?" Yes, lord? You will forget this meeting. You have not been in this room. You have not seen us here. Brutha gaped at him. This was nonsense. You couldn't forget things just by wishing. Some things forgot themselves-the things in those locked rooms-but that was because of some mechanism he could not access. What did this man mean? Yes, lord, he said. It seemed the simplest way. Gods have no one to pray to. The Great God Om scurried towards the nearest statue, neck stretched, inefficient legs pumping. The statue happened to be himself as a bull, trampling an infidel, although this was no great comfort. It was only a matter of time before the eagle stopped circling and swooped.
Om had been a tortoise for only three years, but with the shape he had inherited a grab-bag of instincts, and a lot of them centred around a total terror of the one wild creature that had found out how to eat tortoise. Gods have no one to pray to. Om really wished that this was not the case. But everyone needs someone. Brutha! Brutha was a little uncertain about his immediate future. Deacon Vorbis had clearly cut him loose from his chores as a novice, but he had nothing to do for the rest of the afternoon. He gravitated towards the garden. There were beans to tie up, and he welcomed the fact. You knew where you were with beans. They didn't tell you to do impossible things, like forget. Besides, if he was going to be away for a while, he ought to mulch the melons and explain things to Lu-Tze. Lu-Tze came with the gardens. Every organisation has someone like him. They might be pushing a broom in obscure corridors, or wandering among the shelves in the back of the stores (where they are the only person who knows where anything is) or have some ambiguous but essential relationship with the boiler-room. Everyone knows who they are and no one remembers a time when they weren't there, or knows where they go when they're not, well, where they usually are. Just occasionally, people who are slightly more observant than most other people, which is not on the face of it very difficult, stop and wonder about them for a while. . . and then get on with something else. Strangely enough, given his gentle ambling from garden to garden around the Citadel, Lu-Tze never showed much interest in the plants themselves. He dealt in soil, manure, muck, compost, loam, and dust, and the means of moving it about. Generally he was pushing a broom, or turning over a heap. Once anyone put seeds in anything he lost interest. He was raking the paths when Brutha entered. He was good at raking paths. He left scallop patterns and gentle soothing curves. Brutha always felt apologetic about walking on them. He hardly ever spoke to Lu-Tze, because it didn't matter much what anyone ever said to Lu-Tze. The old man just nodded and smiled his single-toothed smile in any case. I'm going away for a little while, said Brutha, loudly and distinctly. "I expect someone else will be sent to look after the gardens, but there are some things that need doing. . . " Nod, smile. The old man followed him patiently along the rows, while Brutha spoke beans and herbs. Understand? said Brutha, after ten minutes of this. Nod, smile. Nod, smile, beckon. What? Nod, smile, beckon. Nod, smile, beckon, smile. Lu-Tze walked his little crab-monkey walk to the little area at the far end of the walled garden which contained his heaps, the flowerpot stacks, and all the other cosmetics of the garden beautiful. The old man slept there, Brutha suspected. Nod, smile, beckon. There was a small trestle table in the sun by a stack of bean canes. A straw mat had been spread on it, and on the mat were half a dozen pointy-shaped rocks, none of them bigger than a foot high. A careful arrangement of sticks had been constructed around them. Bits of thin wood shadowed some parts of the rocks. Small metal mirrors directed sunlight towards other areas. Paper cones at odd angles appeared to be funnelling the breeze to very precise points. Brutha had never heard about the art of bonsai, and how it was applied to mountains. They're. . . very nice, he said uncertainly. Nod, smile, pick up a small rock, smile, urge, urge. Oh, I really couldn't take-” Urge, urge. Grin, nod. Brutha took the tiny mountain. It had a strange, unreal heaviness-to his hand it felt like a pound or so, but in his head it weighed thousands of very, very small tons. Uh. Thank you. Thank you very much. " Nod, smile, push away politely. "It's very. . . mountainous. " Nod, grin. "That can't really be snow on the top, can-” Brutha! His head jerked up. But the voice had come from inside. Oh, no, he thought wretchedly. He pushed the little mountain back into Lu-Tze's hands. But, er, you keep it for me, yes? Brutha! All that was a dream, wasn't it? Before I was important and talked to by deacons. No, it wasn't! Help me! The petitioners scattered as the eagle made a pass over the Place of Lamentation. It wheeled, only a few feet above the ground, and perched on the statue of Great Om trampling the Infidel. It was a magnificent bird, golden-brown and yellow-eyed, and it surveyed the crowds with blank disdain. It's a sign? said an old man with a wooden leg. Yes! A sign! said a young woman next to him. A sign! They gathered around the statue. It's a bugger, said a small and totally unheard voice from somewhere around their feet. But what's it a sign of? said an elderly man who had been camping out in the square for three days. What do you mean, of? It's a sign! said the wooden-legged man. "It don't have to be a sign of anything. That's a suspicious kind of question to ask, what's it a sign of. " Got to be a sign of something, said the elderly man. "That's a referential wossname. A gerund. Could be a gerund. " A skinny figure appeared at the edge of the group, moving surreptitiously yet with surprising speed. It was wearing the djeliba of the desert tribes, but around its neck was a tray on a strap. There was an ominous suggestion of sticky sweet things covered in dust. It could be a messenger from the Great God himself, said the woman. It's a bloody eagle is what it is, said a resigned voice from somewhere among the ornamental bronze homicide at the base of the statue. Dates? Figs? Sherbets? Holy relics? Nice fresh indulgences? Lizards? Onna stick? said the man with the tray hopefully. I thought when He appeared in the world it was as a swan or a bull, said the wooden-legged man. Hah! said the unregarded voice of the tortoise. Always wondered about that, said a young novice at the back of the crowd. "You know. . . well. . . swans? A bit. . . lacking in machismo, yes?" May you be stoned to death for blasphemy! said the woman hotly. "The Great God hears every irreverent word you utter!" Hah! from under the statue. And the man with the tray oiled forward a little further, saying, "Klatchian Delight? Honeyed wasps? Get them while they're cold!" It's a point, though, said the elderly man, in a kind of boring, unstoppable voice. "I mean, there's something very godly about an eagle. King of birds, am I right?" It's only a better-looking turkey, said the voice from under the statue. "Brain the size of a walnut. " Very noble bird, the eagle. Intelligent, too, said the elderly man. "Interesting fact: eagles are the only birds to work out how to eat tortoises. You know? They pick them up, flying up very high, and drop them on to the rocks. Smashes them right open. Amazing. " One day, said a dull voice from down below, "I'm going to be back on form again and you're going to be very sorry you said that. For a very long time. I might even go so far as to make even more Time just for you to be sorry in. Or. . . no, I'll make you a tortoise. See how you like it, eh? That rushing wind around y'shell, the ground getting bigger the whole time. That'd be an interesting fact!" That sounds dreadful, said the woman, looking up at the eagle's glare. "I wonder what passes through the poor little creature's head when he's dropped?" His shell, madam, said the Great God Om, trying to squeeze himself even further under the bronze overhang. The man with the tray was looking dejected. "Tell you what," he said. "Two bags of sugared dates for the price of one, how about it? And that's cutting my own hand off. " The woman glanced at the tray. Ere, there's flies all over everything! she said. Currants, madam. Why'd they just fly away, then? the woman demanded. The man looked down. Then he looked back up into her face. A miracle! he said, waving his hands dramatically. "The time of miracles is at hand!" The eagle shifted uneasily.
It recognised humans only as pieces of mobile landscape which, in the lambing season in the high hills, might be associated with thrown stones when it stooped upon the newborn lamb, but which otherwise were as unimportant in the scheme of things as bushes and rocks. But it had never been so close to so many of them. Its mad eyes swivelled backward and forward uncertainly. At that moment trumpets rang out across the Place. The eagle looked around wildly, its tiny predatory mind trying to deal with this sudden overload. It leapt into the air. The worshippers fought to get out of its way as it dipped across the flagstones and then rose majestically toward the turrets of the Great Temple and the hot sky. Below it, the doors of the Great Temple, each one made of forty tons of gilded bronze, opened by the breath (it was said) of the Great God Himself, swung open ponderously and-and this was the holy part-silently. Brutha's enormous sandals flapped and flapped on the flagstones. Brutha always put a lot of effort into running; he ran from the knees, lower legs thrashing like paddlewheels. This was too much. There was a tortoise who said he was the God, and this couldn't be true except that it must be true, because of what it knew. And he'd been tried by the Quisition. Or something like that. Anyway, it hadn't been as painful as he'd been led to expect. Brutha! The square, normally alive with the susurration of a thousand prayers, had gone quiet. The pilgrims had all turned to face the Temple. His mind boiling with the events of the day, Brutha shouldered his way through the suddenly silent crowd. . . . Brutha! People have reality-dampers. It is a popular fact that nine-tenths of the brain is not used and, like most popular facts, it is wrong. Not even the most stupid Creator would go to the trouble of making the human head carry around several pounds of unnecessary grey goo if its only real purpose was, for example, to serve as a delicacy for certain remote tribesmen in unexplored valleys. It is used. And one of its functions is to make the miraculous seem ordinary and turn the unusual into the usual. Because if this was not the case, then human beings, faced with the daily wondrousness of everything, would go around wearing big stupid grins, similar to those worn by certain remote tribesmen who occasionally get raided by the authorities and have the contents of their plastic greenhouses very seriously inspected. They'd say "Wow!" a lot. And no one would do much work. Gods don't like people not doing much work. People who aren't busy all the time might start to think. Part of the brain exists to stop this happening. It is very efficient. It can make people experience boredom in the middle of marvels. And Brutha's was working feverishly. So he didn't immediately notice that he'd pushed through the last row of people and had trotted out into the middle of a wide pathway, until he turned and saw the procession approaching. The Cenobiarch was returning to his apartments, after conducting-or at least nodding vaguely while his chaplain conducted on his behalf-the evening service. Brutha spun around, looking for a way to escape. Then there was a cough beside him, and he stared up into the furious faces of a couple of Lesser Iams and, between them, the bemused and geriatrically good-natured expression of the Cenobiarch himself. The old man raised his hand automatically to bless Brutha with the holy horns, and then two members of the Divine Legion picked up the novice by the elbows, on the second attempt, and marched him swiftly out of the procession's path and hurled him into the crowd. Brutha! Brutha bounded across the plaza to the statue and leaned against it, panting. I'm going to go to hell! he muttered. "For all eternity! " Who cares? Now. . . get me away from here. No one was paying him any attention now. They were all watching the procession. Even watching the procession was a holy act. Brutha knelt down and peered into the scrollwork around the base of the statue. One beady eye glared back at him. How did you get under there? It was touch and go, said the tortoise. "I tell you, when I'm back on form, there's going to be a considerable redesigning of eagles. " What's the eagle trying to do to you? said Brutha. It wants to carry me off to its nest and give me dinner, snarled the tortoise. "What do you think it wanted to do?" There was a short pause in which it contemplated the futility of sarcasm in the presence of Brutha; it was like throwing meringues at a castle. It wants to eat me, it said patiently. But you're a tortoise! I am your God! But currently in the shape of a tortoise. With a shell on, is what I mean. That doesn't worry eagles, said the tortoise darkly. "They pick you up, carry you up a few hundred feet, and then. . . drop you. " Urrgh. No. More like. . . crack. . . splat. How did you think I got in here? You were dropped? But-” Landed on a pile of dirt in your garden. That's eagles for you. Whole place built of rock and paved with rock on a big rock and they miss. " "That was lucky. Million-to-one chance," said Brutha. "I never had this trouble when I was a bull. The number of eagles who can pick up a bull, you can count them on the fingers of one head. Anyway," said the tortoise, "there's worse here than eagles. There's a-” There's good eating on one of them, you know, said a voice behind Brutha. He stood up guiltily, the tortoise in his hand. Oh, hello, Mr. Dhblah, he said. Everyone in the city knew Cut-Me-Own-Hand-Off Dhblah, purveyor of suspiciously new holy relics, suspiciously old rancid sweetmeats on a stick, gritty figs, and long-past-thesell-by dates. He was a sort of natural force, like the wind. No one knew where he came from or where he went at night. But he was there every dawn, selling sticky things to the pilgrims. And in this the priests reckoned he was on to a good thing, because most of the pilgrims were coming for the first time and therefore lacked the essential thing you needed in dealing with Dhblah, which was the experience of having dealt with him before. The sight of someone in the Place trying to unstick their jaws with dignity was a familiar one. Many a devout pilgrim, after a thousand miles of perilous journey, was forced to make his petition in sign language. Fancy some sherbet for afters? said Dhblah hopefully. "Only one cent a glass, and that's cutting me own hand off. " Who is this fool? said Om. I'm not going to eat it, said Brutha hurriedly. Going to teach it to do tricks, then? said Dhblah cheerfully. "Look through hoops, that kind of thing?" Get rid of him, said Om. "Smite him on the head, why don't you, and push the body behind the statue. " Shut up, said Brutha, beginning to experience once again the problems that occur when you're talking to someone no one else can hear. No need to be like that about it, said Dhblah. I wasn't talking to you, said Brutha. Talking to the tortoise, were you? said Dhblah. Brutha looked guilty. My old mum used to talk to a gerbil, Dhblah went on. "Pets are always a great help in times of stress. And in times of starvation too, o'course. " This man is not honest, said Om. "I can read his mind. " Can you? Can I what? said Dhblah. He gave Brutha a lopsided look. "Anyway, it'll be company on your journey. " What journey? To Ephebe. The secret mission to talk to the infidel. Brutha knew he shouldn't be surprised. News went around the enclosed world of the Citadel like bushfire after a drought. Oh, he said. "That journey. " They say Fri'it's going, said Dhblah. "And-that other one. The éminence grease. " Deacon Vorbis is a very nice person, said Brutha. "He has been very kind to me. He gave me a drink. " What of? Never mind, said Dhblah. "Of course, I wouldn't say a word against him, myself," he added quickly. Why are you talking to this stupid person? Om demanded. He's a. . . friend of mine, said Brutha. I wish he was a friend of mine, said Dhblah. "Friends like that, you never have enemies.
Can I press you to a candied sultana? Onna stick?" There were twenty-three other novices in Brutha's dormitory, on the principle that sleeping alone promoted sin. This always puzzled the novices themselves, since a moment's reflection would suggest that there were whole ranges of sins only available in company. But that was because a moment's reflection was the biggest sin of all. People allowed to be by themselves overmuch might indulge in solitary cogitation. It was well known that this stunted your growth. For one thing, it could lead to your feet being chopped off. So Brutha had to retire to the garden, with his God screaming at him from the pocket of his robe, where it was being jostled by a ball of garden twine, a pair of shears, and some loose seeds. Finally he was fished out. Look, I didn't have a chance to tell you, said Brutha. "I've been chosen to go on a very important mission. I'm going to Ephebe, on a mission to the infidels. Deacon Vorbis picked me. He's my friend. " Who's he? He's the chief exquisitor. He. . . makes sure you're worshipped properly. Om picked up the hesitation in Brutha's voice, and remembered the grating. And the sheer busyness below. . . He tortures people, he said coldly. Oh, no! The inquisitors do that. They work very long hours for not much money, too, Brother Nhumrod says. No, the exquisitors just. . . arrange matters. Every inquisitor wants to become an exquisitor one day, Brother Nhumrod says. That's why they put up with being on duty at all hours. They go for days without sleep, sometimes. Torturing people, mused the God. No, a mind like that one in the garden wouldn't pick up a knife. Other people would do that. Vorbis would enjoy other methods. Letting out the badness and the heresy in people, said Brutha. But people. . . perhaps. . . don't survive the process? But that doesn't matter, said Brutha earnestly. What happens to us in this life is not really real. There may be a little pain, but that doesn't matter. Not if it ensures less time in the hells after death. But what if the exquisitors are wrong? said the tortoise. They can't be wrong, said Brutha. "They are guided by the hand of. . . by your hand. . . your front leg. . . I mean, your claw," he mumbled. The tortoise blinked its one eye. It remembered the heat of the sun, the helplessness, and a face watching it not with any cruelty but, worse, with interest. Someone watching something die just to see how long it took. He'd remember that face anywhere. And the mind behind it-that steel ball of a mind. But suppose something went wrong, it insisted. I'm not any good at theology, said Brutha. "But the testament of Ossory is very clear on the matter. They must have done something, otherwise you in your wisdom would not direct the Quisition to them. " Would I? said Om, still thinking of that face. "It's their fault they get tortured. Did I really say that?" `We are judged in life as we are in death'. . . Ossory III, chapter VI, verse 56. My grandmother said that when people die they come before you, they have to cross a terrible desert and you weigh their heart in some scales, said Brutha. "And if it weighs less than a feather, they are spared the hells. " Goodness me, said the tortoise. And it added: "Has it occurred to you, lad, that I might not be able to do that and be down here walking around with a shell on?" You could do anything you wanted to, said Brutha. Om looked up at Brutha. He really believes, he thought. He doesn't know how to lie. The strength of Brutha's belief burned in him like a flame. And then the truth hit Om like the ground hits tortoises after an attack of eagles. You've got to take me to this Ephebe place, he said urgently. I'll do whatever you want, said Brutha. "Are you going to scourge it with hoof and flame?" Could be, could be, said Om. "But you've got to take me. " He was trying to keep his innermost thoughts calm, in case Brutha heard. Don't leave me behind! But you could get there much quicker if I left you, said Brutha. "They are very wicked in Ephebe. The sooner it is cleansed, the better. You could stop being a tortoise and fly there like a burning wind and scourge the city. " A burning wind, thought Om. And the tortoise thought of the silent wastes of the deep desert, and the chittering and sighing of the gods who had faded away to mere djinns and voices on the air. Gods with no more believers. Not even one. One was just enough. Gods who had been left behind. And the thing about Brutha's flame of belief was this: in all the Citadel, in all the day, it was the only one the God had found. Fri'it was trying to pray. He hadn't done so for a long time. Oh, of course there had been the eight compulsory prayers every day, but in the pit of the wretched night he knew them for what they were. A habit. A time for thought, perhaps. And method of measuring time. He wondered if he'd ever prayed, if he'd ever opened heart and mind to something out there, or up there. He must have done, mustn't he? Perhaps when he was young. He couldn't even remember that. Blood had washed away the memories. It was his fault. It had to be his fault. He'd been to Ephebe before, and had rather liked the white marble city on its rock overlooking the blue Circle Sea. And he'd visited Djelibeybi, those madmen in their little river valley who believed in gods with funny heads and put their dead in pyramids. He'd even been to far Ankh-Morpork, across the water, where they'd worship any god at all so long as he or she had money. Yes, Ankh-Morpork-where there were streets and streets of gods, squeezed together like a deck of cards. And none of them wanted to set fire to anyone else, or at least any more than was normally the case in Ankh-Morpork. They just wanted to be left in peace, so that everyone went to heaven or hell in their own way. And he'd drunk too much tonight, from a secret cache of wine whose discovery would deliver him into the machinery of the inquisitors within ten minutes. Yes, you could say this for old Vorbis. Once upon a time the Quisition had been bribable, but not anymore. The chief exquisitor had gone back to fundamentals. Now there was a democracy of sharp knives. Better than that, in fact. The search for heresy was pursued even more vigorously among the higher levels in the Church. Vorbis had made it clear: the higher up the tree, the blunter the saw. Give me that old-time religion. . . He squeezed his eyes shut again, and all he could see were the horns of the temple, or fragmented suggestions of the carnage to come, or. . . the face of Vorbis. He'd liked that white city. Even the slaves had been content. There were rules about slaves. There were things you couldn't do to slaves. Slaves had value. He'd learned about the Turtle, there. It had all made sense. He'd thought: it sounds right. It makes sense. But sense or not, that thought was sending him to hell. 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 afterward. 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 inward. 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 foetid 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 told to be here. But after a while sounds from around the corner made him sidle a few yards to see what was going on. 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 djeliba moved among them and occasionally hit them with sticks, which is the approved method of dealing with camels. 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 for his words will be as dust,' said Brutha. 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 halfhidden under the desert robes. And you had to make special allowances for Legionaries, just as you did for inquisitors. Their often intimate contact with the ungodly affected their minds and put their souls in mortal peril. He decided to be magnanimous. And where are you going to with all these camels on this fine morning, brother? The soldier tightened a strap. Probably to hell, he said, grinning nastily. "Just behind you. " Really? According to the word of the Prophet Ishkible, a man needs no camel to ride to hell, yea, nor horse, nor mule; a man may ride into hell on his tongue, said Brutha, letting just a tremor of disapproval enter his voice. Does some old prophet say anything about nosy bastards being given a thump alongside the ear? said the soldier. `Woe unto him who raises his hand unto his brother, dealing with him as unto an Infidel,' said Brutha. "That's Ossory, Precepts XI, verse 16. " `Sod off and forget you ever saw us otherwise you're going to be in real trouble, my friend. ' Sergeant Aktar, chapter 1, verse 1, said the soldier. Brutha's brow wrinkled. He couldn't remember that one. Walk away, said the voice of the God in his head. "You don't need trouble. " I hope your journey is a pleasant one, said Brutha politely. "Whatever the destination. " He backed away and headed toward the gate. A man who will have to spend some time in the hells of correction, if I am any judge, he said. The god said nothing. The Ephebian travelling group was beginning to assemble now. Brutha stood to attention and tried to keep out of everyone's way. He saw a dozen mounted soldiers, but unlike the camel riders they were in the brightly polished fishmail and black-and-yellow cloaks that the Legionaries usually only wore on special occasions. Brutha thought they looked very impressive. Eventually one of the stable servants came up to him. What are you doing here, novice? he demanded. I am going to Ephebe, said Brutha. The man glared at him and then grinned. You? You're not even ordained! You're going to Ephebe? Yes. What makes you think that? Because I told him so, said the voice of Vorbis, behind the man. "And here he is, most obedient to my wishes. " Brutha had a good view of the man's face. The change in his expression was like watching a grease slick cross a pond. Then the stableman turned as though his feet were nailed to a turntable. My Lord Vorbis, he oiled. And now he will require a steed, said Vorbis. The stableman's face was yellow with dread. My pleasure. The very best the sta-” My friend Brutha is a humble man before Om," said Vorbis. "He will ask for no more than a mule, I have no doubt. Brutha?" "I-I do not know how to ride, my lord," said Brutha. "Any man can get on a mule," said Vorbis. "Often many times in a short distance. And now, it would appear, we are all here?" He raised an eyebrow at the sergeant of the guard, who saluted. "We are awaiting General Fri'it, lord," he said. "Ah. Sergeant Simony, isn't it?" Vorbis had a terrible memory for names. He knew every one. The sergeant paled a little, and then saluted crisply. "Yes! Sir!" "We will proceed without General Fri'it," said Vorbis. The B of the word "But" framed itself on the sergeant's lips, and faded there. "General Fri'it has other business," said Vorbis. "Most pressing and urgent business. Which only he can attend to. " Fri'it opened his eyes in grayness. He could see the room around him, but only faintly, as a series of edges in the air. The sword. . . He'd dropped the sword, but maybe he could find it again. He stepped forward, feeling a tenuous resistance around his ankles, and looked down. There was the sword. But his fingers passed through it. It was like being drunk, but he knew he wasn't drunk. He wasn't even sober. He was. . . suddenly clear in his mind. He turned and looked at the thing that had briefly impeded his progress. "Oh," he said. GOOD MORNING. "Oh. " "THERE IS A LITTLE CONFUSION AT FIRST. IT IS ONLY TO BE EXPECTED. To his horror, Fri'it saw the tall black figure stride away through the grey wall. Wait! A skull draped in a black hood poked out of the wall. YES? You're Death, aren't you? INDEED. Fri'it gathered what remained of his dignity. I know you, he said. "I have faced you many times. " Death gave him a long stare. NO YOU HAVEN'T. I assure you-” YOU HAVE FACED MEN. IF YOU HAD FACED ME, I ASSURE YOU. . . YOU WOULD HAVE KNOWN. But what happens to me now?" Death shrugged. DON'T YOU KNOW? he said, and disappeared. "Wait!" Fri'it ran at the wall and found to his surprise that it offered no barrier.
Now he was out in the empty corridor. Death had vanished. And then he realised that it wasn't the corridor he remembered, with its shadows and the grittiness of sand underfoot. That corridor didn't have a glow at the end, that pulled at him like a magnet pulls at an iron filing. You couldn't put off the inevitable. Because sooner or later, you reached the place when the inevitable just went and waited. And this was it. Fri'it stepped through the glow into a desert. The sky was dark and pocked with large stars, but the black sand that stretched away to the distance was nevertheless brightly lit. A desert. After death, a desert. The desert. No hells, yet. Perhaps there was hope. He remembered a story from his childhood. Unusually, it wasn't about smiting. No one was trampled underfoot. It wasn't about Om, dreadful in His rage. It was worse. It was about what happened when you died. . . the journey of your soul. They said: you must walk a desert. . . "Where is this place?" he said hoarsely. THIS IS NO PLACE, said Death. . . . all alone. . . "What is at the end of the desert?" JUDGEMENT. . . . with your beliefs. . . Fri'it stared at the endless, featureless expanse. "I have to walk it alone?" he whispered. "But. . . now, I'm not sure what I believe-” YES? AND NOW, IF YOU WILL EXCUSE ME Fri'it took a deep breath, purely out of habit. Perhaps he could find a couple of rocks out there. A small rock to hold and a big rock to hide behind, while he waited for Vorbis. . . And that thought was habit, too. Revenge? Here? He smiled. Be sensible, man. You were a soldier. This is a desert. You crossed a few in your time. And you survive by learning about them. There's whole tribes that know how to live in the worst kinds of desert. Licking water off the shady sides of dunes, that sort of thing. . . They think it's home. Put 'em in a vegetable garden and they'd think you were mad. The memory stole over him: a desert is what you think it is. And now, you can think clearly. . . There were no lies here. All fancies fled away. That's what happened in all deserts. It was just you, and what you believed. What have I always believed? That on the whole, and by and large, if a man lived properly, not according to what any priests said, but according to what seemed decent and honest inside, then it would, at the end, more or less, turn out all right. You couldn't get that on a banner. But the desert looked better already. Fri'it set out. It was a small mule and Brutha had long legs; if he'd made the effort he could have remained standing and let the mule trot out from underneath. The order of progression was not as some may have expected. Sergeant Simony and his soldiers rode ahead, on either side of the track. They were trailed by the servants and clerks and lesser priests. Vorbis rode in the rear, where an exquisitor rode by right, like a shepherd watching over his flock. Brutha rode with him. It was an honour he would have preferred to avoid. Brutha was one of those people who could raise a sweat on a frosty day, and the dust was settling on him like a gritty skin. But Vorbis seemed to derive some amusement from his company. Occasionally he would ask him questions: How many miles have we travelled, Brutha? Four miles and seven estado, lord. But how do you know? That was a question he couldn't answer. How did he know the sky was blue? It was just something in his head. You couldn't think about how you thought. It was like opening a box with the crowbar that was inside. And how long has our journey taken? A little over seventy-nine minutes. Vorbis laughed. Brutha wondered why. The puzzle wasn't why he remembered, it was why everyone else seemed to forget. Did your fathers have this remarkable faculty? There was a pause. Could they do it as well? said Vorbis patiently. I don't know. There was only my grandmother. She had-a good memory. For some things. Transgressions, certainly. "And very good eyesight and hearing. " What she could apparently see or hear through two walls had, he remembered, seemed phenomenal. Brutha turned gingerly in the saddle. There was a cloud of dust about a mile behind them on the road. Here come the rest of the soldiers, he said conversationally. This seemed to shock Vorbis. Perhaps it was the first time in years that anyone had innocently addressed a remark to him. The rest of the soldiers? he said. Sergeant Aktar and his men, on ninety-eight camels with many water-bottles, said Brutha. "I saw them before we left. " You did not see them, said Vorbis. "They are not coming with us. You will forget about them. " Yes, lord. The request to do magic again. After a few minutes the distant cloud turned off the road and started up the long slope that led to the high desert. Brutha watched them surreptitiously, and raised his eyes to the dune mountains. There was a speck circling up there. He put his hand to his mouth. Vorbis heard the gasp. What ails you, Brutha? he said. I remembered about the God, said Brutha, without thinking. We should always remember the God, said Vorbis, "and trust that He is with us on this journey. " He is, said Brutha, and the absolute conviction in his voice made Vorbis smile. He strained to hear the nagging internal voice, but there was nothing. For one horrible moment Brutha wondered if the tortoise had fallen out of the box, but there was a reassuring weight on the strap. And we must bear with us the certainty that He will be with us in Ephebe, among the infidel, said Vorbis. I am sure He will, said Brutha. And prepare ourselves for the coming of the prophet, said Vorbis. The cloud had reached the top of the dunes now, and vanished in the silent wastes of the desert. Brutha tried to put it out of his mind, which was like trying to empty a bucket underwater. No one survived in the high desert. It wasn't just the dunes and the heat. There were terrors in the burning heart, where even the mad tribes never went. An ocean without water, voices without mouths. . . Which wasn't to say that the immediate future didn't hold terrors enough. . . He'd seen the sea before, but the Omnians didn't encourage it. This may have been because deserts were so much harder to cross. They kept people in, though. But sometimes the desert barriers were a problem, and then you had to put up with the sea. Il-drim was nothing more than a few shacks around a stone jetty, at one of which was a trireme flying the holy oriflamme. When the Church travelled, the travellers were very senior people indeed, so when the Church travelled it generally travelled in style. The party paused on a hill and looked at it. Soft and corrupt, said Vorbis. "That's what we've become, Brutha. " Yes, Lord Vorbis. And open to pernicious influence. The sea, Brutha. It washes unholy shores, and gives rise to dangerous ideas. Men should not travel, Brutha. At the centre there is truth. As you travel, so error creeps in. Yes, Lord Vorbis. Vorbis sighed. In Ossory's day we sailed alone in boats made of hides, and went where the winds of the God took us. That's how a holy man should travel. A tiny spark of defiance in Brutha declared that it, personally, would risk a little corruption for the sake of travelling with two decks between its feet and the waves. I heard that Ossory once sailed to the island of Erebos on a millstone, he ventured by way of conversation. Nothing is impossible for the strong in faith, said Vorbis. Try striking a match on jelly, mister. Brutha stiffened. It was impossible that Vorbis could have failed to hear the voice. The Voice of the Turtle was heard in the land. Who's this bugger? Forward, said Vorbis. "I can see that our friend Brutha is agog to get on board. " The horse trotted on. Where are we? Who's that? It's as hot as hell in here and, believe me, I know what I'm talking about. I can't talk now! hissed Brutha. This cabbage stinks like a swamp! Let there be lettuce! Let there be slices of melon! The horses edged along the jetty and were led one at a time up the gangplank. By this time the box was vibrating.
Brutha kept looking around guiltily, but no one else was taking any notice. Despite his size, Brutha was easy not to notice. Practically everyone had better things to do with their time than notice someone like Brutha. Even Vorbis had switched him off, and was talking to the captain. He found a place up near the pointed end, where one of the sticking-up bits with the sails on gave him a bit of privacy. Then, with some dread, he opened the box. The tortoise spoke from deep within its shell. Any eagles about? Brutha scanned the sky. No. The head shot out. You-” it began. I couldn't talk!" said Brutha. "People were with me all the time! Can't you. . . read the words in my mind? Can't you read my thoughts?" "Mortal thoughts aren't like that," snapped Om. "You think it's like watching words paint themselves across the sky? Hah! It's like trying to make sense of a bundle of weeds. Intentions, yes. Emotions, yes. But not thoughts. Half the time you don't know what you're thinking, so why should I?" "Because you're the God," said Brutha. "Abbys, chapter LVI, verse 17: Àll of mortal mind he knows, and there are no secrets. ' " "Was he the one with the bad teeth?" Brutha hung his head. "Listen," said the tortoise, "I am what I am. I can't help it if people think something else. " "But you knew about my thoughts. . . in the garden. . . " muttered Brutha. The tortoise hesitated. "That was different," it said. "They weren't. . . thoughts. That was guilt. " "I believe that the Great God is Om, and in His Justice," said Brutha. "And I shall go on believing, whatever you say, and whatever you are. " "Good to hear it," said the tortoise fervently. "Hold that thought. Where are we?" "On a boat," said Brutha. "On the sea. Wobbling. " "Going to Ephebe on a boat? What's wrong with the desert?" "No one can cross the desert. No one can live in the heart of the desert. " "I did. " "It's only a couple of days' sailing. " Brutha's stomach lurched, even though the boat had hardly cleared the jetty. "And they say that the God-” -me-” -is sending us a fair wind. " "I am? Oh. Yes. Trust me for a fair wind. Flat as a mill-race the whole way, don't you worry. " "I meant mill-pond! I meant mill-pond!" Brutha clung to the mast. After a while a sailor came and sat down on a coil of rope and looked at him interestedly. "You can let go, Father," he said. "It stands up all by itself. " "The sea. . . the waves. . . " murmured Brutha carefully, although there was nothing left to throw up. The sailor spat thoughtfully. "Aye," he said. "They got to be that shape, see, so's to fit into the sky. " "But the boat's creaking!" "Aye. It does that. " "You mean this isn't a storm?" The sailor sighed, and walked away. After a while, Brutha risked letting go. He had never felt so ill in his life. It wasn't just the seasickness. He didn't know where he was. And Brutha had always known where he was. Where he was, and the existence of Om, had been the only two certainties in his life. It was something he shared with tortoises. Watch any tortoise walking, and periodically it will stop while it files away the memories of the journey so far. Not for nothing, elsewhere in the multiverse, are the little travelling devices controlled by electric thinking-engines called "turtles. " Brutha knew where he was by remembering where he had been-by the unconscious counting of footsteps and the noting of landmarks. Somewhere inside his head was a thread of memory which, if you had wired it directly to whatever controlled his feet, would cause Brutha to amble back through the little pathways of his life all the way to the place he was born. Out of contact with the ground, on the mutable surface of the sea, the thread flapped loose. In his box, Om tossed and shook to Brutha's motion as Brutha staggered across the moving deck and reached the rail. To anyone except the novice, the boat was clipping through the waves on a good sailing day. Seabirds wheeled in its wake. Away to one side-port or starboard or one of those directions-a school of flying fish broke the surface in an attempt to escape the attentions of some dolphins. Brutha stared at the grey shapes as they zigzagged under the keel in a world where they never had to count at all "Ah, Brutha," said Vorbis. "Feeding the fishes, I see. " "No, lord," said Brutha. "I'm being sick, lord. " He turned. There was Sergeant Simony, a muscular young man with the deadpan expression of the truly professional soldier. He was standing next to someone Brutha vaguely recognised as the number-one salt or whatever his title was. And there was the exquisitor, smiling. "Him! Him!" screamed the voice of the tortoise. "Our young friend is not a good sailor," said Vorbis. "Him! Him! I'd know him anywhere!" "Lord, I wish I wasn't a sailor at all," said Brutha. He felt the box trembling as Om bounced around inside. "Kill him! Find something sharp! Push him overboard!" "Come with us to the prow, Brutha," said Vorbis. "There are many interesting things to be seen, according to the captain. " The captain gave the frozen smirk of those caught between a rock and a hard place. Vorbis could always supply both. Brutha trailed behind the other three, and risked a whisper. "What's the matter?" "Him! The bald one! Push him over the side!" Vorbis half-turned, caught Brutha's embarrassed attention, and smiled. "We will have our minds broadened, I am sure," he said. He turned back to the captain, and pointed to a large bird gliding down the face of the waves. "The Pointless Albatross," said the captain promptly. "Flies from the Hub to the Ri-” he faltered. But Vorbis was gazing with apparent affability at the view. He turned me over in the sun! Look at his mind! From one pole of the world to the other, every year, said the captain. He was sweating slightly. Really? said Vorbis. "Why?" No one knows. Excepting the God, of course, said Vorbis. The captain's face was a sickly yellow. Of course. Certainly, he said. Brutha? shouted the tortoise. "Are you listening to me?" And over there? said Vorbis. The sailor followed his extended arm. Oh. Flying fish, he said. "But they don't really fly," he added quickly. "They just build up speed in the water and glide a little way. " One of the God's marvels, said Vorbis. "Infinite variety, eh?" Yes, indeed, said the captain. Relief was crossing his face now, like a friendly army. And the things down there? said the exquisitor. Them? Porpoises, said the captain. "Sort of a fish. " Do they always swim around ships like this? Often. Certainly. Especially in the waters off Ephebe. Vorbis leaned over the rail, and said nothing. Simony was staring at the horizon, his face absolutely immobile. This left a gap in the conversation which the captain, very stupidly, sought to fill. They'll follow a ship for days, he said. Remarkable. Another pause, a tar pit of silence ready to snare the mastodons of unthinking comment. Earlier exquisitors had shouted and ranted confessions out of people. Vorbis never did that. He just dug deep silences in front of them. They seem to like them, said the captain. He glanced nervously at Brutha, who was trying to shut the tortoise's voice out of his head. There was no help there. Vorbis came to his aid instead. This must be very convenient on long voyages, he said. Uh. Yes? said the captain. From the provisions point of view, said Vorbis. My lord, I don't quite-” It must be like having a travelling larder," said Vorbis. The captain smiled. "Oh no, lord. We don't eat them. " "Surely not? They look quite wholesome to me. " "Oh, but you know the old saying, lord. . . Saying? Oh, they say that after they die, the souls of dead sailors become-” The captain saw the abyss ahead, but the sentence had plunged on with a horrible momentum of its own. For a while there was no sound but the zip of the waves, the distant splash of the porpoises, and the heaven-shaking thundering of the captain's heart. Vorbis leaned back on the rail. But of course we are not prey to such superstitions," he said lazily.
"Well, of course," said the captain, clutching at this straw. "Idle sailor talk. If ever I hear it again I shall have the man flog-” Vorbis was looking past his ear. I say! Yes, you there! he said. One of the sailors nodded. Fetch me a harpoon, said Vorbis. The man looked from him to the captain and then scuttled off obediently. But, ah, uh, but your lordship should not, uh, ha, attempt such sport, said the captain. "Ah. Uh. A harpoon is a dangerous weapon in untrained hands, I am afraid you might do yourself an injury-” "But I will not be using it," said Vorbis. The captain hung his head and held out his hand for the harpoon. Vorbis patted him on the shoulder. "And then," he said, "you shall entertain us to lunch. Won't he, sergeant?" Simony saluted. "Just as you say, sir. " "Yes. " Brutha lay on his back among sails and ropes somewhere under the decking. It was hot, and the air smelled of all air anywhere that has ever come into contact with bilges. Brutha hadn't eaten all day. Initially he'd been too ill to. Then he just hadn't. "But being cruel to animals doesn't mean he's a. . . bad person," he ventured, the harmonics of his tone suggesting that even he didn't believe this. It had been quite a small porpoise. "He turned me on to my back," said Om. "Yes, but humans are more important than animals," said Brutha. "This is a point of view often expressed by humans," said Om. "Chapter IX, verse 16 of the book of-” Brutha began. Who cares what any book says? screamed the tortoise. Brutha was shaken. But you never told any of the prophets that people should be kind to animals, he said. "I don't remember anything about that. Not when you were. . . bigger. You don't want people to be kind to animals because they're animals, you just want people to be kind to animals because one of them might be you. " That's not a bad idea! Besides, he's been kind to me. He didn't have to be. You think that? Is that what you think? Have you looked at the man's mind?" "Of course I haven't! I don't know how to!" "You don't?" "No! Humans can't do-” Brutha paused. Vorbis seemed to do it. He only had to look at someone to know what wicked thoughts they harboured And grandmother had been the same. Humans can't do it, I'm sure, he said. "We can't read minds. " I don't mean reading them, I mean looking at them, said Om. "Just seeing the shape of them. You can't read a mind. You might as well try and read a river. But seeing the shape's easy. Witches can do it, no trouble. " `The way of the witch shall be as a path strewn with thorns,' said Brutha. Ossory? said Om. Yes. But of course you'd know, said Brutha. Never heard it before in my life, said the tortoise bitterly. "It was what you might call an educated guess. " Whatever you say, said Brutha, "I still know that you can't truly be Om. The God would not talk like that about His chosen ones. " I never chose anyone, said Om. "They chose themselves. " If you're really Om, stop being a tortoise. I told you, I can't. You think I haven't tried? Three years! Most of that time I thought I was a tortoise. Then perhaps you were. Maybe you're just a tortoise who thinks he's a god. Nah. Don't try philosophy again. Start thinking like that and you end up thinking maybe you're just a butterfly dreaming it's a whelk or something. No. One day all I had on my mind was the amount of walking necessary to get to the nearest plant with decent lowgrowing leaves, the next. . . I had all this memory filling up my head. Three years before the shell. No, don't you tell me I'm a tortoise with big ideas. Brutha hesitated. He knew it was wicked to ask, but he wanted to know what the memory was. Anyway, could it be wicked? If the God was sitting there talking to you, could you say anything truly wicked? Face to face? Somehow, that didn't seem so bad as saying something wicked when he was up on a cloud or something. As far as I can recall, said Om, "I'd intended to be a big white bull. " Trampling the infidel, said Brutha. Not my basic intention, but no doubt some trampling could have been arranged. Or a swan, I thought. Something impressive. Three years later, I wake up and it turns out I've been a tortoise. I mean, you don't get much lower. Careful, careful. . . you need his help, but don't tell him everything. Don't tell him what you suspect. When did you start think-when did you remember all this? said Brutha, who found the phenomenon of forgetting a strange and fascinating one, as other men might find the idea of flying by flapping your arms. About two hundred feet above your vegetable garden, said Om, "which is not a point where it's fun to become sapient, I'm here to tell you. " But why? said Brutha. "Gods don't have to stay tortoises unless they want to!" I don't know, lied Om. If he works it out himself I'm done for, he thought. This is a chance in a million. If I get it wrong, it's back to a life where happiness is a leaf you can reach. Part of him screamed: I'm a god! I don't have to think like this! I don't have to put myself in the power of a human! But another part, the part that could remember exactly what being a tortoise for three years had been like, whispered: no. You have to. If you want to be up there again. He's stupid and gormless and he's not got a drop of ambition in his big flabby body. And this is what you've got to work with. . . The god part said: Vorbis would have been better. Be rational. A mind like that could do anything! He turned me on my back! No, he turned a tortoise on its back. Yes. Me. No. You're a god. Yes, but a persistently tortoise-shaped one. If he had known you were a god. . . But Om remembered Vorbis's absorbed expression, in a pair of grey eyes in front of a mind as impenetrable as a steel ball. He'd never seen a mind shaped like that on anything walking upright. There was someone who probably would turn a god on his back, just to see what would happen. Someone who'd overturn the universe, without thought of consequence, for the sake of the knowledge of what happened when the universe was flat on its back. . . But what he had to work with was Brutha, with a mind as incisive as a meringue. And if Brutha found out that. . . Or if Brutha died. . . How are you feeling? said Om. Ill. Snuggle down under the sails a bit more, said Om. "You don't want to catch a chill. " There's got to be someone else, he thought. It can't be just him who. . . the rest of the thought was so terrible he tried to block it from his mind, but he couldn't. . . . it can't be just him who believes in me. Really in me. Not in a pair of golden horns. Not in a great big building. Not in the dread of hot iron and knives. Not in paying your temple dues because everyone else does. Just in the fact that the Great God Om really exists. And now he's got himself involved with the most unpleasant mind I've ever seen, someone who kills people to see if they die. An eagle kind of person if ever there was one. . . Om was aware of a mumbling. Brutha was lying face down on the deck. What are you doing? said Om. Brutha turned his head. Praying. That's good. What for? You don't know? Oh. If Brutha dies. . . The tortoise shuddered in its shell. If Brutha died, then it could already hear in its mind's ear the soughing of the wind in the deep, hot places of the desert. Where the small gods went. Where do gods come from? Where do they go? Some attempt to answer this was made by the religious philosopher Koomi of Smale in his book Ego-Video Liber Deorum, which translates into the vernacular roughly as Gods: A Spotter's Guide. People said there had to be a Supreme Being because otherwise how could the universe exist, eh? And of course there clearly had to be, said Koomi, a Supreme Being. But since the universe was a bit of a mess, it was obvious that the Supreme Being hadn't in fact made it. If he had made it he would, being Supreme, have made a much better job of it, with far better thought given, taking an example at random, to thinks like the design of the common nostril.
Or, to put it another way, the existence of a badly puttogether watch proved the existence of a blind watchmaker. You only had to look around to see that there was room for improvement practically everywhere. This suggested that the Universe had probably been put together in a bit of a rush by an underling while the Supreme Being wasn't looking, in the same way that Boy Scouts' Association minutes are done on office photocopiers all over the country. So, reasoned Koomi, it was not a good idea to address any prayers to a Supreme Being. It would only attract his attention and might cause trouble. And yet there seemed to be a lot of lesser gods around the place. Koomi's theory was that gods come into being and grow and flourish because they are believed in. Belief itself is the food of the gods. Initially, when mankind lived in small primitive tribes, there were probably millions of gods. Now there tended to be only a few very important ones-local gods of thunder and love, for example, tended to run together like pools of mercury as the small primitive tribes joined up and became huge, powerful primitive tribes with more sophisticated weapons. But any god could join. Any god could start small. Any god could grow in stature as its believers increased. And dwindle as they decreased. It was like a great big game of ladders and snakes. Gods liked games, provided they were winning. Koomi's theory was largely based on the good old Gnostic heresy, which tends to turn up all over the multiverse whenever men get up off their knees and start thinking for two minutes together, although the shock of the sudden altitude tends to mean the thinking is a little whacked. But it upsets priests, who tend to vent their displeasure in traditional ways. When the Omnian Church found out about Koomi, they displayed him in every town within the Church's empire to demonstrate the essential flaws in his argument. There were a lot of towns, so they had to cut him up quite small. Ragged clouds ripped across the skies. The sails creaked in the rising wind, and Om could hear the shouts of the sailors as they tried to outrun the storm. It was going to be a big storm, even by the mariners' standards. White water crowned the waves. Brutha snored in his nest. Om listened to the sailors. They were not men who dealt in sophistries. Someone had killed a porpoise, and everyone knew what that meant. It meant that there was going to be a storm. It meant that the ship was going to be sunk. It was simple cause and effect. It was worse than women aboard. It was worse than albatrosses. Om wondered if tortoises could swim. Turtles could, he was pretty sure. But those buggers had the shell for it. It would be too much to ask (even if a god had anyone to ask) that a body designed for trundling around a dry wilderness had any hydrodynamic properties other than those necessary to sink to the bottom. Oh, well. Nothing else for it. He was still a god. He had rights. He slid down a coil of rope and crawled carefully to the edge of the swaying deck, wedging his shell against a stanchion so that he could see down into the roiling water. Then he spoke in a voice audible to nothing that was mortal. Nothing happened for a while. Then one wave rose higher than the rest, and changed shape as it rose. Water poured upward, filling an invisible mould; it was humanoid, but obviously only because it wanted to be. It could as easily have been a waterspout, or an undertow. The sea is always powerful. So many people believe in it. But it seldom answers prayers. The water shape rose level with the deck and kept pace with Om. It developed a face, and opened a mouth. Well? it said. Greetings, oh Queen of-” Om began. The watery eyes focused. But you are just a small god. And you dare to summon me?" The wind howled in the rigging. "I have believers," said Om. "So I have the right. " There was the briefest of pauses. Then the Sea Queen said, "One believer?" "One or many does not matter here," said Om. "I have rights. " "And what rights do you demand, little tortoise?" said the Queen of the Sea. "Save the ship," said Om. The Queen was silent. "You have to grant the request," said Om. "It's the rules. " "But I can name my price," said the Sea Queen. "That's the rules, too. " "And it will be high. " "It will be paid. " The column of water began to collapse back into the waves. "I will consider this. " Om stared down into the white sea. The ship rolled, sliding him back down the deck, and then rolled back. A flailing foreclaw hooked itself around the stanchion as Om's shell spun around, and for a moment both hind legs paddled helplessly over the waters. And then Om was shaken free. Something white swept down toward him as he seesawed over the edge, and he bit it. Brutha yelled and pulled his hand up, with Om trailing on the end of it. "You didn't have to bite!" The ship pitched into a wave and flung him to the deck. Om let go and rolled away. When Brutha got to his feet, or at least to his hands and knees, he saw the crewmen standing around him. Two of them grabbed him by the elbows as a wave crashed over the ship. "What are you doing?" They were trying to avoid looking at his face. They dragged him toward the rail. Somewhere in the scuppers Om screamed at the Sea Queen. "It's the rules! The rules!" Four sailors had got hold of Brutha now. Om could hear, above the roaring of the storm, the silence of the desert. "Wait," said Brutha. "It's nothing personal," said one of the sailors. "We don't want to do this. " "I don't want you to do it either," said Brutha. "Is that any help?" "The sea wants a life," said the oldest sailor. "Yours is nearest. Okay, get his-” Can I make my peace with my God? What? If you're going to kill me, can I pray to my God first? It's not us that's killing you, said the sailor. "It's the sea. " `The hand that does the deed is guilty of the crime,' said Brutha. "Ossory, chapter LVI, verse 93. " The sailors looked at one another. At a time like this, it was probably not wise to antagonise any god. The ship skidded down the side of a wave. You've got ten seconds, said the oldest sailor. "That's ten seconds more than many men get. " Brutha lay down on the deck, helped considerably by another wave that slammed into the timbers. Om was dimly aware of the prayer, to his surprise. He couldn't make out the words, but the prayer itself was an itch at the back of his mind. Don't ask me, he said, trying to get upright, "I'm out of options-” The ship smacked down. . . . . . on to a calm sea. The storm still raged, but only around a widening circle with the ship in the middle. The lightning, stabbing at the sea, surrounded them like the bars of a cage. The circle lengthened ahead of them. Now the ship sped down a narrow channel of calm between grey walls of storm a mile high. Electric fire raged overhead. And then was gone. Behind them, a mountain of grayness squatted on the sea. They could hear the thunder dying away. Brutha got uncertainly to his feet, swaying wildly to compensate for a motion that was no longer there. "Now I-” he began. He was alone. The sailors had fled. Om? said Brutha. Over here. Brutha fished his God out of the seaweed. You said you couldn't do anything! he said accusingly. That wasn't m-” Om paused. There will be a price, he thought. It won't be cheap. It can't be cheap. The Sea Queen is a god. I've crushed a few towns in my time. Holy fire, that kind of thing. If the price isn't high, how can people respect you? I made arrangements," he said. Tidal waves. A ship sunk. A couple of towns disappearing under the sea. It'll be something like that. If people don't respect then they won't fear, and if they don't fear, how can you get them to believe? Seems unfair, really. One man killed a porpoise. Of course, it doesn't matter to the Queen who gets thrown overboard, just as it didn't matter to him which porpoise he killed. And that's unfair, because it was Vorbis who did it. He makes people do things they shouldn't do. . .
What am I thinking about? Before I was a tortoise, I didn't even know what unfair meant. . . The hatches opened. People came on deck and hung on the rail. Being on deck in stormy weather always has the possibility of being washed overboard, but that takes on a rosy glow after hours below decks with frightened horses and seasick passengers. There were no more storms. The ship ploughed on in favourable winds, under a clear sky, in a sea as empty of life as the hot desert. The days passed uneventfully. Vorbis stayed below decks for most of the time. The crew treated Brutha with cautious respect. News like Brutha spreads quickly. The coast here was dunes, with the occasional barren salt marsh. A heat haze hung over the land. It was the kind of coast where shipwrecked landfall is more to be dreaded than drowning. There were no seabirds. Even the birds that had been trailing the ship for scraps had vanished. "No eagles," said Om. There was that to be said about it. Toward the evening of the fourth day the unedifying panorama was punctuated by a glitter of light, high on the dune sea. It flashed with a sort of rhythm. The captain, whose face now looked as if sleep had not been a regular nighttime companion, called Brutha over. "His. . . your. . . the deacon told me to watch out for this," he said. "You go and fetch him now. " Vorbis had a cabin somewhere near the bilges, where the air was as thick as thin soup. Brutha knocked. "Enter. "[1][5] [5] Words are the litmus paper of the mind. If you find yourself in the power of someone who will use the word "commence" in cold blood, go somewhere else very quickly. But if they say "Enter," don't stop to pack. There were no portholes down here. Vorbis was sitting in the dark. "Yes, Brutha?" "The captain sent me to fetch you, lord. Something's shining in the desert. " "Good. Now, Brutha. Attend. The captain has a mirror. You will ask to borrow it. " "Er. . . what is a mirror, lord?" "An unholy and forbidden device," said Vorbis. "Which regretfully can be pressed into godly service. He will deny it, of course. But a man with such a neat beard and tiny moustache is vain, and a vain man must have his mirror. So take it. And stand in the sun and move the mirror so that it shines the sun towards the desert. Do you understand?" No, lord, said Brutha. Your ignorance is your protection, my son. And then come back and tell me what you see. Om dozed in the sun. Brutha had found him a little space near the pointy end where he could get sun with little danger of being seen by the crew-and the crew were jittery enough at the moment not to go looking for trouble in any case. A tortoise dreams. . . . . . for millions of years. It was the dreamtime. The unformed time. The small gods chittered and whirred in the wilderness places, and the cold places, and the deep places. They swarmed in the darkness, without memory but driven by hope and lust for the one thing, the one thing a god craves-belief. There are no medium-sized trees in the deep forest. There are only the towering ones, whose canopy spreads across the sky. Below, in the gloom, there's light for nothing but mosses and ferns. But when a giant falls, leaving a little space. . . then there's a race-between the trees on either side, who want to spread out, and the seedlings below, who race to grow up. Sometimes, you can make your own space. Forests were a long way from the wilderness. The nameless voice that was going to be Om drifted on the wind on the edge of the desert, trying to be heard among countless others, trying to avoid being pushed into the centre It may have whirled for millions of years-it had nothing with which to measure time. All it had was hope, and a certain sense of the presence of things. And a voice. Then there was a day. In a sense, it was the first day. Om had been aware of the shepherd for some ti-for a while. The flock had been wandering closer and closer. The rains had been sparse. Forage was scarce. Hungry mouths propelled hungry legs further into the rocks, searching out the hitherto scorned clumps of sun-seared grass. They were sheep, possibly the most stupid animal in the universe with the possible exception of the duck. But even their uncomplicated minds couldn't hear the voice, because sheep don't listen. There was a lamb, though. It had strayed a little way. Om saw to it that it strayed a little further. Around a rock. Down the slope. Into the crevice. Its bleating drew the mother. The crevice was well hidden and the ewe was, after all, content now that she had her lamb. She saw no reason to bleat, even when the shepherd wandered about the rocks calling, cursing, and, eventually, pleading. The shepherd had a hundred sheep, and it might have been surprising that he was prepared to spend days searching for one sheep; in fact, it was because he was the kind of man prepared to spend days looking for a lost sheep that he had a hundred sheep. The voice that was going to be Om waited. It was on the evening of the second day that he scared up a partridge that had been nesting near the crevice, just as the shepherd was wandering by. It wasn't much of a miracle, but it was good enough for the shepherd. He made a cairn of stones at the spot and, next day, brought his whole flock into the area. And in the heat of the afternoon he lay down to sleep-and Om spoke to him, inside his head. Three weeks later the shepherd was stoned to death by the priests of Ur-Gilash, who was at that time the chief god in the area. But they were too late. Om already had a hundred believers, and the number was growing. . . Only a mile away from the shepherd and his flock was a goatherd and his herd. The merest accident of microgeography had meant that the first man to hear the voice of Om, and who gave Om his view of humans, was a shepherd and not a goatherd. They have quite different ways of looking at the world, and the whole of history might have been different. For sheep are stupid, and have to be driven. But goats are intelligent, and need to be led. Ur-Gilash, thought Om. Ah, those were the days. . . when Ossory and his followers had broken into the temple and smashed the altar and had thrown the priestesses out of the window to be torn apart by wild dogs, which was the correct way of doing things, and there had been a mighty wailing and gnashing of feet and the followers of Om had lit their campfires in the crumbled halls of Gilash just as the Prophet had said, and that counted even though he'd said it only five minutes earlier, when they were only looking for the firewood, because everyone agreed a prophecy is a prophecy and no one said you had to wait a long time for it to come true. Great days. Great days. Every day fresh converts. The rise of Om had been unstoppable. . . He jerked awake. Old Ur-Gilash. Weather god, wasn't he? Yes. No. Maybe one of your basic giant spider gods? Something like that. Whatever happened to him? What happened to me? How does it happen? You hang around the astral planes, going with the flow, enjoy the rhythms of the universe, you think that all the, you know, humans are getting on with the believing back down there, you decide to go and stir them up a bit and then. . . a tortoise. It's like going to the bank and finding the money's been leaking out through a hole. The first you know is when you stroll down looking for a handy mind, and suddenly you're a tortoise and there's no power left to get out. Three years of looking up at practically everything. . . Old Ur-Gilash? Perhaps he was hanging on as a lizard somewhere, with some old hermit as his only believer. More likely he had been blown out into the desert. A small god was lucky to get one chance. There was something wrong. Om couldn't quite put his finger on it, and not only because he didn't have a finger. Gods rose and fell like bits of onion in a boiling soup, but this time was different. There was something wrong this time. . . He'd forced out Ur-Gilash. Fair enough. Law of the jungle. But no one was challenging him. . .
Where was Brutha? Brutha! Brutha was counting the flashes of light off the desert. "It's a good thing I had a mirror, yes?" said the captain hopefully. "I expect his lordship won't mind about the mirror because it turned out to be useful?" I don't think he thinks like that, said Brutha, still counting. No. I don't think he does either, said the captain gloomily. Seven, and then four. It'll be the Quisition for me, said the captain. Brutha was about to say, "Then rejoice that your soul shall be purified. " But he didn't. And he didn't know why he didn't. I'm sorry about that, he said. A veneer of surprise overlaid the captain's grief. You people usually say something about how the Quisition is good for the soul, he said. I'm sure it is, said Brutha. The captain was watching his face intently. It's flat, you know, he said quietly. "I've sailed out into the Rim Ocean. It's flat, and I've seen the Edge, and it moves. Not the Edge. I mean. . . what's down there. They can cut my head off but it will still move. " But it will stop moving for you, said Brutha. "So I should be careful to whom you speak, captain. " The captain leaned closer. The Turtle Moves! he hissed, and darted away. Brutha! Guilt jerked Brutha upright like a hooked fish. He turned around, and sagged with relief. It wasn't Vorbis, it was only God. He padded over to the place in front of the mast. Om glared up at him. Yes? said Brutha. You never come and see me, said the tortoise. "I know you're busy," it added sarcastically, "but a quick prayer would be nice, even. " I checked you first thing this morning, said Brutha. And I'm hungry. You had a whole melon rind last night. And who had the melon, eh? No, he didn't, said Brutha. "He eats stale bread and water. " Why doesn't he eat fresh bread? He waits for it to get stale. Yes. I expect he does, said the tortoise. Om? What? The captain just said something odd. He said the world is flat and has an edge. Yes? So what? But, I mean, we know the world is a ball, because. . . The tortoise blinked. No, it's not," he said. "Who said it's a ball?" "You did," said Brutha. Then he added: "According to Book One of the Septateuch, anyway. " I've never thought like this before, he thought. I'd never have said "anyway. " "Why'd the captain tell me something like that?" he said. "It's not normal conversation. " "I told you, I never made the world," said Om. "Why should I make the world? It was here already. And if I did make a world, I wouldn't make it a ball. People'd fall off. All the sea'd run off the bottom. " "Not if you told it to stay on. " "Hah! Will you hark at the man!" "Besides, the sphere is a perfect shape," said Brutha. "Because in the Book of-” Nothing amazing about a sphere, said the tortoise. "Come to that, a turtle is a perfect shape. " A perfect shape for what? Well, the perfect shape for a turtle, to start with, said Om. "If it was shaped like a ball, it'd be bobbing to the surface the whole time. " But it's a heresy to say the world is flat, said Brutha. Maybe, but it's true. And it's really on the back of a giant turtle? That's right. In that case, said Brutha triumphantly, "what does the turtle stand on?" The tortoise gave him a blank stare. It doesn't stand on anything, it said. "It's a turtle, for heaven's sake. It swims. That's what turtles are for. " I. . . er. . . I think I'd better go and report to Vorbis, said Brutha. "He goes very calm if he's kept waiting. What did you want me for? I'll try and bring you some more food after supper. " How are you feeling? said the tortoise. I'm feeling all right, thank you. Eating properly, that sort of thing? Yes, thank you. Pleased to hear it. Run along now. I mean, I'm only your God. Om raised its voice as Brutha hurried off. "And you might visit more often! "And pray louder, I'm fed up with straining!" he shouted. Vorbis was still sitting in his cabin when Brutha puffed along the passage and knocked on the door. There was no reply. After a while, Brutha pushed the door open. Vorbis did not appear to read. Obviously he wrote, because of the famous Letters, but no one ever saw him do it. When he was alone he spent a lot of time staring at the wall, or prostrate in prayer. Vorbis could humble himself in prayer in a way that made the posturings of power-mad emperors look subservient. "Um," said Brutha, and tried to pull the door shut again. Vorbis waved one hand irritably. Then he stood up. He did not dust off his robe. "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. Fraternisation 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. Ahead of him, Simony shadowed the deacon, staring suspiciously at each Ephebian guard. That's a funny thing, said Om. "Winners never talk about glorious victories. That's because they're the ones who see what the battlefield looks like afterward. It's only the losers who have glorious victories. " Brutha didn't know what to reply. "That doesn't sound like god talk," he hazarded. It's this tortoise brain. What? Don't you know anything? Bodies aren't just handy things for storing your mind in. Your shape affects how you think. It's all this morphology that's all over the place. What? Om sighed. "If I don't concentrate, I think like a tortoise!" What? You mean slowly? No! Tortoises are cynics. They always expect the worst. ,Why?" I don't know. Because it often happens to them, I suppose. Brutha stared around at Ephebe. Guards with helmets crested with plumes that looked like horses' tails gone rogue marched on either side of the column. A few Ephebian citizens watched idly from the roadside. They looked surprisingly like the people at home, and not like two-legged demons at all. They're people, he said. Full marks for comparative anthropology. Brother Nhumrod said Ephebians eat human flesh, said Brutha. "He wouldn't tell lies. " A small boy regarded Brutha thoughtfully while excavating a nostril. If it was a demon in human form, it was an extremely good actor. At intervals along the road from the docks were white stone statues. Brutha had never seen statues before. Apart from the statues of the SeptArchs, of course, but that wasn't the same thing. What are they? Well, the tubby one with the toga is Tuvelpit, the God of Wine. They call him Smimto in Tsort. And the broad with the hairdo is Astoria, Goddess of Love. A complete bubblehead. The ugly one is Offler the Crocodile God. Not a local boy. He's Klatchian originally, but the Ephebians heard about him and thought he was a good idea. Note the teeth. Good teeth. Good teeth. Then the one with the snakepit hairdo is-” You talk about them as if they were real," said Brutha. "They are. " "There is no other god but you. You told Ossory that. " "Well. You know. I exaggerated a bit. But they're not that good. There's one of 'em that sits around playing a flute most of the time and chasing milkmaids. I don't call that very divine. Call that very divine? I don't. " The road wound up steeply around the rocky hill. Most of the city seemed to be built on outcrops or was cut into the actual rock itself, so that one man's patio was another man's roof. The roads were really a series of shallow steps, accessible to a man or a donkey but sudden death to a cart. Ephebe was a pedestrian place. More people watched them in silence. So did the statues of the gods. The Ephebians had gods in the same way that other cities had rats. Brutha got a look at Vorbis's face. The exquisitor was staring straight ahead of himself. Brutha wondered what the man was seeing. It was all so new! And devilish, of course. Although the gods in the statues didn't look much like demons-but he could hear the voice of Nhumrod pointing out that this very fact made them even more demonic. Sin crept up on you like a wolf in a sheep's skin. One of the goddesses had been having some very serious trouble with her dress, Brutha noticed; if Brother Nhumrod had been present, he would have had to hurry off for some very serious lying down. "Petulia, Goddess of Negotiable Affection," said Om. "Worshipped by the ladies of the night and every other time as well, if you catch my meaning. " Brutha's mouth dropped open. "They've got a goddess for painted jezebels?" "Why not? Very religious people I understand. They're used to being on their-they spend so much time looking at the-look, belief is where you find it. Specialisation That's safe, see. Low risk, guaranteed returns. There's even a God of Lettuce somewhere. I mean, it's not as though any one else is likely to try to become a God of Lettuce. You just find a lettuce-growing community and hang on. Thunder gods come and go, but it's you they turn to every time when there's a bad attack of Lettuce Fly. You've got to. . . uh. . . hand it to Petulia. She spotted a gap in the market and filled it. " "There's a God of Lettuce?" "Why not? If enough people believe, you can be god of anything. . . " Om stopped himself and waited to see if Brutha had noticed. But Brutha seemed to have something else on his mind. "That's not right. Not treating people like that. Ow. " He'd walked into the back of a subdeacon. The party had halted, partly because the Ephebian escort had stopped too, but mainly because a man was running down the street. He was quite old, and in many respects resembled a frog that had been dried out for quite some time. Something about him generally made people think of the word "spry," but, at the moment, they would be much more likely to think of the words "mother naked" and possibly also "dripping wet" and would be one hundred percent accurate, too. Although there was the beard. It was a beard you could camp out in. The man thudded down the street without any apparent selfconsciousness and stopped outside a potter's shop. The potter didn't seem concerned at being addressed by a little wet naked man; in fact, none of the people in the street had given him a second glance. "I'd like a Number Nine pot and some string, please," said the old man. "Yes sir, Mr. Legibus. " The potter reached under his counter and pulled out a towel. The naked man took it in an absent-minded way. Brutha got the feeling that this had happened to both of them before. "And a lever of infinite length and, um, an immovable place to stand," said Legibus, drying himself off. "What you see is what I got, sir. Pots and general household items, but a bit short on axiomatic mechanisms. " "Well, have you got a piece of chalk?" "Got some right here from last time," said the potter. The little naked man took the chalk and started to draw triangles on the nearest bit of wall. Then he looked down. "Why haven't I got any clothes on?" he said. "We've been having our bath again, haven't we?" said the potter. "I left my clothes in the bath?" "I think you probably had an idea while you were in the bath?" prompted the potter. "That's right! That's right! Got this splendid idea for moving the world around!" said Legibus. "Simple lever principle. Should work perfectly. It's just a matter of getting the technical details sorted out. " "That's nice. We can move somewhere warm for the winter," said the potter. "Can I borrow the towel?" "It's yours anyway, Mr. Legibus. " "Is it?" "I said, you left it here last time. Remember? When you had that idea for the lighthouse?" "Fine.
Fine," said Legibus, wrapping the towel around himself. He drew a few more lines on the wall. "Fine. Okay. I'll send someone down later to collect the wall. " He turned and appeared to see the Omnians for the first time. He peered forward and then shrugged. Hmm, he said, and wandered away. Brutha tugged at the cloak of one of the Ephebian soldiers. Excuse me, but why did we stop? he said. Philosophers have right of way, said the soldier. What's a philosopher? said Brutha. Someone who's bright enough to find a job with no heavy lifting, said a voice in his head. An infidel seeking the just fate he shall surely receive,' said Vorbis. An inventor of fallacies. This cursed city attracts them like a dung heap attracts flies. " "Actually, it's the climate," said the voice of the tortoise. "Think about it. If you're inclined to leap out of your bath and run down the street every time you think you've got a bright idea, you don't want to do it somewhere cold. If you do do it somewhere cold, you die out. That's natural selection, that is. Ephebe's known for its philosophers. It's better than street theatre" What, a lot of old men running around the streets with no clothes on? said Brutha, under his breath, as they were marched onward. More or less. If you spend your whole time thinking about the universe, you tend to forget the less important bits of it. Like your pants. And ninety-nine out of a hundred ideas they come up with are totally useless. Why doesn't anyone lock them away safely, then? They don't sound much use to me, said Brutha. Because the hundredth idea, said Om, "is generally a humdinger. " What? Look up at the highest tower on the rock. Brutha looked up. At the top of the tower, secured by metal bands, was a big disc that glittered in the morning light. What is it? he whispered. The reason why Omnia hasn't got much of a fleet any more, said Om. "That's why it's always worth having a few philosophers around the place. One minute it's all Is Truth Beauty and Is Beauty Truth, and Does a Falling Tree in the Forest Make a Sound if There's No one There to Hear It, and then just when you think they're going to start dribbling one of 'em says, Incidentally, putting a thirty-foot parabolic reflector on a high place to shoot the rays of the sun at an enemy's ships would be a very interesting demonstration of optical principles," he added. "Always coming up with amazing new ideas, the philosophers. The one before that was some intricate device that demonstrated the principles of leverage by incidentally hurling balls of burning sulphur two miles. Then before that, I think, there was some kind of an underwater thing that shot sharpened logs into the bottom of ships. " Brutha stared at the disc again. He hadn't understood more than one-third of the words in the last statement. Well, he said, "does it?" Does what? Make a sound. If it falls down when no one's there to hear it. Who cares? The party had reached a gateway in the wall that ran around the top of the rock in much the same way that a headband encircles a head. The Ephebian captain stopped, and turned. The. . . visitors. . . must be blindfolded, he said. That is outrageous! said Vorbis. "We are here on a mission of diplomacy!" That is not my business, said the captain. "My business is to say: If you go through this gate you go blindfolded. You don't have to be blindfolded. You can stay outside. But if you want to go through, you got to wear a blindfold. This is one of them life choices. " One of the subdeacons whispered in Vorbis's ear. He held a brief sotto voce conversation with the leader of the Omnian guard. Very well, he said, "under protest. " The blindfold was quite soft, and totally opaque. But as Brutha was led. . . . . . ten paces along a passage, and then left five paces, then diagonally forward and left threeand-a-half paces, and right one hundred and three paces, down three steps, and turned around seventeen-and-one-quarter times, and forward nine paces, and left one pace, and forward nineteen paces, and pause three seconds, and right two paces, and back two paces, and left two paces, and turned threeand-a-half times, and wait one second, and up three steps, and right twenty paces, and turned around five-and-a-quarter times, and left fifteen paces, and forward seven paces, and right eighteen paces, and up seven steps, and diagonally forward, and pause two seconds, right four paces, and down a slope that went down a meter every ten paces for thirty paces, and then turned around seven-and-a-half times, and forward six paces. . . . . . he wondered what good it was supposed to do. The blindfold was removed in an open courtyard, made of some white stone that turned the sunlight into a glare. Brutha blinked. Bowmen lined the yard. Their arrows were pointing downwards, but their manner suggested that pointing horizontally could happen any minute. Another bald man was waiting for them. Ephebe seemed to have an unlimited supply of skinny bald men wearing sheets. This one smiled, with his mouth alone. No one likes us much, Brutha thought. I trust you will excuse this minor inconvenience, said the skinny man. "My name is Aristocrates. I am secretary to the Tyrant. Please ask your men to put down their weapons. " Vorbis drew himself up to his full height. He was a head taller than the Ephebian. Pale though his complexion normally was, it had gone paler. We are entitled to retain our arms! he said. "We are an emissary to a foreign land!" But not a barbarian one, said Aristocrates mildly. "Weapons will not be required here. " Barbarian? said Vorbis. "You burned our ships!" Aristocrates held up a hand. This is a discussion for later, he said. "My pleasant task now is to show you to your quarters. I am sure you would like to rest a little after your journey. You are, of course, at liberty to wander anywhere you wish in the palace. And if there is anywhere where we do not wish you to wander, the guards will be sure to inform you with speed and tact. " And we can leave the palace? said Vorbis coldly. Aristocrates shrugged. We do not guard the gateway except in times of war, he said. "If you can remember the way, you are free to use it. But vague perambulations in the labyrinth are unwise, I must warn you. Our ancestors were sadly very suspicious and put in many traps out of distrust; we keep them well-greased and primed, of course, merely out of a respect for tradition. And now, if you would care to follow me. . . " The Omnians kept together as they followed Aristocrates through the palace. There were fountains. There were gardens. Here and there groups of people sat around doing nothing very much except talking. The Ephebians seemed to have only a shaky grasp of the concepts of "inside" and "outside"-except for the palace's encircling labyrinth, which was very clear on the subject. Danger attends us at every turn, said Vorbis quietly. "Any man who breaks rank or fraternises in any way will explain his conduct to the inquisitors. At length. " Brutha looked at a woman filling a jug from a well. It did not look like a very military act. He was feeling that strange double feeling again. On the surface there were the thoughts of Brutha, which were exactly the thoughts that the Citadel would have approved of. This was a nest of infidels and unbelievers, its very mundanity a subtle cloak for the traps of wrong thinking and heresy. It might be bright with sunlight, but in reality it was a place of shadows. But down below were the thoughts of the Brutha that watched Brutha from the inside. . . Vorbis looked wrong here. Sharp and unpleasant. And any city where potters didn't worry at all when naked, dripping wet old men came and drew triangles on their walls was a place Brutha wanted to find out more about. He felt like a big empty jug. The thing to do with something empty was fill it up. Are you doing something to me? he whispered. In his box, Om looked at the shape of Brutha's mind. Then he tried to think quickly. No, he said, and that at least was the truth.
Had this ever happened before? Had it been like this back in the first days? It must have been. It was all so hazy now. He couldn't remember the thoughts he'd had then, just the shape of the thoughts. Everything had been highly coloured, everything had been growing every day-he had been growing every day; thoughts and the mind that was thinking them were developing at the same speed. Easy to forget things from those times. It was like a fire trying to remember the shape of its flames. But the feeling-he could remember that. He wasn't doing anything to Brutha. Brutha was doing it to himself. Brutha was beginning to think in godly ways. Brutha was starting to become a prophet. Om wished he had someone to talk to. Someone who understood. This was Ephebe, wasn't it? Where people made a living trying to understand? The Omnians were to be housed in little rooms around a central courtyard. There was a fountain in the middle, in a very small grove of sweet-smelling pine trees. The soldiers nudged one another. People think that professional soldiers think a lot about fighting, but serious professional soldiers think a lot more about food and a warm place to sleep, because these are two things that are generally hard to get, whereas fighting tends to turn up all the time. There was a bowl of fruit in Brutha's cell, and a plate of cold meat. But first things first. He fished the God out of the box. There's fruit, he said. "What're these berries?" "Grapes," said Om. "Raw material for wine. " You mentioned that word before. What does it mean? There was a cry from outside. Brutha! That's Vorbis. I'll have to go. Vorbis was standing in the middle of his cell. Have you eaten anything? he demanded. No, lord. Fruit and meat, Brutha. And this is a fast day. They seek to insult us! Um. Perhaps they don't know that it is a fast day? Brutha hazarded. Ignorance is itself a sin, said Vorbis. Ossory VII, verse 4, said Brutha automatically. Vorbis smiled and patted Brutha's shoulder. You are a walking book, Brutha. The Septateuch perambulatus. Brutha looked down at his sandals. He's right, he thought. And I had forgotten. Or at least, not wanted to remember. And then he heard his own thoughts echoed back to him: it's fruit and meat and bread, that's all. That's all it is. Fast days and feast days and Prophets' Days and bread days. . . who cares? A God whose only concern about food now is that it's low enough to reach? I wish he wouldn't keep patting my shoulder. Vorbis turned away. Shall I remind the others? Brutha said. No. Our ordained brothers will not, of course, require reminding. As for soldiers. . . a little licence, perhaps, is allowable this far from home. . . Brutha wandered back to his cell. Om was still on the table, staring fixedly at the melon. I nearly committed a terrible sin, said Brutha. "I nearly ate fruit on a fruitless day. " That's a terrible thing, a terrible thing, said Om. "Now cut the melon. " But it is forbidden! said Brutha. No it's not, said Om. "Cut the melon. " But it was the eating of fruit that caused passion to invade the world, said Brutha. All it caused was flatulence, said Om. "Cut the melon!" You're tempting me! No I'm not. I'm giving you permission. Special dispensation! Cut the damn melon! Only a bishop or higher is allowed to giv-” Brutha began. And then he stopped. Om glared at him. Yes. Exactly," he said. "And now cut the melon. " His tone softened a bit. "If it makes you feel any better, I shall declare that it is bread. I happen to be the God in this immediate vicinity. I can call it what I damn well like. It's bread. Right? Now cut the damn melon. " "Loaf," corrected Brutha. "Right. And give me a slice without any seeds in it. Brutha did so, a bit carefully. And eat up quick, said Om. In case Vorbis finds us? Because you've got to go and find a philosopher, said Om. The fact that his mouth was full didn't make any difference to his voice in Brutha's mind. "You know, melons grow wild in the wilderness. Not big ones like this. Little green jobs. Skin like leather. Can't bite through 'em. The years I've spent eating dead leaves a goat'd spit out, right next to a crop of melons. Melons should have thinner skins. Remember that. " Find a philosopher? Right. Someone who knows how to think. Someone who can help me stop being a tortoise. But. . . Vorbis might want me. You're just going for a stroll. No problem. And hurry up. There's other gods in Ephebe. I don't want to meet them right now. Not looking like this. Brutha looked panicky. How do I find a philosopher? he said. Around here? Throw a brick, I should think. The labyrinth of Ephebe is ancient and full of one hundred and one amazing things you can do with hidden springs, razor-sharp knives, and falling rocks. There isn't just one guide through it. There are six, and each one knows his way through one-sixth of the labyrinth. Every year they have a special competition, when they do a little redesigning. They vie with one another to see who can make his section even more deadly than the others to the casual wanderer. There's a panel of judges, and a small prize. The furthest anyone ever got through the labyrinth without a guide was nineteen paces. Well, more or less. His head rolled a further seven paces, but that probably doesn't count. At each changeover point there is a small chamber without any traps at all. What it does contain is a small bronze bell. These are the little waiting-rooms where visitors are handed on to the next guide. And here and there, set high in the tunnel roof over the more ingenious traps, are observation windows, because guards like a good laugh as much as anyone else. All of this was totally lost on Brutha, who padded amiably along the tunnels and corridors without really thinking much about it, and at last pushed open the gate into the late evening air. It was fragrant with the scent of flowers. Moths whirred through the gloom. What do philosophers look like? said Brutha, "When they're not having a bath, I mean. " They do a lot of thinking, said Om. "Look for someone with a strained expression. " That might just mean constipation. Well, so long as they're philosophical about it. . . The city of Ephebe surrounded them. Dogs barked. Somewhere a cat yowled. There was that general susurration of small comfortable sounds that shows that, out there, a lot of people are living their lives. And then a door burst open down the street and there was the cracking noise of a quite large wine amphora being broken over someone's head. A skinny old man in a toga picked himself up from the cobbles where he had landed, and glared at the doorway. I'm telling you, listen, a finite intellect, right, cannot by means of comparison reach the absolute truth of things, because being by nature indivisible, truth excludes the concepts of more" or "less" so that nothing but truth itself can be the exact measure of truth. You bastards," he said. Someone from inside the building said, "Oh yeah? Sez you. " The old man ignored Brutha but, with great difficulty, pulled a cobblestone loose and hefted it in his hand. Then he dived back through the doorway. There was a distant scream of rage. Ah. Philosophy, said Om. Brutha peered cautiously round the door. Inside the room two groups of very nearly identical men in togas were trying to hold back two of their colleagues. It is a scene repeated a million times a day in bars around the multiverse-both would-be fighters growled and grimaced at one another and fought to escape the restraint of their friends, only of course they did not fight too hard, because there is nothing worse than actually succeeding in breaking free and suddenly finding yourself all alone in the middle of the ring with a madman who is about to hit you between the eyes with a rock. Yep, said Om, "that's philosophy, right enough. " But they're fighting! A full and free exchange of opinions, yes. Now that Brutha could get a clearer view, he could see that there were one or two differences between the men.
One had a shorter beard, and was very red in the face, and was waggling a finger accusingly. He bloody well accused me of slander! he was shouting. I didn't! shouted the other man. You did! You did! Tell 'em what you said! Look, I merely suggested, to indicate the nature of paradox, right, that if Xeno the Ephebian said, Àll Ephebians are liars-' See? See? He did it again! -no, no, listen, listen. . . then, since Xeno is himself an Ephebian, this would mean that he himself is a liar and therefore-” Xeno made a determined effort to break free, dragging four desperate fellow philosophers across the floor. I'm going to lay one right on you, pal!" Brutha said, "Excuse me, please?" The philosophers froze. Then they turned to look at Brutha. They relaxed by degrees. There was a chorus of embarrassed coughs. "Are you all philosophers?" said Brutha. The one called Xeno stepped forward, adjusting the hang of his toga. "That's right," he said. "We're philosophers. We think, therefore we am. " "Are," said the luckless paradox manufacturer automatically. Xeno spun around. "I've just about had it up to here with you, Ibid!" he roared. He turned back to Brutha. "We are, therefore we am," he said confidently. "That's it. " Several of the philosophers looked at one another with interest. "That's actually quite interesting," one said. "The evidence of our existence is the fact of our existence, is that what you're saying?" "Shut up," said Xeno, without looking around. "Have you been fighting?" said Brutha. The assembled philosophers assumed various expressions of shock and horror. "Fighting? Us? We're philosophers," said Ibid, shocked. "My word, yes," said Xeno. "But you were-” Brutha began. Xeno waved a hand. The cut and thrust of debate, he said. Thesis plus antithesis equals hysteresis, said Ibid. "The stringent testing of the universe. The hammer of the intellect upon the anvil of fundamental truth-” "Shut up," said Xeno. "And what can we do for you, young man?" "Ask them about gods," Om prompted. "Uh, I want to find out about gods," said Brutha. The philosophers looked at one another. "Gods?" said Xeno. "We don't bother with gods. Huh. Relics of an outmoded belief system, gods. " There was a rumble of thunder from the clear evening sky. "Except for Blind to the Thunder God," Xeno went on, his tone hardly changing. Lightning flashed across the sky. "And Cubal the Fire God," said Xeno. A gust of wind rattled the windows. "Flatulus the God of the Winds, he's all right too," said Xeno. An arrow materialised out of the air and hit the table by Xeno's hand. "Fedecks the Messenger of the Gods, one of the alltime greats," said Xeno. A bird appeared in the doorway. At least, it looked vaguely like a bird. It was about a foot high, black and white, with a bent beak and an expression that suggested that whatever it was it really dreaded ever happening to it had already happened. "What's that?" said Brutha. "A penguin," said the voice of Om inside his head. "Patina the Goddess of Wisdom? One of the best," said Xeno. The penguin croaked at him and waddled off into the darkness. The philosophers looked very embarrassed. Then Ibid said, "Foorgol the God of Avalanches? Where's the snowline?" "Two hundred miles away," said someone. They waited. Nothing happened. "Relic of an outmoded belief system," said Xeno. A wall of freezing white death did not appear anywhere in Ephebe. "Mere unthinking personification of a natural force," said one of the philosophers, in a louder voice. They all seemed to feel a lot better about this. "Primitive nature worship. " "Wouldn't give you tuppence for him. " "Simple rationalisation of the unknown. " "Hah! A clever fiction, a bogey to frighten the weak and stupid!" The words rose up in Brutha. He couldn't stop himself. "Is it always this cold?" he said. "It seemed very chilly on my way here. " The philosophers all moved away from Xeno. "Although if there's one thing you can say about Foorgol," said Xeno, "it's that he's a very understanding god. Likes a joke as much as the next. . . man. " He looked both ways, quickly. After a while the philosophers relaxed, and seemed to completely forget about Brutha. And only now did he really have time to take in the room. He had never seen a tavern before in his life, but that was what it was. The bar ran along one side of the room. Behind it were the typical trappings of an Ephebian bar-the stacks of wine jars, racks of amphorae, and the cheery pictures of vestal virgins on cards of salted peanuts and goat jerky, pinned up in the hope that there really were people in the world who would slatheringly buy more and more packets of nuts they didn't want in order to look at a cardboard nipple. What's all this stuff? Brutha whispered. How should I know? said Om. "Let me out so's I can see. " Brutha unfastened the box and lifted the tortoise out. One rheumy eye looked around. Oh. Typical tavern, said Om. "Good. Mine's a saucer of whatever they were drinking. " A tavern? A place were alcohol is drunk? I very much intend this to be the case, yes. But. . . but. . . the Septateuch, no less than seventeen times, adjures us most emphatically to refrain from-” Beats the hell out of me why," said Om. "See that man cleaning the mugs? You say unto him, Give me a-” But it mocks the mind of Man, says the Prophet Ossory. And-” I'll say this one more time! I never said it! Now talk to the man!" In fact the man talked to Brutha. He appeared magically on the other side of the bar, still wiping a mug. "Evening, sir," he said. "What'll it be?" "I'd like a drink of water, please," said Brutha, very deliberately. "And something for the tortoise?" "Wine!" said the voice of Om. "I don't know," said Brutha. "What do tortoises usually drink?" "The ones we have in here normally have a drop of milk with some bread in it," said the barman. "You get a lot of tortoises?" said Brutha loudly, trying to drown out Om's outraged screams. "Oh, a very useful philosophical animal, your average tortoise. Outrunning metaphorical arrows, beating hares in races. . . very handy. " "Uh. . . I haven't got any money," said Brutha. The barman leaned towards him. "Tell you what," he said. "Declivities has just bought a round. He won't mind. " "Bread and milk?" "Oh. Thank you. Thank you very much. " "Oh, we get all sorts in here," said the barman, leaning back. "Stoics. Cynics. Big drinkers, the Cynics. Epicureans. Stochastics. Anamaxandrites. Epistemologists. Peripatetics. Synoptics. All sorts. That's what I always say. What I always say is"-he picked up another mug and started to dry it "it takes all sorts to make a world. " Bread and milk! shouted Om. "You'll feel my wrath for this, right? Now ask him about gods!" Tell me, said Brutha, sipping his mug of water, "do any of them know much about gods?" You'd want a priest for that sort of thing, said the barman. No, I mean about. . . what gods are. . . how gods came to exist. . . that sort of thing, said Brutha, trying to get to grips with the barman's peculiar mode of conversation. Gods don't like that sort of thing, said the barman. "We get that in here some nights, when someone's had a few. Cosmic speculation about whether gods really exist. Next thing, there's a bolt of lightning through the roof with a note wrapped round it saying `Yes, we do' and a pair of sandals with smoke coming out. That sort of thing, it takes all the interest out of metaphysical speculation. " Not even fresh bread, muttered Om, nose deep in his saucer. No, I know gods exist all right, said Brutha, hurriedly. "I just want to find out more about. . . them. " The barman shrugged. Then I'd be obliged if you don't stand next to anything valuable, he said, "Still, it'll all be the same in a hundred years. " He picked up another mug and started to polish it. Are you a philosopher? said Brutha. It kind of rubs off on you after a while, said the barman. This milk's off, said Om. "They say Ephebe is a democracy. This milk ought to be allowed to vote. " I don't think, said Brutha carefully, "that I'm going to find what I want here. Um.
Mr. Drink Seller?" Yes? What was that bird that walked in when the Goddess-he tasted the unfamiliar word-"of Wisdom was mentioned?" Bit of a problem there, said the barman. "Bit of an embarrassment. " Sorry? It was, said the barman, "a penguin. " Is it a wise sort of bird, then? No. Not a lot, said the barman. "Not known for its wisdom. Second most confused bird in the world. Can only fly underwater, they say. " Then why-” We don't like to talk about it," said the barman. "It upsets people. Bloody sculptor," he added, under his breath. Down the other end of the bar the philosophers had started fighting again. The barman leaned forward. "If you haven't got any money," he said, "I don't think you're going to get much help. Talk isn't cheap around here. " But they just-” Brutha began. There's the expenditure on soap and water, for a start. Towels. Flannels. Loofahs. Pumice stones. Bath salts. It all adds up. " There was a gurgling noise from the saucer. Om's milky head turned to Brutha. "You've got no money at all?" he said. "No," said Brutha. "Well, we've got to have a philosopher," said the tortoise flatly. "I can't think and you don't know how to. We've got to find someone who does it all the time. " "Of course, you could try old Didactylos," said the barman. "He's about as cheap as they come. " "Doesn't use expensive soap?" said Brutha. "I think it could be said without fear of contradiction," said the barman solemnly, "that he doesn't use any soap at all whatsoever in any way. " "Oh. Well. Thank you," said Brutha. "Ask him where this man lives," Om commanded. "Where can I find Mr. Didactylos?" said Brutha. "In the palace courtyard. Next door to the Library. You can't miss him. Just follow your nose. " "We just came-” Brutha said, but his inner voice prompted him not to complete the sentence. "We'll just be going then. " Don't forget your tortoise, said the barman. "There's good eating on one of them. " May all your wine turn to water! Om shrieked. Will it? said Brutha, as they stepped out into the night. No. Tell me again. Why exactly are we looking for a philosopher? said Brutha. I want to get my power back, said Om. But everyone believes in you! If they believed in me they could talk to me. I could talk to them. I don't know what's gone wrong. No one is worshipping any other gods in Omnia, are they? They wouldn't be allowed to, said Brutha. "The Quisition would see to that. " Yeah. It's hard to kneel if you have no knees. Brutha stopped in the empty street. I don't understand you! You're not supposed to. The ways of gods aren't supposed to be understandable to men. The Quisition keeps us on the path of truth! The Quisition works for the greater glory of the Church! And you believe that, do you? said the tortoise. Brutha looked, and found that certainty had gone missing. He opened and shut his mouth, but there were no words to be said. Come on, said Om, as kindly as he could manage. "Let's get back. " In the middle of the night Om awoke. There were noises from Brutha's bed. Brutha was praying again. Om listened curiously. He could remember prayers. There had been a lot of them, once. So many that he couldn't make out an individual prayer even if he had felt inclined to, but that didn't matter, because what mattered was the huge cosmic susurration of thousands of praying, believing minds. The words weren't worth listening to, anyway. Humans! They lived in a world where the grass continued to be green and the sun rose every day and flowers regularly turned into fruit, and what impressed them? Weeping statues. And wine made out of water! A mere quantum-mechanistic tunnel effect, that'd happen anyway if you were prepared to wait zillions of years. As if the turning of sunlight into wine, by means of vines and grapes and time and enzymes, wasn't a thousand times more impressive and happened all the time. . . Well, he couldn't even do the most basic of god tricks now. Thunderbolts with about the same effect as the spark off a cat's fur, and you could hardly smite anyone with one of those. He had smitten good and hard in his time. Now he could just about walk through water and feed the One. Brutha's prayer was a piccolo tune in a world of silence. Om waited until the novice was quiet again and then unfolded his legs and walked out, rocking from side to side, into the dawn. The Ephebians walked through the palace courtyards, surrounding the Omnians almost, but not quite, in the manner of a prisoners' escort. Brutha could see that Vorbis was boiling with fury. A small vein on the side of the exquisitor's bald temple was throbbing. As if feeling Brutha's eyes on him, Vorbis turned his head. You seem ill at ease this morning, Brutha, he said. Sorry, lord. You seem to be looking into every corner. What are you expecting to find? Uh. Just interested, lord. Everything's new. All the so-called wisdom of Ephebe is not worth one line from the least paragraph in the Septateuch, said Vorbis. May we not study the works of the infidel in order to be more alert to the ways of heresy? said Brutha, surprised at himself. Ah. A persuasive argument, Brutha, and one that the inquisitors have heard many times, if a little indistinctly in many cases. Vorbis glowered at the back of the head of Aristocrates, who was leading the party. "It is but a small step from listening to heresy to questioning established truth, Brutha. Heresy is often fascinating. Therein lies its danger. " Yes, lord. Hah! And not only do they carve forbidden statues, but they can't even do it properly. Brutha was no expert, but even he had to agree that this was true. Now the novelty of them had worn off, the statues that decorated every niche in the palace did have a certain badly made look. Brutha was pretty sure he'd just passed one with two left arms. Another one had one ear larger than the other. It wasn't that someone had set out to carve ugly gods. They had clearly been meant to be quite attractive statues. But the sculptor hadn't been much good at it. That woman there appears to be holding a penguin, said Vorbis. Patina, Goddess of Wisdom, said Brutha automatically, and then realised he'd said it. I, er, heard someone mention it, he added. Indeed. And what remarkably good hearing you must have, said Vorbis. Aristocrates paused outside an impressive doorway and nodded at the party. Gentlemen, he said, "the Tyrant will see you now. " You will recall everything that is said, whispered Vorbis. Brutha nodded. The doors swung open. All over the world there were rulers with titles like the Exalted, the Supreme, and Lord High Something or Other. Only in one small country was the ruler elected by the people, who could remove him whenever they wanted-and they called him the Tyrant. The Ephebians believed that every man should have the vote. [6] Every five years someone was elected to be Tyrant, provided he could prove that he was honest, intelligent, sensible, and trustworthy. Immediately after he was elected, of course, it was obvious to everyone that he was a criminal madman and totally out of touch with the view of the ordinary philosopher in the street looking for a towel. And then five years later they elected another one just like him, and really it was amazing how intelligent people kept on making the same mistakes. [6] Provided that he wasn't poor, foreign, nor disqualified by reason of being mad, frivolous, or a woman. Candidates for the Tyrantship were elected by the placing of black or white balls in various urns, thus giving rise to a well-known comment about politics. The Tyrant was a fat little man with skinny legs, giving people the impression of an egg that was hatching upside down. He was sitting alone in the middle of the marble floor, in a chair surrounded by scrolls and scraps of paper. His feet didn't touch the marble, and his face was pink. Aristocrates whispered something in his ear. The Tyrant looked up from his paperwork. Ah, the Omnian delegation, he said, and a smile flashed across his face like something small darting across a stone. "Do be seated, all of you.
" He looked down again. I am Deacon Vorbis of the Citadel Quisition, said Vorbis coldly. The Tyrant looked up and gave him another lizard smile. Yes, I know, he said. "You torture people for a living. Please be seated, Deacon Vorbis. And your plump young friend who seems to be looking for something. And the rest of you. Some young women will be along in a moment with grapes and things. This generally happens. It's very hard to stop it, in fact. " There were benches in front of the Tyrant's chair. The Omnians sat down. Vorbis remained standing. The Tyrant nodded. "As you wish," he said. This is intolerable! snapped Vorbis. "We have been treated"Much better than you would have treated us," said the Tyrant mildly. "You sit or you stand, my lord, because this is Ephebe and indeed you may stand on your head for all I care, but don't expect me to believe that if it was I, seeking peace in your Citadel, I would be encouraged to do anything but grovel on what was left of my stomach. Be seated or be upstanding, my lord, but be quiet. I have nearly finished. " "Finished what?" said Vorbis. "The peace treaty," said the Tyrant. "But that is what we are here to discuss," said Vorbis. "No," said the Tyrant. The lizard scuttled again: "That is what you are here to sign. " Om took a deep breath and then pushed himself forward. It was quite a steep flight of steps. He felt every one as he bumped down, but at least he was upright at the bottom. He was lost, but being lost in Ephebe was preferable to being lost in the Citadel. At least there were no obvious cellars. Library, library, library. . . There was a library in the Citadel, Brutha had said. He'd described it, so Om had some idea of what he was looking for. There would be a book in it. Peace negotiations were not going well. "You attacked us!" said Vorbis. "I would call it preemptive defence," said the Tyrant. "We saw what happened to Istanzia and Betrek and Ushistan. " "They saw the truth of Om!" "Yes," said the Tyrant. "We believe they did, eventually. " "And they are now proud members of the Empire. " "Yes," said the Tyrant. "We believe they are. But we like to remember them as they were. Before you sent them your letters, that put the minds of men in chains. " "That set the feet of men on the right road," said Vorbis. "Chain letters," said the Tyrant. "The Chain Letter to the Ephebians. Forget Your Gods. Be Subjugated. Learn to Fear. Do not break the chain-the last people who did woke up one morning to find fifty thousand armed men on their lawn. " Vorbis sat back. "What is it you fear?" he said. "Here in your desert, with your. . . gods? Is it not that, deep in your souls, you know that your gods are as shifting as your sand?" "Oh, yes," said the Tyrant. "We know that. That's always been a point in their favour We know about sand. And your God is a rock-and we know about rock. " Om stumped along a cobbled alley, keeping to the shade as much as possible. There seemed to be a lot of courtyards. He paused at the point where the alley opened into yet another of them. There were voices. Mainly there was one voice, petulant and reedy. This was the philosopher Didactylos. Although one of the most quoted and popular philosophers of all time, Didactylos the Ephebian never achieved the respect of his fellow philosophers. They felt he wasn't philosopher material. He didn't bathe often enough or, to put it another way, at all. And he philosophised about the wrong sorts of things. And he was interested in the wrong sorts of things. Dangerous things. Other philosophers asked questions like: Is Truth Beauty, and is Beauty Truth? and: is Reality Created by the Observer? But Didactylos posed the famous philosophical conundrum: "Yes, But What's It Really All About, Then, When You Get Right Down To It, I Mean Really!" His philosophy was a mixture of three famous schools-the Cynics, the Stoics, and the Epicureansand summed up all three of them in his famous phrase, "You can't trust any bugger further than you can throw him, and there's nothing you can do about it, so let's have a drink. Mine's a double, if you're buying. Thank you. And a packet of nuts. Her left bosom is nearly uncovered, eh? Two more packets, then!" Many people have quoted from his famous Meditations: "It's a rum old world all right. But you've got to laugh, haven't you? Nil Illegitimo Carborundum is what I say. The experts don't know everything. Still, where would we be if we were all the same?" Om crawled closer to the voice, bringing himself around the corner of the wall so that he could see into a small courtyard. There was a very large barrel against the far wall. Various debris around it-broken wine amphorae, gnawed bones, and a couple of lean-to shacks made out of rough boards suggested that it was someone's home. And this impression was given some weight by the sign chalked on a board and stuck to the wall over the barrel. It read: DIDACTYLOS and Nephew Practical Philosophers No Proposition Too Large We Can Do Your Thinking For You Special Rates after 6 pm Fresh Axioms Every Day In front of the barrel, a short man in a toga that must have once been white, in the same way that once all continents must have been joined together, was kicking another one who was on the ground. You lazy bugger! The younger one sat up. Honest, Uncle-” I turn my back for half an hour and you go to sleep on the job!" "What job? We haven't had anything since Mr. Piloxi the farmer last week-” How d'you know? How d'you know? While you were snoring dozens of people could've been goin' past, every one of 'em in need of a pers'nal philosophy! -and he only paid in olives. I shall prob'ly get a good price for them olives! They're rotten, Uncle. Nonsense! You said they were green! Yes, but they're supposed to be black. In the shadows, the tortoise's head turned back and forth like a spectator's at a tennis match. The young man stood up. Mrs. Bylaxis came in this morning, he said. "She said the proverb you did for her last week has stopped working. " Didactylos scratched his head. Which one was that? he said. You gave her Ìt's always darkest before dawn. ' Nothing wrong with that. Damn good philosophy. She said she didn't feel any better. Anyway, she said she'd stayed up all night because of her bad leg and it was actually quite light just before dawn, so it wasn't true. And her leg still dropped off. So I gave her part exchange on `Still, it does you good to laugh. ' Didactylos brightened up a bit. Shifted that one, eh? She said she'd give it a try. She gave me a whole dried squid for it. She said I looked like I needed feeding up. Right? You're learning. That's lunch sorted out at any rate. See, Urn? Told you it would work if we stuck at it. I don't call one dried squid and a box of greasy olives much of a return, master. Not for two weeks' thinking. We got three obols for doing that proverb for old Grillos the cobbler. No we didn't. He brought it back. His wife didn't like the colour And you gave him his money back? Yes. " "What, all of it?" "Yes. " "Can't do that. Not after he's put wear and tear on the words. Which one was it?" " Ìt's a wise crow that knows which way the camel points. ' " "I put a lot of work in on that one. " "He said he couldn't understand it. " "I don't understand cobbling, but I know a good pair of sandals when I wears 'em. " Om blinked his one eye. Then he looked at the shapes of the minds in front of him. The one called Urn was presumably the nephew, and had a fairly normal sort of mind, even if it did seem to have too many circles and angles in it. But Didactylos's mind bubbled and flashed like a potful of electric eels on full boil. Om had never seen anything like it. Brutha's thoughts took eons to slide into place, it was like watching mountains colliding; Didactylos's thoughts chased after one another with a whooshing noise. No wonder he was bald. Hair would have burned off from the inside. Om had found a thinker. A cheap one, too, by the sound of it. He looked up at the wall behind the barrel.
Further along was an impressive set of marble steps leading up to some bronze doors, and over the doors, made of metal letters set in the stone, was the word LIBRVM. He'd spent too much time looking. Urn's hand clamped itself on to his shell, and he heard Didactylos's voice say, "Hey. . . there's good eating on one of these things. . . Brutha cowered. You stoned our envoy! shouted Vorbis. "An unarmed man!" He brought it upon himself, said the Tyrant. "Aristocrates was there. He will tell you. " The tall man nodded and stood up. By tradition anyone may speak in the marketplace, he began. And be stoned? Vorbis demanded. Aristocrates held up a hand. Ah, he said, "anyone can say what they like in the square. We have another tradition, though, called free listening. Unfortunately, when people dislike what they hear, they can become a little. . . testy. " I was there too, said another advisor. "Your priest got up to speak and at first everything was fine, because people were laughing. And then he said that Om was the only real God, and everyone went quiet. And then he pushed over a statue of Tuvelpit, the God of Wine. That's when the trouble started. " Are you proposing to tell me he was struck by lightning? said Vorbis. Vorbis was no longer shouting. His voice was level, without passion. The thought rose in Brutha's mind: this is how the exquisitors speak. When the inquisitors have finished, the exquisitors speak. . . No. By an amphora. Tuvelpit was in the crowd, you see. And striking honest men is considered proper godly behaviour, is it? Your missionary had said that people who did not believe in Om would suffer endless punishment. I have to tell you that the crowd considered this rude. 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. And 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-runaway 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. Ah? Yes, the Library. The Library that they have here. Of course. Crammed with useless and dangerous and evil knowledge. I can see it in my mind, Brutha. Can you imagine that? No, Lord Vorbis. Your innocence is your shield, Brutha. No. By all means go to the Library. I have no fear of any effect on you. Lord Vorbis? Yes? The Tyrant said that they hardly did anything to Brother Murduck. . . Silence unrolled its restless length. Vorbis said, "He lied. " Yes. Brutha waited. Vorbis continued to stare at the wall. Brutha wondered what he saw there. When nothing else appeared to be forthcoming, he said, "Thank you. " He stepped back a bit before he went out, so that he could squint under the deacon's bed. He's probably in trouble, Brutha thought as he hurried through the palace. Everyone wants to eat tortoises. He tried to look everywhere while avoiding the friezes of unclad nymphs. Brutha was technically aware that women were a different shape from men; he hadn't left the village until he was twelve, by which time some of his contemporaries were already married. And Omnianism encouraged early marriage as a preventive against Sin, although any activity involving any part of the human anatomy between neck and knees was more or less Sinful in any case. Brutha wished he was a better scholar so he could ask his God why this was. Then he found himself wishing his God was a more intelligent God so it could answer.
He hasn't screamed for me, he thought. I'm sure I would have heard. So maybe no one's cooking him. A slave polishing one of the statues directed him to the Library. Brutha pounded down an aisle of pillars. When he reached the courtyard in front of the Library it was crowded with philosophers, all craning to look at something. Brutha could hear the usual petulant squabbling that showed that philosophical discourse was under way. In this case: I've got ten obols here says it can't do it again! Talking money? That's something you don't hear every day, Xeno. Yeah. And it's about to say goodbye. Look, don't be stupid. It's a tortoise. It's just doing a mating dance. . . There was a breathless pause. Then a sort of collective sigh. There! That's never a right angle! Come on! I'd like to see you do better in the circumstances! What's it doing now? The hypotenuse, I think. Call that a hypotenuse? It's wiggly. It's not wiggly. It's drawing it straight and you're looking at it in a wiggly way! I'll bet thirty obols it can't do a square! Here's forty obols says it can. There was another pause, and then a cheer. Yeah! That's more of a parallelogram, if you ask me, said a petulant voice. Listen, I knows a square when I sees one! And that's a square. All right. Double or nothing then. Bet it can't do a dodecagon. Hah! You bet it couldn't do a septagon just now. Double or nothing. Dodecagon. Worried, eh! Feeling a bit avis domestica? Cluck-cluck? It's a shame to take your money. . . There was another pause. Ten sides? Ten sides? Hah! Told you it wasn't any good! Whoever heard of a tortoise doing geometry? Another daft idea, Didactylos? I said so all along. It's just a tortoise. There's good eating on one of those things. . . The mass of philosophers broke up, pushing past Brutha without paying him much attention. He caught a glimpse of a circle of damp sand, covered with geometrical figures. Om was sitting in the middle of them. Behind him was a very grubby pair of philosophers, counting out a pile of coins. How did we do, Urn? said Didactylos. We're fifty-two obols up, master. See? Every day things improve. Pity it didn't know the difference between ten and twelve, though. Cut one of its legs off and we'll have a stew. Cut off a leg? Well, a tortoise like that, you don't eat it all at once. Didactylos turned his face towards a plump young man with splayed feet and a red face, who was staring at the tortoise. Yes? he said. The tortoise does know the difference between ten and twelve, said the fat boy. Damn thing just lost me eighty obols, said Didactylos. Yes. But tomorrow. . . the boy began, his eyes glazing as if he was carefully repeating something he'd just heard ". . . tomorrow. . . you should be able to get odds of at least three to one. " Didactylos's mouth dropped open. Give me the tortoise, Urn, he said. The apprentice philosopher reached down and picked up Om, very carefully. You know, I thought right at the start there was something funny about this creature, said Didactylos. "I said to Urn, there's tomorrow's dinner, and then he says no, it's dragging its tail in the sand and doing geometry. That doesn't come natural to a tortoise, geometry. " Om's eye turned to Brutha. I had to, he said. "It was the only way to get his attention. Now I've got him by the curiosity. When you've got 'em by the curiosity, their hearts and minds will follow. " He's a God, said Brutha. Really? What's his name? said the philosopher. Don't tell him! Don't tell him! The local gods'll hear! I don't know, said Brutha. Didactylos turned Om over. The Turtle Moves, said Urn thoughtfully. What? said Brutha. Master did a book, said Urn. Not really a book, said Didactylos modestly. "More a scroll. Just a little thing I knocked off. " Saying that the world is flat and goes through space on the back of a giant turtle? said Brutha. Have you read it? Didactylos's gaze was unmoving. "Are you a slave?" No, said Brutha. "I am a-” "Don't mention my name! Call yourself a scribe or something!" "-scribe," said Brutha weakly. "Yeah," said Urn. "I can see that. The telltale callus on the thumb where you hold the pen. The inkstains all over your sleeves. " Brutha glanced at his left thumb. "I haven't-” Yeah, said Urn, grinning. "Use your left hand, do you?" Er, I use both, said Brutha. "But not very well, everyone says. " Ah, said Didactylos. "Ambi-sinister?" What? He means incompetent with both hands, said Om. Oh. Yes. That's me. Brutha coughed politely. "Look. . . I'm looking for a philosopher. Um. One that knows about gods. " He waited. Then he said, "You aren't going to say they're a relic of an outmoded belief system?" Didactylos, still running his fingers over Om's shell, shook his head. Nope. I like my thunderstorms a long way off. Oh. Could you stop turning him over and over? He's just told me he doesn't like it. You can tell how old they are by cutting them in half and counting the rings, said Didactylos. Um. He hasn't got much of a sense of humour, either. You're Omnian, by the sound of it. Yes. " "Here to talk about the treaty?" "I do the listening. " "And what do you want to know about gods?" Brutha appeared to be listening. Eventually he said: "How they start. How they grow. And what happens to them afterwards. " Didactylos put the tortoise into Brutha's hands. "Costs money, that kind of thinking," he said. "Let me know when we've used more than fifty-two obols' worth," said Brutha. Didactylos grinned. "Looks like you can think for yourself," he said. "Got a good memory?" "No. Not exactly a good one. " "Right? Right. Come on into the Library. It's got an earthed copper roof, you know. Gods really hate that sort of thing. " Didactylos reached down beside him and picked up a rusty iron lantern. Brutha looked up at the big white building. "That's the Library?" he said. "Yes," said Didactylos. "That's why it's got LIBRVM carved over the door in such big letters. But a scribe like you'd know that, of course. " The Library of Ephebe was-before it burned down-the second biggest on the Disc. Not as big as the library in Unseen University, of course, but that library had one or two advantages on account of its magical nature. No other library anywhere, for example, has a whole gallery of unwritten books-books that would have been written if the author hadn't been eaten by an alligator around chapter 1, and so on. Atlases of imaginary places. Dictionaries of illusory words. Spotters' guides to invisible things. Wild thesauri in the Lost Reading Room. A library so big that it distorts reality and has opened gateways to all other libraries, everywhere and everywhen. . . And so unlike the Library at Ephebe, with its four or five hundred volumes. Many of them were scrolls, to save their readers the fatigue of having to call a slave every time they wanted a page turned. Each one lay in its own pigeonhole, though. Books shouldn't be kept too close together, otherwise they interact in strange and unforeseeable ways. Sunbeams lanced through the shadows, as palpable as pillars in the dusty air. Although it was the least of the wonders in the Library, Brutha couldn't help noticing a strange construction in the aisles. Wooden laths had been fixed between the rows of stone shelves about two meters from the floor, so that they supported a wider plank of no apparent use whatsoever. Its underside had been decorated with rough wooden shapes. "The Library," announced Didactylos. He reached up. His fingers gently brushed the plank over his head. It dawned on Brutha. "You're blind aren't you?" he said. "That's right. " "But you carry a lantern?" "It's all right," said Didactylos. "I don't put any oil in it. " "A lantern that doesn't shine for a man that doesn't see?" "Yeah. Works perfectly. And of course it's very philosophical. " "And you live in a barrel. " "Very fashionable, living in a barrel," said Didactylos, walking forward briskly, his fingers only occasionally touching the raised patterns on the plank. "Most of the philosophers do it. It shows contempt and disdain for worldly things.
Mind you, Legibus has got a sauna in his. It's amazing the kind of things you can think of in it, he says. " Brutha looked around. Scrolls protruded from their racks like cuckoos piping the hour. "It's all so. . . I never met a philosopher before I came here," he said. "Last night, they were all. . . " "You got to remember there's three basic approaches to philosophy in these parts," said Didactylos. "Tell him, Urn. " "There's the Xenoists," said Urn promptly. "They say the world is basically complex and random. And there's the Ibidians. They say the world is basically simple and follows certain fundamental rules. " "And there's me," said Didactylos, pulling a scroll out of its rack. "Master says basically it's a funny old world," said Urn. "And doesn't contain enough to drink," said Didactylos. "And doesn't contain enough to drink. " "Gods," said Didactylos, half to himself. He pulled out another scroll. "You want to know about gods? Here's Xeno's Reflections, and old Aristocrates' Platitudes, and Ibid's bloody stupid Discourses, and Legibus's Geometries and Hierarch's Theologies. . . " Didactylos's fingers danced across the racks. More dust filled the air. "These are all books?" said Brutha. "Oh, yes. Everyone writes 'em here. You just can't stop the buggers. " "And people can read them?" said Brutha. Omnia was based on one book. And here were. . . hundreds. . . "Well, they can if they want," said Urn. "But no one comes in here much. These aren't books for reading. They're more for writing. " "Wisdom of the ages, this," said Didactylos. "Got to write a book, see, to prove you're a philosopher. Then you get your scroll and free official philosopher's loofah. " The sunlight pooled on a big stone table in the centre of the room. Urn unrolled the length of a scroll. Brilliant flowers glowed in the golden light. "Orinjcrates' On the Nature of Plants," said Didactylos. "Six hundred plants and their uses. . . " "They're beautiful," whispered Brutha. "Yes, that is one of the uses of plants," said Didactylos. "And one which old Orinjcrates neglected to notice, too. Well done. Show him Philo's Bestiary, Urn. " Another scroll unrolled. There were dozens of Pictures of animals, thousands of unreadable words. But. . . pictures of animals. . . it's wrong. . . isn't it wrong to. . . Pictures of just about everything in there, said Didactylos. Art was not permitted in Omnia. And this is the book Didactylos wrote, said Urn. Brutha looked down at a picture of a turtle. There were. . . elephants, they're elephants, his memory supplied, from the fresh memories of the bestiary sinking indelibly into his mind. . . elephants on its back, and on them something with mountains and a waterfall of an ocean around its edge. . . How can this be? said Brutha. "A world on the back of a tortoise? Why does everyone tell me this? This can't be true!" Tell that to the mariners, said Didactylos. "Everyone who's ever sailed the Rim Ocean knows it. Why deny the obvious?" But surely the world is a perfect sphere, spinning about the sphere of the sun, just as the Septateuch tells us, said Brutha. "That seems so. . . logical. That's how things ought to be. " Ought? said Didactylos. "Well, I don't know about ought. That's not a philosophical word. " And. . . what is this. . . Brutha murmured, pointing to a circle under the drawing of the turtle. That's a plan view, said Urn. Map of the world, said Didactylos. Map? What's a map? It's a sort of picture that shows you where you are, said Didactylos. Brutha stared in wonderment. "And how does it know?" Hah! Gods, prompted Om again. "We're here to ask about gods!" But is all this true? said Brutha. Didactylos shrugged. "Could be. Could be. We are here and it is now. The way I see it is, after that, everything tends towards guesswork. " You mean you don't know it's true? said Brutha. I think it might be, said Didactylos. "I could be wrong. Not being certain is what being a philosopher is all about. " Talk about gods, said Om. Gods, said Brutha weakly. His mind was on fire. These people made all these books about things, and they weren't sure. But he'd been sure, and Brother Nhumrod had been sure, and Deacon Vorbis had a sureness you could bend horseshoes around. Sureness was a rock. Now he knew why, when Vorbis spoke about Ephebe, his face was grey with hatred and his voice was tense as a wire. If there was no truth, what was there left? And these bumbling old men spent their time kicking away the pillars of the world, and they'd nothing to replace them with but uncertainty. And they were proud of this? Urn was standing on a small ladder, fishing among the shelves of scrolls. Didactylos sat opposite Brutha, his blind gaze still apparently fixed on him. You don't like it, do you? said the philosopher. Brutha had said nothing. You know, said Didactylos conversationally, "people'll tell you that us blind people are the real business where the other senses are concerned. It's not true, of course. The buggers just say it because it makes them feel better. It gets rid of the obligation to feel sorry for us. But when you can't see you do learn to listen more. The way people breathe, the sounds their clothes make. . . " Urn reappeared with another scroll. You shouldn't do this, said Brutha wretchedly. "All this. . . " His voice trailed off. I know about sureness, said Didactylos. Now the light, irascible tone had drained out of his voice. "I remember, before I was blind, I went to Omnia once. This was before the borders were closed, when you still let people travel. And in your Citadel I saw a crowd stoning a man to death in a pit. Ever seen that?" It has to be done, Brutha mumbled. "So the soul can be shriven and-' "Don't know about the soul. Never been that kind of a philosopher," said Didactylos. "All I know is, it was a horrible sight. " "The state of the body is not-” Oh, I'm not talking about the poor bugger in the pit, said the philosopher. "I'm talking about the people throwing the stones. They were sure all right. They were sure it wasn't them in the pit. You could see it in their faces. So glad it wasn't them that they were throwing just as hard as they could. " Urn hovered, looking uncertain. I've got Abraxas's On Religion, he said. Old 'Charcoal' Abraxas, said Didactylos, suddenly cheerful again. "Struck by lightning fifteen times so far, and still not giving up. You can borrow this one overnight if you want. No scribbling comments in the margins, mind you, unless they're interesting. " This is it! said Om. "Come on, let's leave this idiot. " Brutha unrolled the scroll. There weren't even any pictures. Crabbed writing fiIled it, line after line. He spent years researching it, said Didactylos. "Went out into the desert, talked to the small gods. Talked to some of our gods, too. Brave man. He says gods like to see an atheist around. Gives them something to aim at. " Brutha unrolled a bit more of the scroll. Five minutes ago he would have admitted that he couldn't read. Now the best efforts of the inquisitors couldn't have forced it out of him. He held it up in what he hoped was a familiar fashion. Where is he now? he said. Well, someone said they saw a pair of sandals with smoke coming out just outside his house a year or two back, said Didactylos. "He might have, you know, pushed his luck. " I think, said Brutha, "that I'd better be going. I'm sorry to have intruded on your time. " Bring it back when you've finished with it, said Didactylos. Is that how people read in Omnia? said Urn. What? Upside down. Brutha picked up the tortoise, glared at Urn, and strode as haughtily as possible out of the Library. Hmm, said Didactylos. He drummed his fingers on the tables. It was him I saw in the tavern last night, said Urn. "I'm sure, master. " But the Omnians are staying here in the palace. That's right, master. But the tavern is outside. Yes. Then he must have flown over the wall, do you think? I'm sure it was him, master. Then. . . maybe he came later. Maybe he hadn't gone in when you saw him. It can only be that, master.
The keepers of the labyrinth are unbribable. Didactylos clipped Urn across the back of the head with his lantern. Stupid boy! I've told you about that sort of statement. I mean, they are not easily bribable, master. Not for all the gold in Omnia, for example. That's more like it. Do you think that tortoise was a god, master? He's going to be in big trouble in Omnia if he is. They've got a bastard of a god there. Did you ever read old Abraxas? No, master. Very big on gods. Big gods man. Always smelled of burnt hair. Naturally resistant. Om crawled slowly along the length of a line. Stop walking up and down like that, he said, "I can't concentrate. " How can people talk like that? Brutha asked the empty air. "Acting as if they're glad they don't know things! Finding out more and more things they don't know! It's like children proudly coming to show you a full potty!" Om marked his place with a claw. But they find things out, he said. "This Abraxas was a thinker and no mistake. I didn't know some of this stuff. Sit down!" Brutha obeyed. Right, said Om. "Now. . . listen. Do you know how gods get power?" By people believing in them, said Brutha. "Millions of people believe in you. " Om hesitated. All right, all right. We are here and it is now. Sooner or later he'll find out for himself. . . They don't believe, said Om. But-” It's happened before," said the tortoise. "Dozens of times. D'you know Abraxas found the lost city of Ee? Very strange carvings, he says. Belief, he says. Belief shifts. People start out believing in the god and end up believing in the structure. " "I don't understand," said Brutha. "Let me put it another way," said the tortoise. "I am your God, right?" "Yes. " "And you'll obey me. " "Yes. " "Good. Now take a rock and go and kill Vorbis. " Brutha didn't move. "I'm sure you heard me," said Om. "But he'll. . . he's. . . the Quisition would-” Now you know what I mean, said the tortoise. "You're more afraid of him than you are of me, now. Abraxas says here: Àround the Godde there forms a Shelle of prayers and Ceremonies and Buildings and Priestes and Authority, until at Last the Godde Dies. Ande this maye notte be noticed. ' " That can't be true! I think it is. Abraxas says there's a kind of shellfish that lives in the same way. It makes a bigger and bigger shell until it can't move around any more, and so it dies. But. . . but. . . that means. . . the whole Church. . . Yes. Brutha tried to keep hold of the idea, but the sheer enormity of it kept wrenching it from his mental grasp. But you're not dead, he managed. Next best thing, said Om. "And you know what? No other small god is trying to usurp me. Did I ever tell you about old Ur-Gilash? No? He was the god back in what's now Omnia before me. Not much of one. Basically a weather god. Or a snake god. Something, anyway. It took years to get rid of him, though. Wars and everything. So I've been thinking. . . " Brutha said nothing. Om still exists, said the tortoise. "I mean the shell. All you'd have to do is get people to understand. " Brutha still said nothing. You can be the next prophet, said Om. I can't! Everyone knows Vorbis will be the next prophet! Ah, but you'll be official. No. No? I am your God! And I am my me. I'm not a prophet. I can't even write. I can't read. No one will listen to me. Om looked him up and down. I must admit you're not the chosen one I would have chosen, he said. The great prophets had vision, said Brutha. "Even if they. . . even if you didn't talk to them, they had something to say. What could I say? I haven't got anything to say to anyone. What could I say?" Believe in the Great God Om, said the tortoise. And then what? What do you mean, and then what? Brutha looked out glumly at the darkening courtyard. Believe in the Great God Om or be stricken with thunderbolts, he said. Sounds good to me. Is that how it always has to be? The last rays of the sun glinted off the statue in the centre of the courtyard. It was vaguely feminine. There was a penguin perched on one shoulder. Patina, Goddess of Wisdom, said Brutha. "The one with a penguin. Why a penguin?" Can't imagine, said Om hurriedly. Nothing wise about penguins, is there? Shouldn't think so. Unless you count the fact that you don't get them in Omnia. Pretty wise of them. Brutha! That's Vorbis, said Brutha, standing up. "Shall I leave you here?" Yes. There's still some melon. I mean loaf. Brutha wandered out into the dusk. Vorbis was sitting on a bench under a tree, as still as a statue in the shadows. Certainty, Brutha thought. I used to be certain. Now I'm not so sure. Ah, Brutha. You will accompany me on a little stroll. We will take the evening air. Yes, lord. You have enjoyed your visit to Ephebe. Vorbis seldom asked a question if a statement would do. It has been. . . interesting. Vorbis put one hand on Brutha's shoulder and used the other to haul himself up on his staff. And what do you think of it? he asked. They have many gods, and they don't pay them much attention, said Brutha. "And they search for ignorance. " And they find it in abundance, be sure of that, said Vorbis. He pointed his staff into the night. "Let us walk," he said. There was the sound of laughter, somewhere in the darkness, and the clatter of pans. The scent of evening-opening flowers hung thickly in the air. The stored heat of daytime radiating from the stones, made the night seem like a fragrant soup. Ephebe looks to the sea, said Vorbis after a while. "You see the way it is built? All on the slope of a hill facing the sea. But the sea is mutable. Nothing lasting comes from the sea. Whereas our dear Citadel looks towards the high desert. And what do we see there?" Instinctively Brutha turned, and looked over the rooftops to the black bulk of the desert against the sky. I saw a flash of light, he said. "And again. On the slope. " Ah. The light of truth, said Vorbis. "So let us go forth to meet it. Take me to the entrance to the labyrinth, Brutha. You know the way. " My lord? said Brutha. Yes, Brutha? I would like to ask you a question. Do so. What happened to Brother Murduck? There was the merest suggestion of hesitation in the rhythm of Vorbis's stick on the cobbles. Then the exquisitor said, "Truth, good Brutha, is like the light. Do you know about light?" It. . . comes from the sun. And the moon and stars. And candles. And lamps. And so on, said Vorbis, nodding. "Of course. But there is another kind of light. A light that fills even the darkest of places. This has to be. For if this metalight did not exist, how could darkness be seen?" Brutha said nothing. This sounded too much like philosophy. And so it is with truth, said Vorbis. "There are some things which appear to be the truth, which have all the hallmarks of truth, but which are not the real truth. The real truth must sometimes be protected by a labyrinth of lies. " He turned to Brutha. "Do you understand me?" No, Lord Vorbis. I mean, that which appears to our senses is not the fundamental truth. Things that are seen and heard and done by the flesh are mere shadows of a deeper reality. This is what you must understand as you progress in the Church. But at the moment, lord, I know only the trivial truth, the truth available on the outside, said Brutha. He felt as though he was at the edge of a pit. That is how we all begin, said Vorbis kindly. So did the Ephebians kill Brother Murduck? Brutha persisted. Now he was inching out over the darkness. I am telling you that in the deepest sense of the truth they did. By their failure to embrace his words, by their intransigence, they surely killed him.
But in the trivial sense of the truth, said Brutha, picking every word with the care an inquisitor might give to his patient in the depths of the Citadel, "in the trivial sense, Brother Murduck died, did he not, in Omnia, because he had not died in Ephebe, had been merely mocked, but it was feared that others in the Church might not understand the, the deeper truth, and thus it was put about that the Ephebians had killed him in, in the trivial sense, thus giving you, and those who saw the truth of the evil of Ephebe, due cause to launch a-a just retaliation. " They walked past a fountain. The deacon's steelshod staff clicked in the night. I see a great future for you in the Church, said Vorbis, eventually. "The time of the eighth Prophet is coming. A time of expansion, and great opportunity for those true in the service of Om. " Brutha looked into the pit. If Vorbis was right, and there was a kind of light that made darkness visible, then down there was its opposite, the darkness where no light could ever reach: darkness that blackened light. He thought of blind Didactylos and his empty lantern. He heard himself say, "And with people like the Ephebians, there is no truce. No treaty can be held binding, if it is between people like the Ephebians and those who follow a deeper truth?" Vorbis nodded. "When the Great God is with us," he said, "who can stand against us? You impress me, Brutha. " There was more laughter in the darkness, and the twang of stringed instruments. A feast, sneered Vorbis. "The Tyrant invited us to a feast! I sent some of the party, of course. Even their generals are in there! They think themselves safe behind their labyrinth, as a tortoise thinks himself safe in his shell, not realising it is a prison. Onward. " The inner wall of the labyrinth loomed out of the darkness. Brutha leaned against it. From far above came the chink of metal on metal as a sentry went on his rounds. The gateway to the labyrinth was wide open. The Ephebians had never seen the point of stopping people entering. Up a short side-tunnel the guide for the first sixth of the way slumbered on a bench, a candle guttering beside him. Above his alcove hung the bronze bell that would-be traversers of the maze used to summon him. Brutha slipped past. Brutha? Yes, lord? Lead the way through the labyrinth. I know you can. Lord-” This is an order, Brutha," said Vorbis, pleasantly. There is no hope for it, Brutha thought. It is an order. "Then tread where I tread, lord," he whispered. "Not more than one step behind me. " "Yes, Brutha. " "If I step around a place on the floor for no reason, you step around it too. " "Yes, Brutha. " Brutha thought: perhaps I could do it wrong. No. I took vows and things. You can't just disobey. The whole world ends if you start thinking like that. . . He let his sleeping mind take control. The way through the labyrinth unrolled in his head like a glowing wire. . . . diagonally forward and right three and-a-half paces, and left sixty-three paces, pause two secondswhere a steely swish in the darkness suggested that one of the guardians had devised something that won him a prize-and up three steps. . . I could run forward, he thought. I could hide, and he'd walk into one of the pits or a deadfall or something, and then I could sneak back to my room and who would ever know? I would. . . . forward nine paces, and right one pace, and forward nineteen paces, and left two paces. . . There was a light ahead. Not the occasional white glow of moonlight from the slits in the roof, but yellow lamplight, dimming and brightening as its owner came nearer. "Someone's coming," he whispered. "It must be one of the guides!" Vorbis had vanished. Brutha hovered uncertainly in the passageway as the light bobbed nearer. An elderly voice said, "That you, Number Four?" The light came round a corner. It half-illuminated an old man, who walked up to Brutha and raised the candle to his face. "Where's Number Four?" he said, peering around Brutha. A figure appeared behind the man, from out of a sidepassage. Brutha had the briefest glimpse of Vorbis, his face strangely peaceful, as he gripped the head of his staff, twisted and pulled. Sharp metal glittered for a moment in the candlelight. Then the light went out. Vorbis's voice said, "Take the lead again. " Trembling, Brutha obeyed. He felt the soft flesh of an outflung arm under his sandal for a moment. The pit, he thought. Look into Vorbis's eyes, and there's the pit. And I'm in it with him. I've got to remember about fundamental truth. No more guides were patrolling the labyrinth. After a mere million years, the night air blew cool on his face, and Brutha stepped out under the stars. "Well done. Can you remember the way to the gate?" "Yes, Lord Vorbis. " The deacon pulled his hood over his face. "Carry on. " There were a few torches lighting the streets, but Ephebe was not a city that stayed awake in darkness. A couple of passers-by paid them no attention. "They guard their harbour," said Vorbis, conversational. "But the way to the desert. . . everyone knows that no one can cross the desert. I am sure you know that, Brutha. " "But now I suspect that what I know is not the truth," said Brutha. "Quite so. Ah. The gate. I believe it had two guards yesterday?" "I saw two. " "And now it is night and the gate is shut. But there will be a watchman. Wait here. " Vorbis disappeared into the gloom. After a while there was a muffled conversation. Brutha stared straight ahead of him. The conversation was followed by muffled silence. After a while Brutha started to count to himself. After ten, I'll go back. Another ten, then. All right. Make it thirty. And then I'll. . . "Ah, Brutha. Let us go. " Brutha swallowed his heart again, and turned slowly. "I did not hear you, lord," he managed. "I walk softly. " "Is there a watchman?" "Not now. Come help me with the bolts. " A small wicket gate was set into the main gate. Brutha, his mind numb with hatred, shoved the bolts aside with the heel of his hand. The door opened with barely a creak. Outside there was the occasional light of a distant farm, and crowding darkness. Then the darkness poured in. Hierarchy, Vorbis said later. The Ephebians didn't think in terms of hierarchies. No army could cross the desert. But maybe a small army could get a quarter of the way, and leave a cache of water. And do that several times. And another small army could use part of that cache to go further, maybe reach halfway, and leave a cache. And another small army. . . It had taken months. A third of the men had died, of heat and dehydration and wild animals and worse things, the worse things that the desert held. . . You had to have a mind like Vorbis's to plan it. And plan it early. Men were already dying in the desert before Brother Murduck went to preach; there was already a beaten track when the Omnian fleet burned in the bay before Ephebe. You had to have a mind like Vorbis's to plan your retaliation before your attack. It was over in less than an hour. The fundamental truth was that the handful of Ephebian guards in the palace had no chance at all. Vorbis sat upright in the Tyrant's chair. It was approaching midnight. A collection of Ephebian citizens, the Tyrant among them, had been herded in front of him. He busied himself with some paperwork and then looked up with an air of mild surprise, as if he'd been completely unaware that fifty people were waiting in front of him at crossbow point. "Ah," he said, and flashed a little smile. "Well," he said, "I am pleased to say that we can now dispense with the peace treaty. Quite unnecessary. Why prattle of peace when there is no more war? Ephebe is now a diocese of Omnia. There will be no argument. " He threw a paper on to the floor. "There will be a fleet here in a few days. There will be no opposition, while we hold the palace. Your infernal mirror is even now being smashed. " He steepled his fingers and looked at the assembled Ephebians. "Who built it?" The Tyrant looked up. "It was an Ephebian construction," he said.
"Ah," said Vorbis, "democracy. I forgot. Then who"-he signalled one of the guards, who handed him a sack-"wrote this?" A copy of De Chelonian Mobile was flung on to the marble floor. Brutha stood beside the throne. It was where he had been told to stand. He'd looked into the pit and now it was him. Everything around him was happening in some distant circle of light, surrounded by darkness. Thoughts chased one another round his head. Did the Cenobiarch know about this? Did anyone else know about the two kinds of truth? Who else knew that Vorbis was fighting both sides of a war, like a child playing with soldiers? Was it really wrong if it was for the greater glory of. . . . . . a god who was a tortoise. A god that only Brutha believed in? Who did Vorbis talk to when he prayed? Through the mental storm Brutha heard Vorbis's level tones: "If the philosopher who wrote this does not own up, the entirety of you will be put to the flame. Do not doubt that I mean it. " There was a movement in the crowd, and the sound of Didactylos's voice. "Let go! You heard him! Anyway. . . I always wanted a chance to do this. . . " A couple of servants were pushed aside and the philosopher stumped out of the crowd, his barren lantern held defiantly over his head. Brutha watched the philosopher pause for a moment in the empty space, and then turn very slowly until he was directly facing Vorbis. He took a few steps forward then, and held the lantern out as he appeared to regard the deacon critically. "Hmm," he said. "You are the. . . perpetrator?" said Vorbis. "Indeed. Didactylos is my name. " "You are blind?" "Only as far as vision is concerned, my lord. " "Yet you carry a lantern," said Vorbis. "Doubtless for some catchword reason. Probably you'll tell me you're looking for an honest man?" "I don't know, my lord. Perhaps you could tell me what he looks like?" "I should strike you down now," said Vorbis. "Oh, certainly. " Vorbis indicated the book. "These lies. This scandal. This. . . this lure to drag the minds of men from the path of true knowledge. You dare to stand before me and declare"-he pushed the book with a toe-"that the world is flat and travels through the void on the back of a giant turtle?" Brutha held his breath. So did history. Affirm your belief, Brutha thought. Just once, someone please stand up to Vorbis. I can't. But someone. . . He found his eyes swivelling toward Simony, who stood on the other side of Vorbis's chair. The sergeant looked transfixed, fascinated. Didactylos drew himself up to his full height. He half-turned and for a moment his blank gaze passed across Brutha. The lantern was extended at arm's length. "No," he said. "When every honest man knows that the world is a sphere, a perfect shape, bound to spin around the sphere of the Sun as Man orbits the central truth of Om," said Vorbis, "and the stars-” Brutha leaned forward, heart pounding. My lord? he whispered. What? snapped Vorbis. He said `no,' said Brutha. That's right, said Didactylos. Vorbis sat absolutely motionless for a moment. Then his jaw moved a fraction, as if he was rehearsing some words under his breath. You deny it? he said. Let it be a sphere, said Didactylos. "No problem with a sphere. No doubt special arrangements are made for everything to stay on. And the Sun can be another larger sphere, a long way off. Would you like the Moon to orbit the world or the Sun? I advise the world. More hierarchical, and a splendid example to us all. " Brutha was seeing something he'd never seen before. Vorbis was looking bewildered. But you wrote. . . you said the world is on the back of a giant turtle! You gave the turtle a name! Didactylos shrugged. "Now I know better," he said. "Who ever heard of a turtle ten thousand miles long? Swimming through the emptiness of space? Hah. For stupidity! I am embarrassed to think of it now. " Vorbis shut his mouth. Then he opened it again. This is how an Ephebian philosopher behaves? he said. Didactylos shrugged again. "It is how any true philosopher behaves," he said. "One must always be ready to embrace new ideas, take account of new proofs. Don't you agree? And you have brought us many new points"-a gesture seemed to take in, quite by accident, the Omnian bowmen around the room-"for me to ponder. I can always be swayed by powerful argument. " Your lies have already poisoned the world! Then I shall write another book, said Didactylos calmly. "Think how it will look-proud Didactylos swayed by the arguments of the Omnians. A full retraction. Hmm? In fact, with your permission, lord-I know you have much to do, looting and burning and so on-I will retire to my barrel right away and start work on it. A universe of spheres. Balls spinning through space. Hmm. Yes. With your permission, lord, I will write you more balls than you can imagine. . . " The old philosopher turned and, very slowly, walked towards the exit. Vorbis watched him go. Brutha saw him half-raise his hand to signal the guards, and then lower it again. Vorbis turned to the Tyrant. So much for your- he began. Coo-ee! The lantern sailed through the doorway and shattered against Vorbis's skull. Nevertheless. . . the Turtle Moves! Vorbis leapt to his feet. I-” he screamed, and then got a grip on himself. He waved irritably at a couple of the guards. I want him caught. Now. And. . . Brutha?" Brutha could hardly hear him for the rush of blood in his ears. Didactylos had been a better thinker than he'd thought. "Yes, lord?" "You will take a party of men, and you will take them to the Library. . . and then, Brutha, you will burn the Library. " Didactylos was blind, but it was dark. The pursuing guards could see, except that there was nothing to see by. And they hadn't spent their lives wandering the twisty, uneven and above all many-stepped lanes of Ephebe. "-eight, nine, ten, eleven," muttered the philosopher, bounding up a pitch-dark flight of steps and haring around a corner. "Argh, ow, that was my knee," muttered most of the guards, in a heap about halfway up. One made it to the top, though. By starlight he could just make out the skinny figure, bounding madly along the street. He raised his crossbow. The old fool wasn't even dodging. . . A perfect target. There was a twang. The guard looked puzzled for a moment. The bow toppled from his hands, firing itself as it hit the cobbles and sending its bolt ricocheting off a statue. He looked down at the feathered shaft sticking out of his chest, and then at the figure detaching itself from the shadows. "Sergeant Simony?" he whispered. "I'm sorry," said Simony. "I really am. But the Truth is important. " The soldier opened his mouth to give his opinion of the truth and then slumped forward. He opened his eyes. Simony was walking away. Everything looked lighter. It was still dark. But now he could see in the darkness. Everything was shades of grey And the cobbles under his hand had somehow become a coarse black sand. He looked up. ON YOUR FEET, PRIVATE ICHLOS. He stood up sheepishly. Now he was more than just a soldier, an anonymous figure to chase and be killed and be no more than a shadowy bit-player in other people's lives. Now he was Dervi Ichlos, aged thirtyeight, comparatively blameless in the general scheme of things, and dead. He raised a hand to his lips uncertainly. "You're the judge?" he said. NOT ME. Ichlos looked at the sands stretching away. He knew instinctively what he had to do. He was far less sophisticated than General Fri'it, and took more notice of songs he'd learned in his childhood. Besides, he had an advantage. He'd had even less religion than the general. JUDGEMENT IS AT THE END OF THE DESERT. Ichlos tried to smile. "My mum told me about this," he said. "When you're dead, you have to walk a desert. And you see everything properly, she said. And remember everything right. " Death studiously did nothing to indicate his feelings either way. "Might meet a few friends on the way, eh?" said the soldier. POSSIBLY. Ichlos set out. On the whole, he thought, it could have been worse.
Urn clambered across the shelves like a monkey, pulling books out of their racks and throwing them down to the floor. "I can carry about twenty," he said. "But which twenty?" "Always wanted to do that," murmured Didactylos happily. "Upholding truth in the face of tyranny and so on. Hah! One man, unafraid of the-” What to take? What to take? shouted Urn. We don't need Grido's Mechanics, said Didactylos. "Hey, I wish I could have seen the look on his face! Damn good shot, considering. I just hope someone wrote down what I-” "Principles of gearing! Theory of water expansion!" shouted Urn. "But we don't need Ibid's Civics or Gnomon's Ectopia, that's for sure-” What? They belong to all mankind! snapped Didactylos. Then if all mankind will come and help us carry them, that's fine, said Urn. "But if it's just the two of us, I prefer to carry something useful. " Useful? Books on mechanisms? Yes! They can show people how to live better! And these show people how to be people, said Didactylos. "Which reminds me. Find me another lantern. I feel quite blind without one-” The Library door shook to a thunderous knocking. It wasn't the knocking of people who expected the door to be opened. "We could throw some of the others into the-” The hinges leapt out of the walls. The door thudded down. Soldiers scrambled over it, swords drawn. Ah, gentlemen, said Didactylos. "Pray don't disturb my circles. " The corporal in charge looked at him blankly, and then down at the floor. What circles? he said. Hey, how about giving me a pair of compasses and coming back in, say, half an hour? Leave him, corporal, said Brutha. He stepped over the door. I said leave him. But I got orders to-” Are you deaf? If you are, the Quisition can cure that," said Brutha, astonished at the steadiness of his own voice. "You don't belong to the Quisition," said the corporal. "No. But I know a man who does," said Brutha. "You are to search the palace for books. Leave him with me. He's an old man. What harm can he do?" The corporal looked hesitantly from Brutha to his prisoners. "Very good, corporal. I will take over. " They all turned. "Did you hear me?" said Sergeant Simony, pushing his way forward. "But the deacon told us-” Corporal? Yes, sergeant? The deacon is far away. I am right here. Yes, sergeant. Go. Yes, sergeant. Simony cocked an ear as the soldiers marched away. Then he stuck his sword in the door and turned to Didactylos. He made a fist with his left hand and brought his right hand down on it, palm extended. The Turtle Moves, he said. That all depends, said the philosopher, cautiously. I mean I am. . . a friend, he said. Why should we trust you? said Urn. Because you haven't got any choice, said Sergeant Simony briskly. Can you get us out of here? said Brutha. Simony glared at him. "You?" he said. "Why should I get you out of here? You're an inquisitor!" He grasped his sword. Brutha backed away. I'm not! On the ship, when the captain sounded you, you just said nothing, said Simony. "You're not one of us. " I don't think I'm one of them, either, said Brutha. "I'm one of mine. " He gave Didactylos an imploring look, which was a wasted effort, and turned it towards Urn instead. I don't know about this soldier, he said. "All I know is that Vorbis means to have you killed and he will burn your Library. But I can help. I worked it out on the way here. " And don't listen to him, said Simony. He dropped on one knee in front of Didactylos, like a supplicant. "Sir, there are. . . some of us. . . who know your book for what it is. . . see, I have a copy. . . " He fumbled inside his breastplate. We copied it out, said Simony. "One copy! That's all we had! But it's been passed around. Some of us who could read, read it to the others! It makes so much sense!" Er. . . said Didactylos. "What?" Simony waved his hands in excitement. "Because we know it-I've been to places that-it's true! There is a Great Turtle. The turtle does move! We don't need gods!" Urn? No one's stripped the copper off the roof, have they? said Didactylos. Don't think so. Remind me not to talk to this chap outside, then. You don't understand! said Simony. "I can save you. You have friends in unexpected places. Come on. I'll just kill this priest. . . " He gripped his sword. Brutha backed away. No! I can help, too! That's why I came. When I saw you in front of Vorbis I knew what I could do! What can you do? sneered Urn. I can save the Library. What? Put it on your back and run away? sneered Simony. No. I don't mean that. How many scrolls are there? About seven hundred, said Didactylos. How many of them are important? All of them! said Urn. Maybe a couple of hundred, said Didactylos, mildly. Uncle! All the rest is just wind and vanity publishing, said Didactylos. But they're books! I may be able to take more than that, said Brutha slowly. "Is there a way out?" There. . . could be, said Didactylos. Don't tell him! said Simony. Then all your books will burn, said Brutha. He pointed to Simony. "He said you haven't got a choice. So you haven't got anything to lose, have you?" He's a-” Simony began. Everyone shut up," said Didactylos. He stared past Brutha's ear. "There may be a way out," he said. "What do you intend?" "I don't believe this!" said Urn. "There's Omnians here and you're telling them there's another way out!" "There's tunnels all through this rock," said Didactylos. "Maybe, but we don't tell people!" "I'm inclined to trust this person," said Didactylos. "He's got an honest face. Speaking philosophically. " "Why should we trust him?" "Anyone stupid enough to expect us to trust him in these circumstances must be trustworthy," said Didactylos. "He'd be too stupid to be deceitful. " "I can walk out of here right now," said Brutha. "And where will your Library be then?" "You see?" said Simony. "Just when things apparently look dark, suddenly we have unexpected friends everywhere," said Didactylos. "What is your plan, young man?" "I haven't got one," said Brutha. "I just do things, one after the other. " "And how long will doing things one after another take you?" "About ten minutes, I think. " Simony glared at Brutha. "Now get the books," said Brutha. "And I shall need some light. " "But you can't even read!" said Urn. "I'm not going to read them. " Brutha looked blankly at the first scroll, which happened to be De Chelonian Mobile. "Oh. My god," he said. "Something wrong?" said Didactylos. "Could someone fetch my tortoise?" Simony trotted through the palace. No one was paying him much attention. Most of the Ephebian guard was outside the labyrinth, and Vorbis had made it clear to anyone who was thinking of venturing inside just what would happen to the palace's inhabitants. Groups of Omnian soldiers were looting in a disciplined sort of way. Besides, he was returning to his quarters. There was a tortoise in Brutha's room. It was sitting on the table, between a rolled-up scroll and a gnawed melon rind and, insofar as it was possible to tell with tortoises, was asleep. Simony grabbed it without ceremony, rammed it into his pack, and hurried back towards the Library. He hated himself for doing it. The stupid priest had ruined everything! But Didactylos had made him promise, and Didactylos was the man who knew the Truth. All the way there he had the impression that someone was trying to attract his attention. "You can remember them just by looking?" said Urn. "Yes. " "The whole scroll?" "Yes. " "I don't believe you. " "The word LIBRVM outside this building has a chip in the top of the first letter,' said Brutha. "Xeno wrote Reflections, and old Aristocrates wrote Platitudes, and Didactylos thinks Ibid's Discourses are bloody stupid. There are six hundred paces from the Tyrant's throne room to the Library. There is a-” "He's got a good memory, you've got to grant him that," said Didactylos. "Show him some more scrolls. " "How will we know he's remembered them?" Urn demanded, unrolling a scroll of geometrical theorems. "He can't read! And even if he could read, he can't write! " "We shall have to teach him.
" Brutha looked at a scroll full of maps. He shut his eyes. For a moment the jagged outline glowed against the inside of his eyelids, and then he felt them settle into his mind. They were still there somewhere-he could bring them back at any time. Urn unrolled another scroll. Pictures of animals. This one, drawings of plants and lots of writing. This one, just writing. This one, triangles and things. They settled down in his memory. After a while, he wasn't even aware of the scroll unrolling. He just had to keep looking. He wondered how much he could remember. but that was stupid. You just remembered everything you saw. A tabletop, or a scroll full of writing. There was as much information in the grain and colouring of the wood as there was in Xeno's Reflections. Even so, he was conscious of a certain heaviness of mind, a feeling that if he turned his head sharply then memory would slosh out of his ears. Urn picked up a scroll at random and unrolled it partway. "Describe what an Ambiguous Puzuma looks like," he demanded. "Don't know," said Brutha. He blinked. "So much for Mr. Memory," said Urn. "He can't read, boy. That's not fair," said the philosopher. "All right. I mean-the fourth picture in the third scroll you saw," said Urn. "A four-legged creature facing left," said Brutha. "A large head similar to a cat's and broad shoulders with the body tapering towards the hindquarters. The body is a pattern of dark and light squares. The ears are very small and laid flat against the head. There are six whiskers. The tail is stubby. Only the hind feet are clawed, three claws on each foot. The fore feet are about the same length as the head and held up against the body. A band of thick hair-” That was fifty scrolls ago, said Urn. "He saw the whole scroll for a second or two. " They looked at Brutha. Brutha blinked again. You know everything? said Urn. I don't know. You've got half the Library in your head! I feel. . . a. . . bit. . . The Library of Ephebe was a furnace. The flames burned blue where the melted copper roof dripped on to the shelves. All libraries, everywhere, are connected by the bookworm holes in space created by the strong spacetime distortions found around any large collections of books. Only a very few librarians learn the secret, and there are inflexible rules about making use of the fact. Because it amounts to time travel, and time travel causes big problems. But if a library is on fire, and down in the history books as having been on fire. . . There was a small pop, utterly unheard among the crackling of the bookshelves, and a figure dropped out of nowhere on to a small patch of unburned floor in the middle of the Library. It looked ape-like, but it moved in a very purposeful way. Long simian arms beat out the flames, pulled scrolls off the shelves, and stuffed them into a sack. When the sack was full, it knuckled back into the middle of the room. . . and vanished, with another pop. This has nothing to do with the story. Nor does the fact that, some time later, scrolls thought to have been destroyed in the Great Ephebian Library Fire turned up in remarkably good condition in the Library of Unseen University in Ankh-Morpork. But it's nice to know, even so. Brutha awoke with the smell of the sea in his nostrils. At least it was what people think of as the smell of the sea, which is the stink of antique fish and rotten seaweed. He was in some sort of shed. Such light as managed to come through its one unglazed window was red, and flickered. One end of the shed was open to the water. The ruddy light showed a few figures clustered around something there. Brutha gently probed the contents of his memory. Everything seemed to be there, the Library scrolls neatly arranged. The words were as meaningless to him as any other written word, but the pictures were interesting. More interesting than most things in his memory, anyway. He sat up, carefully. You're awake, then, said the voice of Om, in his head. "Feel a bit full, do we? Feel a bit like a stack of shelves? Feel like we've got big notices saying "SILENCIOS!" all over the place inside our head? What did you go and do that for?" I. . . don't know. It seemed like. . . the next thing to do. Where are you? Your soldier friend has got me in his pack. Thanks for looking after me so carefully, by the way. Brutha managed to get to his feet. The world revolved round him for a moment, adding a third astronomical theory to the two currently occupying the minds of local thinkers. He peered out of the window. The red light was coming from fires all over Ephebe, but there was one huge glow over the Library. Guerrilla activity, said Om. "Even the slaves are fighting. Can't understand why. You think they'd jump at the chance to be revenged on their masters, eh?" I suppose a slave in Ephebe has the chance to be free, said Brutha. There was a hiss from the other end of the shed, and a metallic, whirring noise. Brutha heard Urn say, "There! I told you. Just a block in the tubes. Lets get some more fuel in. " Brutha tottered towards the group. They were clustered round a boat. As boats went, it was of normal shape-a pointed end in front, a flat end at the back. But there was no mast. What there was, was a large, coppercolored ball, hanging in a wooden framework toward the back of the boat. There was an iron basket underneath it, in which someone had already got a good fire going. And the ball was spinning in its frame, in a cloud of steam. I've seen that, he said. "In De Chelonian Mobile. There was a drawing. " Oh, it's the walking Library, said Didactylos. "Yes. You're right. Illustrating the principle of reaction. I never asked Urn to build a big one. This is what comes of thinking with your hands. " I took it round the lighthouse one night last week, said Urn. "No problems at all. " Ankh-Morpork is a lot further than that, said Simony. Yes, it is five times further than the distance between Ephebe and Omnia, said Brutha solemnly. "There was a scroll of maps," he added. Steam rose in scalding clouds from the whirring ball. Now he was closer, Brutha could see that half a dozen very short oars had been joined together in a star-shaped pattern behind the copper globe, and hung over the rear of the boat. Wooden cogwheels and a couple of endless belts fiIled the intervening space. As the globe spun, the paddles thrashed at the air. How does it work? he said. Very simple, said Urn. "The fire makes-” "We haven't got time for this," said Simony. "-makes the water hot and so it gets angry," said the apprentice philosopher. "So it rushes out of the globe through these four little nozzles to get away from the fire. The plumes of steam push the globe around, and the cogwheels and Legibus's screw mechanism transfer the motion to the paddles which turn, pushing the boat through the water. " "Very philosophical," said Didactylos. Brutha felt that he ought to stand up for Omnian progress. "The great doors of the Citadel weigh tons but are opened solely by the power of faith," he said. "One push and they swing open. " "I should very much like to see that," said Urn. Brutha felt a faint sinful twinge of pride that Omnia still had anything he could be proud of. "Very good balance and some hydraulics, probably. " "Oh. " Simony thoughtfully prodded the mechanism with his sword. "Have you thought of all the possibilities?" he said. Urn's hands began to weave through the air. "You mean mighty ships ploughing the wine-dark sea with no-” he began. On land, I was thinking, said Simony. "Perhaps. . . on some sort of cart. . . " Oh, no point in putting a boat on a cart. Simony's eyes gleamed with the gleam of a man who had seen the future and found it covered with armour plating. Hmm, he said. It's all very well, but it's not philosophy, said Didactylos. Where's the priest? I'm here, but I'm not a-” How're you feeling? You went out like a candle back there. " "I'm. . . better now. " "One minute upright, next minute a draftexcluder. " "I'm much better. " "Happen a lot, does it?" "Sometimes. " "Remembering the scrolls okay?" "I. .
. think so. Who set fire to the Library?" Urn looked up from the mechanism. "He did," he said. Brutha stared at Didactylos. "You set fire to your own Library?" "I'm the only one qualified," said the philosopher. "Besides, it keeps it out of the way of Vorbis. " "What?" "Suppose he'd read the scrolls? He's bad enough as it is. He'd be a lot worse with all that knowledge inside him. " "He wouldn't have read them," said Brutha. "Oh, he would. I know that type," said Didactylos "All holy piety in public, and all peeled grapes and self-indulgence in private. " "Not Vorbis," said Brutha, with absolute certainty. "He wouldn't have read them. " "Well, anyway," said Didactylos, "if it had to be done, I did it. " Urn turned away from the bow of the boat, where he was feeding more wood into the brazier under the globe. "Can we all get on board?" he said. Brutha eased his way on a rough bench seat amidships, or whatever it was called. The air smelled of hot water. "Right," said Urn. He pulled a lever. The spinning paddles hit the water; there was a jerk and then, steam hanging in the air behind it, the boat moved forward. "What's the name of this vessel?" said Didactylos. Urn looked surprised. "Name?" he said. "It's a boat. A thing, of the nature of things. It doesn't need a name. " "Names are more philosophical," said Didactylos, with a trace of sulkiness. "And you should have broken an amphora of wine over it. " "That would have been a waste. " The boat chugged out of the boathouse and into the dark harbour Away to one side, an Ephebian galley was on fire. The whole of the city was a patchwork of flame. "But you've got an amphora on board?" said Didactylos. "Yes. " "Pass it over, then. " White water trailed behind the boat. The paddles churned. "No wind. No rowers!" said Simony. "Do you even begin to understand what you have here, Urn?" "Absolutely. The operating principles are amazingly simple," said Urn. "That wasn't what I meant. I meant the things you could do with this power!" Urn pushed another log on the fire. "It's just the transforming of heat into work," he said. "I suppose. . . oh, the pumping of water. Mills that can grind even when the wind isn't blowing. That sort of thing? Is that what you had in mind?" Simony the soldier hesitated. "Yeah," he said. "Something like that. " Brutha whispered, "Om?" "Yes?" "Are you all right?" "It smells like a soldier's knapsack in here. Get me out. " The copper ball spun madly over the fire. It gleamed almost as brightly as Simony's eyes. Brutha tapped him on the shoulder. "Can I have my tortoise?" Simony laughed bitterly. "There's good eating on one of these things," he said, fishing out Om. "Everyone says so," said Brutha. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "What sort of place is Ankh?" "A city of a million souls," said the voice of Om, "many of them occupying bodies. And a thousand religions. There's even a temple to the small gods! Sounds like a place where people don't have trouble believing things. Not a bad place for a fresh start, I think. With my brains and your. . . with my brains, we should soon be in business again. " "You don't want to go back to Omnia?" "No point," said the voice of Om. "It's always possible to overthrow an established god. People get fed up, they want a change. But you can't overthrow yourself, can you?" "Who're you talking to, priest?" said Simony. "I. . . er. . . was praying. " "Hah! To Om? You might as well pray to that tortoise. " "Yes. " "I am ashamed for Omnia," said Simony. "Look at us. Stuck in the past. Held back by repressive monotheism. Shunned by our neighbours What good has our God been to us? Gods? Hah!" Steady on, steady on, said Didactylos. "We're on seawater and that's highly conductive armour you're wearing. " Oh, I say nothing about other gods, said Simony quickly. "I have not the right. But Om? A bogeyman for the Quisition! If he exists, let him strike me down here and now!" Simony drew his sword and held it up at arm's length. Om sat peacefully on Brutha's lap. "I like this boy," he said. "He's almost as good as a believer. It's like love and hate, know what I mean?" Simony sheathed his sword again. Thus I refute Om, he said. Yes, but what's the alternative? Philosophy! Practical philosophy! Like Urn's engine there. It could drag Omnia kicking and screaming into the Century of the Fruitbat! Kicking and screaming, said Brutha. By any means necessary, said Simony. He beamed at them. Don't worry about him, said Om. "We'll be far away. Just as well, too. I don't think Omnia's going to be a popular country when news of last night's work gets about. " But it was Vorbis's fault! said Brutha out loud. "He started the whole thing! He sent poor Brother Murduck, and then he had him killed so he could blame it on the Ephebians! He never intended any peace treaty! He just wanted to get into the palace!" Beats me how he managed that, too, said Urn. "No one ever got through the labyrinth without a guide. How did he do it?" Didactylos's blind eyes sought out Brutha. Can't imagine, he said. Brutha hung his head. He really did all that? said Simony. Yes. You idiot! You total sandhead! screamed Om. And you'd tell this to other people? said Simony, insistently. I suppose so. You'd speak out against the Quisition? Brutha stared miserably into the night. Behind them, the flames of Ephebe had merged into one orange spark. All I can say is what I remember, he said. We're dead, said Om. "Throw me over the side, why don't you? This bonehead will want to take us back to Omnia!" Simony rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Vorbis has many enemies, he said, "in certain circumstances. Better he should be killed, but some would call that murder. Or even martyrdom. But a trial. . . if there was evidence. . . if they even thought there could be evidence. . " I can see his mind working! Om screamed. "We'd all be safe if you'd shut up!" Vorbis on trial, Simony mused. Brutha blanched at the thought. It was the kind of thought that was almost impossible to hold in the mind. It was the kind of thought that made no sense. Vorbis on trial? Trials were things that happened to other people. He remembered Brother Murduck. And the soldiers who had been lost in the desert. And all the things that had been done to people, even to Brutha. Tell him you can't remember! Om yelled. "Tell him you can't recall!" And if he was on trial, said Simony, "he'd be found guilty. No one would dare do anything else. " Thoughts always moved slowly through Brutha's mind, like icebergs. They arrived slowly and left slowly and when they were there they occupied a lot of space, much of it below the surface. He thought: the worst thing about Vorbis isn't that he's evil, but that he makes good people do evil. He turns people into things like himself. You can't help it. You catch it off him. There was no sound but the slosh of water against the Unnamed Boat's hull and the spinning of the philosophical engine. We'd be caught if we returned to Omnia, said Brutha slowly. We can land away from the ports, said Simony eagerly. Ankh-Morpork! shouted Om. First we should take Mr. Didactylos to Ankh-Morpork, said Brutha. "Then-I'll come back to Omnia. " You can damn well leave me there too! said Om. I'll soon find some believers in Ankh-Morpork, don't you worry, they believe anything there! Never seen Ankh-Morpork, said Didactylos. "Still, we live and learn. That's what I always say. " He turned to face the soldier. "Kicking and screaming. " There's some exiles in Ankh, said Simony. "Don't worry. You'll be safe there. " Amazing! said Didactylos. "And to think, this morning, I didn't even know I was in danger. " He sat back in the boat. Life in this world, he said, "is, as it were, a sojourn in a cave.
What can we know of reality? For all we see of the true nature of existence is, shall we say, no more than bewildering and amusing shadows cast upon the inner wall of the cave by the unseen blinding light of absolute truth, from which we may or may not deduce some glimmer of veracity, and we as troglodyte seekers of wisdom can only lift our voices to the unseen and say, humbly, `Go on, do Deformed Rabbit. . . it's my favourite' " Vorbis stirred the ashes with his foot. No bones, he said. The soldiers stood silently. The fluffy grey flakes collapsed and blew a little way in the dawn breeze. And the wrong sort of ash, said Vorbis. The sergeant opened his mouth to say something. Be assured I know that of which I speak, said Vorbis. He wandered over to the charred trapdoor, and prodded it with his toe. We followed the tunnel, said the sergeant, in the tones of one who hopes against experience that sounding helpful will avert the wrath to come. "It comes out near the docks. " But if you enter it from the docks it does not come out here, Vorbis mused. The smoking ashes seemed to hold an endless fascination for him. The sergeant's brow wrinkled. Understand? said Vorbis. "The Ephebians wouldn't build a way out that was a way in. The minds that devised the labyrinth would not work like that. There would be. . . valves. Sequences of triggerstones, perhaps. Trips that trip only one way. Whirring blades that come out of unexpected walls. " Àh. Most intricate and devious, I have no doubt. The sergeant ran a dry tongue over his lips. He could not read Vorbis like a book, because there had never been a book like Vorbis. But Vorbis had certain habits of thought that you learned, after a while. You wish me to take the squad and follow it up from the docks, he said hollowly. I was just about to suggest it, said Vorbis. Yes, lord. Vorbis patted the sergeant on the shoulder. But do not worry! he said cheerfully. "Om will protect the strong in faith. " Yes, lord. And the last man can bring me a full report. But first. . . they are not in the city? We have searched it fully, lord. And no one left by the gate? Then they left by sea. All the Ephebian war vessels are accounted for, Lord Vorbis. This bay is lousy with small boats. With nowhere to go but the open sea, sir. Vorbis looked out at the Circle Sea. It filled the world from horizon to horizon. Beyond lay the smudge of the Sto plains and the ragged line of the Ramtops, all the way to the towering peaks that the heretics called the Hub but which was, he _ knew, the Pole, visible around the curve of the world only because of the way light bent in atmosphere, just as it did in water. . . and he saw a smudge of white, curling over the distant ocean. Vorbis had very good eyesight, from a height. He picked up a handful of grey ash, which had once been Dykeri's Principles of Navigation, and let it drift through his fingers. Om has sent us a fair wind, he said. "Let us get down to the docks. " Hope waved optimistically in the waters of the sergeant's despair. You won't be wanting us to explore the tunnel, lord? he said. Oh, no. You can do that when we return. Urn prodded at the copper globe with a piece of wire while the Unnamed Boat wallowed in the waves. Can't you beat it? said Simony, who was not up to speed on the difference between machines and people. It's a philosophical engine, said Urn. "Beating won't help. " But you said machines could be our slaves, said Simony. Not the beating sort, said Urn. "The nozzles are bunged up with salt. When the water rushes out of the globe it leaves the salt behind. " Why? I don't know. Water likes to travel light. We're becalmed! Can you do anything about it? Yes, wait for it to cool down and then clean it out and put some more water in it. Simony looked around distractedly. But we're still in sight of the coast! You might be, said Didactylos. He was sitting in the middle of the boat with his hands crossed on the top of his walking-stick, looking like an old man who doesn't often get taken out for an airing and is quite enjoying it. Don't worry. No one could see us out here, said Urn. He prodded at the mechanism. "Anyway, I'm a bit worried about the screw. It was invented to move water along, not move along on water. " You mean it's confused? said Simony. Screwed up, said Didactylos happily. Brutha lay in the pointed end, looking down at the water. A small squid siphoned past, just under the surface. He wondered what it was-and knew it was the common bottle squid, of the class Cephalopoda, phylum Mollusca, and that it had an internal cartilaginous support instead of a skeleton and a well-developed nervous system and large, image-forming eyes that were quite similar to vertebrate eyes. The knowledge hung in the forefront of his mind for a moment, and then faded away. Om? Brutha whispered. What? What're you doing? Trying to get some sleep. Tortoises need a lot of sleep, you know. Simony and Urn were bent over the philosophical engine. Brutha stared at the globe -a sphere of radius r, which therefore had a volume V = (4/3)(pi) rrr, and surface area A = 4(pi) rrOh, my god. . . What now? said the voice of the tortoise. Didactylos's face turned towards Brutha, who was clutching at his head. What's a pi? Didactylos reached out a hand and steadied Brutha. What's the matter? said Om. I don't know! It's just words! I don't know what's in the books! I can't read! Getting plenty of sleep is vital, said Om. "It builds a healthy shell. " Brutha sagged to his knees in the rocking boat. He felt like a householder coming back unexpectedly and finding the old place full of strangers. They were in every room, not menacing, but just filling the space with their thereness. The books are leaking! I don't see how that can happen, said Didactylos. "You said you just looked at them. You didn't read them. You don't know what they mean. " They know what they mean! Listen. They're just books, of the nature of books, said Didactylos. "They're not magical. If you could know what books contained just by looking at them, Urn there would be a genius. " What's the matter with him? said Simony. He thinks he knows too much. No! I don't know anything! Not really know, said Brutha. "I just remembered that squids have an internal cartilaginous support!" I can see that would be a worry, said Simony. "Huh. Priests? Mad, the lot of them. " No! I don't know what cartilaginous means! Skeletal connective tissue, said Didactylos. "Think of bony and leathery at the same time. " Simony snorted. "Well, well," he said, "we live and learn, just like you said. " Some of us even do it the other way round, said Didactylos. Is that supposed to mean something? It's philosophy, said Didactylos. "And sit down, boy. You're making the boat rock. We're overloaded as it is. " It's being buoyed upward by a force equal to the weight of the displaced fluid, muttered Brutha, sagging. Hmm? Except that I don't know what buoyed means. Urn looked up from the sphere. "We're ready to start again," he said. "Just bale some water in here with your helmet, mister. " And then we shall go again? Well, we can start getting up steam, said Urn. He wiped his hands on his toga. Y'know, said Didactylos, "there are different ways of learning things. I'm reminded of the time when old Prince Lasgere of Tsort asked me how he could become learned, especially since he hadn't got any time for this reading business. I said to him, `There is no royal road to learning, sire,' and he said to me, `Bloody well build one or I shall have your legs chopped off. Use as many slaves as you like. ' A refreshingly direct approach, I always thought. Not a man to mince words. People, yes. But not words. " Why didn't he chop your legs off? said Urn. I built him his road. More or less. How? I thought that was just a metaphor. You're learning, Urn. So I found a dozen slaves who could read and they sat in his bedroom at night whispering choice passages to him while he slept. Did that work? Don't know. The third slave stuck a six-inch dagger in his ear.
Then after the revolution the new ruler let me out of prison and said I could leave the country if I promised not to think of anything on the way to the border. But I don't believe there was anything wrong with the idea in principle. Urn blew on the fire. Takes a little while to heat up the water, he explained. Brutha lay back in the bow again. If he concentrated, he could stop the knowledge flowing. The thing to do was avoid looking at things. Even a cloud-devised by natural philosophy as a means of occasioning shade on the surface of the world, thus preventing overheating-caused an intrusion. Om was fast asleep. Knowing without learning, thought Brutha. No. The other way round. Learning without knowing. . . Nine-tenths of Om dozed in his shell. The rest of him drifted like a fog in the real world of the gods, which is a lot less interesting than the three-dimensional world inhabited by most of humanity. He thought: we're a little boat. She'll probably not even notice us. There's the whole of the ocean. She can't be everywhere. Of course, she's got many believers. But we're only a little boat. . . He felt the minds of inquisitive fishes nosing around the end of the screw. Which was odd, because in the normal course of things fishes were not known for theirGreetings, said the Queen of the Sea. Ah. I see you're still managing to exist, little tortoise. "Hanging in there," said Om. "No problems. " There was a pause which, if it were taking place between two people in the human world, would have been spent in coughing and looking embarrassed. But gods are never embarrassed. I expect, said Om guardedly, "you are looking for your price. " This vessel and everyone in it, said the Queen. "But your believer can be saved, as is the custom. " What good are they to you? One of them's an atheist. Hah! They all believe, right at the end. That doesn't seem. . . Om hesitated. "Fair?" Now the Sea Queen paused. What's fair? Like. . . underlying justice? said Om. He wondered why he said it. Sounds a human idea to me. They're inventive, I'll grant you. But what I meant was. . . I mean. . . they've done nothing to deserve it. Deserve? They're human. What's deserve got to do with it? Om had to concede this. He wasn't thinking like a god. This bothered him. It's just. . . You've been relying on one human for too long, little god. I know. I know. Om sighed. Minds leaked into one another. He was seeing too much from a human point of view. "Take the boat, then. If you must. I just wish it was-” "Fair?" said the Sea Queen. She moved forward. Om felt her all around him. "There's no such thing," she said. "Life's like a beach. And then you die. " Then she was gone. Om let himself retreat into the shell of his shell. "Brutha?" "Yes?" "Can you swim?" The globe started to spin. Brutha heard Urn say, "There. Soon be on our way. " "We'd better be. " This was Simony. "There's a ship out there. " "This thing goes faster than anything with sails or oars. " Brutha looked across the bay. A sleek Omnian ship was passing the lighthouse. It was still a long way off, but Brutha stared at it with a dread and expectation that magnified better than telescopes. "It's moving fast," said Simony. "I don't understand it-there's no wind. " Urn looked round at the flat calm. "There can't be wind there and not here," he said. "I said, can you swim?" The voice of the tortoise was insistent in Brutha's head. "I don't know," said Brutha. "Do you think you could find out quickly?" Urn looked upwards. "Oh," he said. Clouds had massed over the Unnamed Boat. They were visibly spinning. "You've got to know!" shouted Om. "I thought you had a perfect memory!" "We used to splash around in the big cistern in the village," whispered Brutha. "I don't know if that counts!" Mist whipped off the surface of the sea. Brutha's ears popped. And still the Omnian ship came on, flying across the waves. "What do you call it when you've got a dead calm surrounded by winds-” Urn began. Hurricane? said Didactylos. Lightning crackled between sky and sea. Urn yanked at the lever that lowered the screw into the water. His eyes glowed almost as brightly as the lightning. Now there's a power, he said. "Harnessing the lightning! The dream of mankind!" The Unnamed Boat surged forward. Is it? It's not my dream, said Didactylos. "I always dream of a giant carrot chasing me through a field of lobsters. " I mean metaphorical dream, master, said Urn. What's a metaphor? said Simony. Brutha said, "What's a dream?" A pillar of lightning laced the mist. Secondary lightnings sparked off the spinning globe. You can get it from cats, said Urn, lost in a philosophical world, as the Boat left a white wake behind it. "You stroke them with a rod of amber, and you get tiny lightnings. . . if I could magnify that a million times, no man would ever be a slave again and we could catch it in jars and do away with the night. . . " Lightning struck a few yards away. We're in a boat with a large copper ball in the middle of a body of salt water, said Didactylos. "Thanks, Urn. " And the temples of the gods would be magnificently lit, of course, said Urn quickly. Didactylos tapped his stick on the hull. "It's a nice idea, but you'd never get enough cats," he said. The sea surged up. Jump into the water! Om shouted. Why? said Brutha. A wave almost overturned the boat. Rain hissed on the surface of the sphere, sent up a scalding spray. I haven't got time to explain! Jump overboard! It's for the best! Trust me! Brutha stood up, holding the sphere's framework to steady himself. Sit down! said Urn. I'm just going out, said Brutha. "I may be some time. " The boat rocked under him as he half-jumped, half-fell into the boiling sea. Lightning struck the sphere. As Brutha bobbed to the surface he saw, for a moment, the globe glowing white-hot and the Unnamed Boat, its screw almost out of the water, skimming away through the mists like a comet. It vanished in the clouds and rain. A moment later, above the noise of the storm, there was a muffled "boom. " Brutha raised his hand. Om broke the surface, blowing seawater out of his nostrils. You said it would be for the best! screamed Brutha. Well? We're still alive! And hold me out of the water! Tortoises can't swim! But they might be dead! Do you want to join them? A wave submerged Brutha. For a moment the world was a dark green curtain, ringing in his ears. I can't swim with one hand! he shouted, as he broke surface again. We'll be saved! She wouldn't dare! What do you mean? Another wave slapped at Brutha, and suction dragged at his robes. Om? Yes? I don't think I can swim. . . Gods are not very introspective. It has never been a survival trait. The ability to cajole, threaten, and terrify has always worked well enough. When you can flatten entire cities at a whim, a tendency toward quiet reflection and seeing-things-from-the-other-fellow's-point-of-view is seldom necessary. Which had led, across the multiverse, to men and women of tremendous brilliance and empathy devoting their entire lives to the service of deities who couldn't beat them at a quiet game of dominoes. For example, Sister Sestina of Quirm defied the wrath of a local king and walked unharmed across a bed of coals and propounded a philosophy of sensible ethics on behalf of a goddess whose only real interest was in hairstyles, and Brother Zephilite of Klatch left his vast estates and his family and spent his life ministering to the sick and poor on behalf of the invisible god F'rum, generally considered unable, should he have a backside, to find it with both hands, should he have hands. Gods never need to be very bright when there are humans around to be it for them. The Sea Queen was considered fairly dumb even by other gods. But there was a certain logic to her thoughts, as she moved deep below the storm-tossed waves. The little boat had been a tempting target. . . but here was a bigger one, full of people, sailing right into the storm. This one was fair game. The Sea Queen had the attention span of an onion bahji.
And, by and large, she created her own sacrifices. And she believed in quantity. The Fin of God plunged from wave crest to wave trough, the gale tearing at its sails. The captain fought his way through waist-high water to the prow, where Vorbis stood clutching the rail, apparently oblivious to the fact that the ship was wallowing half-submerged. Sir! We must reef sail! We can't outrun this! Green fire crackled on the tops of the masts. Vorbis turned. The light was reflected in the pit of his eyes. It is all for the glory of Om, he said. "Trust is our sail, and glory is our destination. " The captain had had enough. He was unsteady on the subject of religion, but felt fairly confident that after thirty years he knew something about the sea. The ocean floor is our destination! he shouted. Vorbis shrugged. "I did not say there would not be stops along the way," he said. The captain stared at him and then fought his way back across the heaving deck. What he knew about the sea was that storms like this didn't just happen You didn't just sail from calm water into the midst of a raging hurricane. This wasn't the sea. This was personal. Lightning struck the mainmast. There was a scream from the darkness as a mass of torn sail and rigging crashed on to the deck. The captain half-swam, half-climbed up the ladder to the wheel, where the helmsman was a shadow in the spray and the eerie storm glow. We'll never make it alive! CORRECT. We'll have to abandon ship! NO. WE WILL TAKE IT WITH US. IT'S A NICE SHIP. The captain peered closer in the murk. Is that you, Bosun Coplei? WOULD YOU LIKE ANOTHER GUESS? The hull hit a submerged rock and ripped open. Lightning struck the remaining mast and, like a paper boat that had been too long in the water, the Fin of God folded up. Baulks of timber splintered and fountained up into the whirling sky. . . And there was a sudden, velvety silence. The captain found that he had acquired a recent memory. It involved water, and a ringing in his ears, and the sensation of cold fire in his lungs. But it was fading. He walked over to the rail, his footsteps loud in the quietness, and looked over the side. Despite the fact that the recent memory included something about the ship being totally smashed, it now seemed to be whole again. In a way. Uh, he said, "we appear to have run out of sea. " YES. And land, too. The captain tapped the rail. It was greyish, and slightly transparent. Uh. Is this wood? MORPHIC MEMORY. Sorry? YOU WERE A SAILOR. YOU HAVE HEARD A SHIP REFERRED TO AS A LIVING THING? Oh, yes. You can't spend a night on a ship without feeling that it has a sou-” YES. The memory of Fin of God sailed on through the silence. There was the distant sighing of wind, or of the memory of wind. The blown-out corpses of dead gales. Uh," said the ghost of the captain, "did you just say `were'?" YES. "I thought you did. " The captain stared down. The crew was assembling on deck, looking up at him with anxious eyes. He looked down further. In front of the crew the ship's rats had assembled. There was a tiny robed shape in front of them. It said, SQUEAK. He thought: even rats have a Death. . . Death stood aside and beckoned to the captain. YOU HAVE THE WHEEL. "But-but where are we going?" WHO KNOWS? The captain gripped the spokes helplessly. "But. . . there's no stars that I recognise! No charts! What are the winds here? Where are the currents?" Death shrugged. The captain turned the wheel aimlessly. The ship glided on through the ghost of a sea. Then he brightened up. The worst had already happened. It was amazing how good it felt to know that. And if the worst had already happened. . . "Where's Vorbis?" he growled. HE SURVIVED. "Did he? There's no justice!" THERE'S JUST ME. Death vanished. The captain turned the wheel a bit, for the look of the thing. After all, he was still captain and this was still, in a way, a ship. "Mr. Mate?" The mate saluted. Sir!" Um. Where shall we go now? The mate scratched his head. Well, cap'n, I did hear as the heathen Klatch have got this paradise place where there's drinking and singing and young women with bells on and. . . you know. . . regardless. The mate looked hopefully at his captain. Regardless, eh? said the captain thoughtfully. So I did hear. The captain felt that he might be due some regardless. Any idea how you get there? I think you get given instructions when you're alive, said the mate. Oh. And there're some barbarians up toward the Hub, said the mate, relishing the word, "who reckon they go to a big hall where there's all sorts to eat and drink. " And women? Bound to be. The captain frowned. "It's a funny thing," he said, "but why is it that the heathens and the barbarians seem to have the best places to go when they die?" A bit of a poser, that, agreed the mate. "I s'pose it makes up for 'em. . . enjoying themselves all the time when they're alive, too?" He looked puzzled. Now that he was dead, the whole thing sounded suspicious. I suppose you've no idea of the way to that paradise either? said the captain. Sorry, cap'n. No harm in searching, though. The captain looked over the side. If you sailed for long enough, you were bound to strike a shore. And no harm in searching. A movement caught his eye. He smiled. Good. A sign. Maybe it was all for the best, after all. . . Accompanied by the ghosts of dolphins, the ghost of a ship sailed on. . . Seagulls never ventured this far along the desert coast. Their niche was filled by the scalbie, a member of the crow family that the crow family would be the first to disown and never talked about in company. It seldom flew, but walked everywhere in a sort of lurching hop. Its distinctive call put listeners in mind of a malfunctioning digestive system. It looked like other birds looked after an oil slick. Nothing ate scalbies, except other scalbies. Scalbies ate things that made a vulture sick. Scalbies would eat vulture sick. Scalbies ate everything. One of them, on this bright new morning, sidled across the flea-hopping sand, pecking aimlessly at things in case pebbles and bits of wood had become edible overnight. In the scalbie's experience, practically anything became edible if it was left for long enough. It came across a mound lying on the tideline, and gave it a tentative jab with its beak. The mound groaned. The scalbie backed away hurriedly and turned its attention to a small domed rock beside the mound. It was pretty certain this hadn't been there yesterday, either. It essayed an exploratory peck. The rock extruded a head and said, "Bugger off, you evil sod. " The scalbie leapt backward and then made a kind of running jump, which was the nearest any scalbie ever bothered to come to actual flight, on to a pile of sun-bleached driftwood. Things were looking up. If this rock was alive, then eventually it would be dead. The Great God Om staggered over to Brutha and butted him in the head with its shell until he groaned. Wake up, lad. Rise and shine. Huphuphup. All ashore who's going ashore. Brutha opened an eye. Wha' happened? he said. You're alive is what happened, said Om. Life's a beach, he remembered. And then you die. Brutha pulled himself into a kneeling position. There are beaches that cry out for brightly coloured umbrellas. There are beaches that speak of the majesty of the sea. But this beach wasn't like that. It was merely a barren hem where the land met the ocean. Driftwood piled up on the high-tide line, scoured by the wind. The air buzzed with unpleasant small insects. There was a smell that suggested that something had rotted away, a long time ago, somewhere where the scalbies couldn't find it. It was not a good beach. Oh. God. Better than drowning, said Om encouragingly. I wouldn't know. Brutha looked along the beach. "Is there any water to drink?" Shouldn't think so, said Om. Ossory V, verse 3, says that you made living water flow from the dry desert, said Brutha. That was by way of being artistic license, said Om. You can't even do that? No. Brutha looked at the desert again.
Behind the driftwood lines, and a few patches of grass that appeared to be dying even while it grew, the dunes marched away. Which way to Omnia? he said. We don't want to go to Omnia, said Om. Brutha stared at the tortoise. Then he picked him up. I think it's this way, he said. Om's legs waggled frantically. What do you want to go to Omnia for? he said. I don't want to, said Brutha. "But I'm going anyway. " The sun hung high above the beach. Or possibly it didn't. Brutha knew things about the sun now. They were leaking into his head. The Ephebians had been very interested in astronomy. Expletius had proved that the Disc was ten thousand miles across. Febrius, who'd stationed slaves with quick reactions and carrying voices all across the country at dawn, had proved that light travelled at about the same speed as sound. And Didactylos had reasoned that, in that case, in order to pass between the elephants, the sun had to travel at least thirty-five thousand miles in its orbit every day or, to put it another way, twice as fast as its own light. Which meant that mostly you could only ever see where the sun had been, except twice every day when it caught up with itself, and this meant that the whole sun was a faster-than-light particle, a tachyon or, as Didactylos put it, a bugger. It was still hot. The lifeless sea seemed to steam. Brutha trudged along, directly above the only piece of shadow for hundreds of miles. Even Om had stopped complaining. It was too hot. Here and there fragments of wood rolled in the scum at the edge of the sea. Ahead of Brutha the air shimmered over the sand. In the middle of it was a dark blob. He regarded it dispassionately as he approached, incapable of any real thought. It was nothing more than a reference point in a world of orange heat, expanding and contracting in the vibrating haze. Closer to, it turned out to be Vorbis. The thought took a long time to seep through Brutha's mind. Vorbis. Not with a robe. All torn off. Just his singlet with. The nails sewn in. Blood -all. Over one leg. Torn by. Rocks. Vorbis. Vorbis. Brutha slumped to his knees. On the high-tide line, a scalbie gave a croak. He's still. . . alive, Brutha managed. Pity, said Om. We should do something. . . for him. Yes? Maybe you can find a rock and stove his head in, said Om. We can't just leave him here. Watch us. No. " Brutha got his hand under the deacon and tried to lift him. To his dull surprise, Vorbis weighed almost nothing. The deacon's robe had concealed a body that was just skin stretched over bone. Brutha could have broken him with bare hands. "What about me?" whined Om. Brutha slung Vorbis over his shoulder. "You've got four legs," he said. "I am your God!" "Yes. I know. " Brutha trudged on along the beach. "What are you going to do with him?" "Take him to Omnia," said Brutha thickly. "People must know. What he did. " "You're mad! You're mad! You think you're going to carry him to Omnia?" "Don't know. Going to try. " "You! You!" Om pounded a claw on the sand. "Millions of people in the world and it had to be you! Stupid! Stupid!" Brutha was becoming a wavering shape in the haze. That's it! shouted Om. "I don't need you! You think I need you? I don't need you! I can soon find another believer! No problem about that!" Brutha disappeared. And I'm not chasing after you! Om screamed. Brutha watched his feet dragging one in front of the other. He was past the point of thinking now. What drifted through his frying brain were disjointed images and fragments of memory. Dreams. They were pictures in your head. Coaxes had written a whole scroll about them. The superstitious thought they were messages sent by God, but really they were created by the brain itself, thrown up as it nightly sorted and fiIed the experiences of the day. Brutha never dreamed. So sometimes. . . blackout, while the mind did the filing. It fiIed all the books. Now he knew without learning. . . That was dreams. God. God needed people. Belief was the food of the gods. But they also needed a shape. Gods became what people believed they ought to be. So the Goddess of Wisdom carried a penguin. It could have happened to any god. It should have been an owl. Everyone knew that. But one bad sculptor who had only ever had an owl described to him makes a mess of a statue, belief steps in, next thing you know the Goddess of Wisdom is lumbered with a bird that wears evening dress the whole time and smells of fish. You gave a god its shape, like a jelly fills a mould Gods often became your father, said Abraxas the Agnostic. Gods became a big beard in the sky, because when you were three years old that was your father. Of course Abraxas survived. . . This thought arrived sharp and cold, out of the part of his own mind that Brutha could still call his own. Gods didn't mind atheists, if they were deep, hot, fiery atheists like Simony, who spend their whole life not believing, spend their whole life hating gods for not existing. That sort of atheism was a rock. It was nearly belief. . . Sand. It was what you found in deserts. Crystals of rock, sculpted into dunes. Gordo of Tsort said that sand was worn-down mountains but Irexes had found that sandstone was stone pressed out of sand, which suggested that grains were the fathers of mountains. . . Every one a little crystal. And all of them getting bigger. . . Much bigger. . . Quietly, without realising it, Brutha stopped falling forward and lay still. Bugger Off! The scalbie took no notice. This was interesting. It was getting to see whole new stretches of sand it had never seen before and, of course, there was the prospect, even the certainty, of a good meal at the end of it all. It had perched on Om's shell. Om stumped along the sand, pausing occasionally to shout at his passenger. Brutha had come this way. But here one of the outcrops of rocks, littering the desert like islands in a sea, stretched right down to the water's edge. He'd never have been able to climb it. The footprints in the sand turned inland, toward the deep desert. Idiot! Om struggled up the side of a dune, digging his feet in to stop himself slaloming backward. On the far side of the dune the tracks became a long groove, where Brutha must have fallen. Om retracted his legs and tobogganed down it. The tracks veered here. He must have thought that he could walk around the next dune and find the rock again on the other side. Om knew about deserts, and one of the things he knew was that this kind of logical thinking had been previously applied by a thousand bleached, lost skeletons. Nevertheless, he plodded after the tracks, grateful for the brief shade of the dune now that the sun was sinking. Around the dune and, yes, here they zigzagged awkwardly up a slope about ninety degrees away from where they should be heading. Guaranteed. That was the thing about deserts. They had their own gravity. They sucked you into the centre Brutha crawled forward, Vorbis held unsteadily by one limp arm. He didn't dare stop. His grandmother would hit him again. And there was Master Nhumrod, too, drifting in and out of vision. I am really disappointed in you, Brutha. Mmm? Want. . . water. . . -water, said Nhumrod. "Trust in the great God. " Brutha concentrated. Nhumrod vanished. Great God? he said. Somewhere there was some shade. The desert couldn't go on for ever. The sun set fast. For a while, Om knew, heat would radiate off the sand and his own shell would store it, but that would soon go and then there would be the bitterness of a desert night. Stars were already coming on when he found Brutha. Vorbis had been dropped a little way away. Om pulled himself level with Brutha's ear. Hey! There was no sound, and no movement. Om butted Brutha gently in the head and then looked at the cracked lips. There was a pecking noise behind him. The scalbie was investigating Brutha's toes, but its explorations were interrupted when a tortoise jaw closed around its foot.
I old oo, ugger ogg! The scalbie gave a burp of panic and tried to fly away, but it was hindered by a determined tortoise hanging on to one leg. Om was bounced along the sand for a few feet before he let go. He tried to spit, but tortoise mouths aren't designed for the job. I hate all birds, he said, to the evening air. The scalbie watched him reproachfully from the top of a dune. It ruffled its handful of greasy feathers with the air of one who was prepared to wait all night, if necessary. As long as it took. Om crawled back to Brutha. Well, there was still breathing going on. Water. . . The god gave it some thought. Smiting the living rock. That was one way. Getting water to flow. . . no problem. It was just a matter of molecules and vectors. Water had a natural tendency to flow. You just have to see to it that it flowed here instead of there. No problem at all to a god in the peak of condition. How did you tackle it from a tortoise perspective? The tortoise dragged himself to the bottom of the dune and then walked up and down for a few minutes. Finally he selected a spot and began digging. This wasn't right. It had been fiery hot. Now he was freezing. Brutha opened his eyes. Desert stars, brilliant white, looked back at him. His tongue seemed to fill his mouth. Now, what was it. . . Water. He rolled over. There had been voices in his head, and now there were voices outside his head. They were faint, but they were definitely there, echoing quietly over the moonlit sands. Brutha crawled painfully toward the foot of the dune. There was a mound there. In fact, there were several mounds. The muffled voice was coming from one of them. He pulled himself closer. There was a hole in the mound. Somewhere far underground, someone was swearing. The words were unclear as they echoed backward and forward up the tunnel, but the general effect was unmistakable. Brutha flopped down, and watched. After a few minutes there was movement at the mouth of the hole and Om emerged, covered with what, if this wasn't a desert, Brutha would have called mud. Oh, it's you, said the tortoise. "Tear off a bit of your robe and pass it over. " Dreamlike, Brutha obeyed. Turnin' round down there, said Om, "is no picnic, let me tell you. " He took the rag in his jaws, backed around carefully, and disappeared down the hole. After a couple of minutes he was back, still dragging the rag. It was soaked. Brutha let the liquid dribble into his mouth. It tasted of mud, and sand, and cheap brown dye, and slightly of tortoise, but he would have drunk a gallon of it. He could have swum in a pool of it. He tore off another strip for Om to take down. When Om re-emerged, Brutha was kneeling beside Vorbis. Sixteen feet down! Sixteen bloody feet! shouted Om. "Don't waste it on him! Isn't he dead yet?" He's got a fever. Put him out of our misery. We're still taking him back to Omnia. You think we'll get there? No food? No water? But you found water. Water in the desert. Nothing miraculous about that, said Om. "There's a rainy season near the coast. Flash floods. Wadis. Dried-up river beds. You get aquifers," he added. Sounds like a miracle to me, croaked Brutha. Just because you can explain it doesn't mean it's not still a miracle. Well, there's no food down there, take it from me, said Om. "Nothing to eat. Nothing in the sea, if we can find the sea again. I know the desert. Rocky ridges you have to go round. Everything turning you out of your path. Dunes that move in the night. . . lions. . . other things. . . ". . . gods. What do you want to do, then? said Brutha. "You said better alive than dead. You want to go back to Ephebe? We'll be popular there, you think?" Om was silent. Brutha nodded. Fetch more water, then. It was better travelling at night, with Vorbis over one shoulder and Om under one arm. At this time of year-the glow in the sky over there is the Aurora Corealis, the hublights, where the magical field of the Discworld constantly discharges itself among the peaks of Cori Celesti, the central mountain. And at this time of year the sun rises over the desert in Ephebe and over the sea in Omnia, so keep the hublights on the left and the sunset glow behind youDid you ever go to Cori Celesti? said Brutha. Om, who had been nodding off in the cold, woke up with a start. Huh? It's where the gods live. Hah! I could tell you stories, said Om darkly. What? Think they're so bloody elite! You didn't live up there, then? No. Got to be a thunder god or something. Got to have a whole parcel of worshipers to live on Nob Hill. Got to be an anthropomorphic personification, one of them things. Not just a Great God, then? Well, this was the desert. And Brutha was going to die. May as well tell you, muttered Om. "It's not as though we're going to survive. . . See, every god's a Great God to someone. I never wanted to be that great. A handful of tribes, a city or two. It's not much to ask, is it?" There's two million people in the empire, said Brutha. Yeah. Pretty good, eh? Started off with nothing but a shepherd hearing voices in his head, ended up with two million people. But you never did anything with them, said Brutha. Like what? Well. . . tell them not to kill one another, that sort of thing. . . Never really given it much thought. Why should I tell them that? Brutha sought for something that would appeal to god psychology. Well, if people didn't kill one another, there'd be more people to believe in you? he suggested. It's a point, Om conceded. "Interesting point. Sneaky. " Brutha walked along in silence. There was a glimmer of frost on the dunes. Have you ever heard, he said, "of Ethics?" Somewhere in Howondaland, isn't it? The Ephebians were very interested in it. Probably thinking about invading. They seemed to think about it a lot. Long-term strategy, maybe. I don't think it's a place, though. It's more to do with how people live. What, lolling around all day while slaves do the real work? Take it from me, whenever you see a bunch of buggers puttering around talking about truth and beauty and the best way of attacking Ethics, you can bet your sandals it's because dozens of other poor buggers are doing all the real work around the place while those fellows are living like-” -gods?" said Brutha. There was a terrible silence. "I was going to say kings," said Om, reproachfully. "They sound a bit like gods. " "Kings," said Om emphatically. "Why do people need gods?" Brutha persisted. "Oh, you've got to have gods," said Om, in a hearty, no-nonsense voice. "But it's gods that need people," said Brutha. "To do the believing. You said. " Om hesitated. "Well, okay," he said. "But people have got to believe in something. Yes? I mean, why else does it thunder?" "Thunder," said Brutha, his eyes glazing slightly, "I don't-" "-is caused by clouds banging together; after the lightning stroke, there is a hole in the air, and thus the sound is engendered by the clouds rushing to fill the hole and colliding, in accordance with strict cumulodynamic principles. " "Your voice goes funny when you're quoting," said Om. "What does engendered mean?" "I don't know. No one showed me a dictionary. " "Anyway, that's just an explanation," said Om. "It's not a reason. " "My grandmother said thunder was caused by the Great God Om taking his sandals off," said Brutha. "She was in a funny mood that day. Nearly smiled. " "Metaphorically accurate," said Om. "But I never did thundering. Demarcation, see. Bloody I've-got-a-big-hammer Blind Io up on Nob Hill does all the thundering. " I thought you said there were hundreds of thunder gods, said Brutha. Yeah. And he's all of 'em. Rationalisation A couple of tribes join up, they've both got thunder gods, right? And the gods kind of run together-you know how amoebas split? No. Well, it's like that, only the other way. I still don't see how one god can be a hundred thunder gods. They all look different. . . False noses. What? And different voices. I happen to know Io's got seventy different hammers. Not common knowledge, that. And it's just the same with mother goddesses.
There's only one of 'em. She just got a lot of wigs and of course it's amazing what you can do with a padded bra. There was absolute silence in the desert. The stars, smeared slightly by high-altitude moisture, were tiny, motionless rosettes. Away toward what the Church called the Top Pole, and which Brutha was coming to think of as the Hub, the sky flickered. Brutha put Om down, and laid Vorbis on the sand. Absolute silence. Nothing for miles, except what he had brought with him. This must have been how the prophets felt, when they went into the desert to find. . . whatever it was they found, and talk to. . . whoever they talked to. He heard Om, slightly peevish, say: "People've got to believe in something. Might as well be gods. What else is there?" Brutha laughed. You know, he said, "I don't think I believe in anything any more. " Except me! Oh, I know you exist, said Brutha. He felt Om relax a little. "There's something about tortoises. Tortoises I can believe in. They seem to have a lot of existence in one place. It's gods in general I'm having difficulty with. " Look, if people stop believing in gods, they'll believe in anything, said Om. "They'll believe in young Urn's steam ball. Anything at all. " Hmm. A green glow in the sky indicated that the light of dawn was chasing frantically after its sun. Vorbis groaned. I don't know why he won't wake up, said Brutha. "I can't find any broken bones. " How do you know? One of the Ephebian scrolls was all about bones. Can't you do anything for him? Why? You're a god. Well, yes. If I was strong enough, I could probably strike him with lightning. I thought to did the lightning. No, just the thunder. You're allowed to do as much lightning as you like but you have to contract for the thundering. Now the horizon was a broad golden band. How about rain? said Brutha. "How about something useful?" A line of silver appeared at the bottom of the gold. Sunlight was racing towards Brutha. That was a very hurtful remark, said the tortoise. "A remark calculated to wound. " In the rapidly growing light Brutha saw one of the rock islands a little way off. Its sand-blasted pillars offered nothing but shade, but shade, always available in large quantities in the depths of the Citadel, was now in short supply here. Caves? said Brutha. Snakes. But still caves? In conjunction with snakes. Poisonous snakes? Guess. The Unnamed Boat clipped along gently, the wind filling Urn's robe attached to a mast made out of bits of the sphere's framework bound together with Simony's sandal thongs. I think I know what went wrong, said Urn. "A mere overspeed problem. " Overspeed? We left the water! said Simony. It needs some sort of governor device, said Urn, scratching a design on the side of the boat. "Something that'd open the valve if there was too much steam. I think I could do something with a pair of revolving balls. " It's funny you should say that, said Didactylos. "When I felt us leave the water and the sphere exploded I distinctly felt my-” "That bloody thing nearly killed us!" said Simony. "So the next one will be better," said Urn, cheerfully. He scanned the distant coastline. "Why don't we land somewhere along here?" he said. "The desert coast?" said Simony. "What for? Nothing to eat, nothing to drink, easy to lose your way. Omnia's the only destination in this wind. We can land this side of the city. I know people. And those people know people. All across Omnia, there's people who know people. People who believe in the Turtle. " "You know, I never meant for people to believe in the Turtle," said Didactylos unhappily. "It's just a big turtle. It just exists. Things just happen that way. I don't think the Turtle gives a damn. I just thought it might be a good idea to write things down and explain things a bit. " "People sat up all night, on guard, while other people made copies," said Simony, ignoring him. "Passing them from hand to hand! Everyone making a copy and passing it on! Like a fire spreading underground!" "Would this be lots of copies?" said Didactylos cautiously. "Hundreds! Thousands!" "I suppose it's too late to ask for, say, a five per cent royalty?" said Didactylos, looking hopeful for a moment. "No. Probably out of the question, I expect. No. Forget I even asked. " A few flying fish zipped out of the waves, pursued by a dolphin. "Can't help feeling a bit sorry for that young Brutha," said Didactylos. "Priests are expendable," said Simony. "There's too many of them. " "He had all our books," said Urn. "He'll probably float with all that knowledge in him," said Didactylos. "He was mad, anyway," said Simony. "I saw him whispering to that tortoise. " "I wish we still had it. There's good eating on one of those things," said Didactylos. It wasn't much of a cave, just a deep hollow carved by the endless desert winds and, a long time ago, even by water. But it was enough. Brutha knelt on the stony floor and raised the rock over his head. There was a buzzing in his ears and his eyeballs felt as though they were set in sand. No water since sunset and no food for a hundred years. He had to do it. "I'm sorry," he said, and brought the rock down. The snake had been watching him intently but in its early-morning torpor it was too slow to dodge. The cracking noise was a sound that Brutha knew his conscience would replay to him, over and over again. "Good," said Om, beside him. "Now skin it, and don't waste the juice. Save the skin, too. " "I didn't want to do it," said Brutha. "Look at it this way," said Om, "if you'd walked in the cave without me to warn you, you'd be lying on the floor now with a foot the size of a wardrobe. Do unto others before they do unto you. " "It's not even a very big snake," said Brutha. "And then while you're writhing there in indescribable agony, you imagine all the things you would have done to that damn snake if you'd got to it first," said Om. "Well, your wish has been granted. Don't give any to Vorbis," he added. "He's running a bad fever. He keeps muttering. " "Do you really think you'll get him back to the Citadel and they'll believe you?" said Om. "Brother Nhumrod always said I was very truthful," said Brutha. He smashed the rock on the cave wall to create a crude cutting edge, and gingerly started dismembering the snake. "Anyway, there isn't anything else I can do. I couldn't just leave him. " "Yes you could," said Om. "To die in the desert?" "Yes. It's easy. Much easier than not leaving him to die in the desert. " No. "This is how they do things in Ethics, is it?" said Om sarcastically. "I don't know. It's how I'm doing it. " The Unnamed Boat bobbed in a gully between the rocks. There was a low cliff beyond the beach. Simony climbed back down it, to where the philosophers were huddling out of the wind. "I know this area," he said. "We're a few miles from the village where a friend lives. All we have to do is wait till nightfall. " "Why're you doing all this?" said Urn. "I mean, what's the point?" "Have you ever heard of a country called Istanzia?" said Simony. "It wasn't very big. It had nothing anyone wanted. It was just a place for people to live. " "Omnia conquered it fifteen years ago," said Didactylos. "That's right. My country," said Simony. "I was just a kid then. But I won't forget. Nor will others. There's lots of people with a reason to hate the Church. " "I saw you standing close to Vorbis," said Urn. "I thought you were protecting him. " "Oh, I was, I was," said Simony. "I don't want anyone to kill him before I do. " Didactylos wrapped his toga around himself and shivered. The sun was riveted to the copper dome of the sky. Brutha dozed in the cave. In his own corner, Vorbis tossed and turned. Om sat waiting in the cave mouth. Waited expectantly. Waited in dread. And they came. They came out from under scraps of stone, and from cracks in the rock. They fountained up from the sand, they distilled out of the wavering sky. The air was fiIled with their voices, as faint as the whispering of gnats. Om tensed. The language he spoke was not like the language of the high gods.
It was hardly language at all. It was a mere modulation of desires and hungers, without nouns and with only a few verbs. . . . Want. . . Om replied, mine. There were thousands of them. He was stronger, yes, he had a believer, but they fiIled the sky like locusts. The longing poured down on him with the weight of hot lead. The only advantage, the only advantage, was that the small gods had no concept of working together. That was a luxury that came with evolution. . . . Want. . . Mine! The chittering became a whine. But you can have the other one, said Om. . . . Dull, hard, enclosed, shut-in. . . I know, said Om. But this one, mine! The psychic shout echoed around the desert. The small gods fled. Except for one. Om was aware that it had not been swarming with the others, but had been hovering gently over a piece of sun-bleached bone. It had said nothing. He turned his attention on it. You. Mine! I know, said the small god. It knew speech, real god speech, although it talked as though every word had been winched from the pit of memory. Who are you? said Om. The small god stirred. There was a city once, said the small god. Not just a city. An empire of cities. I, I, I remember there were canals, and gardens. There was a lake. They had floating gardens on the lake, I recall. I, I. And there were temples. Such temples as you may dream of. Great pyramid temples that reached to the sky. Thousands were sacrificed. To the greater glory. Om felt sick. This wasn't just a small god. This was a small god who hadn't always been small. . . Who were you? And there were temples. I, I, me. Such temples as you may dream of. Great pyramid temples that reached to the sky. The glory of. Thousands were sacrificed. Me. To the greater glory. And there were temples. Me, me, me. Greater glory. Such glory temples as you may dream of. Great pyramid dream temples that reached to the sky. Me, me. Sacrificed. Dream. Thousands were sacrificed. To me the greater sky gloryYou were their God? Om managed. Thousands were sacrificed. To the greater glory. Can you hear me? Thousands sacrificed greater glory. Me, me, me. What was your name? shouted Om. Name? A hot wind blew over the desert, shifting a few grains of sand. The echo of a lost god blew away, tumbling over and over, until it vanished among the rocks. Who were you? There was no answer. That's what happens, Om thought. Being a small god was bad, except at the time you hardly knew that it was bad because you only barely knew anything at all, but all the time there was something which was just possibly the germ of hope, the knowledge and belief that one day you might be more than you were now. But how much worse to have been a god, and to now be no more than a smoky bundle of memories, blown back and forth across the sand made from the crumbled stones of your temples. . . Om turned around and, on stumpy legs, walked purposefully back into the cave until he came to Brutha's head, which he butted. "Wst?" "Just checking you're still alive. " "Fgfl. " "Right. " Om staggered back to his guard position at the mouth of the cave. There were said to be oases in the desert, but they were never in the same place twice. The desert wasn't mappable. It ate map-makers. So did the lions. Om could remember them. Scrawny things, not like the lions of the Howondaland veldt. More wolf than lion, more hyena than either. Not brave, but with a kind of vicious, rangy cowardice that was much more dangerous. . . Lions. Oh, dear. . . He had to find lions. Lions drank. Brutha awoke as the afternoon light dragged across the desert. His mouth tasted of snake. Om was butting him on the foot. "Come on, come on, you're missing the best of the day. " "Is there any water?" Brutha murmured thickly. "There will be. Only five miles off. Amazing luck. " Brutha pulled himself up. Every muscle ached. "How do you know?" "I can sense it. I am a god, you know. " "You said you could only sense minds. " Om cursed. Brutha didn't forget things. "It's more complicated than that," lied Om. "Trust me. Come on, while there's some twilight. And don't forget Mister Vorbis. " Vorbis was curled up. He looked at Brutha with unfocused eyes, stood up like a man still asleep when Brutha helped him. "I think he might have been poisoned," said Brutha. "There's sea creatures with stings. And poisonous corals. He keeps moving his lips, but I can't make out what he's trying to say. " "Bring him along," said Om. "Bring him along. Oh, yes. " "You wanted me to abandon him last night," said Brutha. "Did I?" said Om, his very shell radiating innocence. "Well, maybe I've been to Ethics. Had a change of heart. I can see he's with us for a purpose now. Good old Vorbis. Bring him along. " Simony and the two philosophers stood on the clifftop, looking across the parched farmlands of Omnia to the distant rock of the Citadel. Two of them looking, anyway. "Give me a lever and a place to stand, and I'd smash that place like an egg," said Simony, leading Didactylos down the narrow path. "Looks big," said Urn. "See the gleam? Those are the doors. " "Look massive. " "I was wondering," said Simony, "about the boat. The way it moved. Something like that could smash the doors, right?" "You'd have to flood the valley," said Urn. "I mean if it was on wheels. " "Hah, yes," said Urn, sarcastically. It had been a long day. "Yes, if I had a forge and half a dozen blacksmiths and a lot of help. Wheels? No problem. But-We shall have to see, said Simony, "what we can do. " The sun was on the horizon when Brutha, his arm around Vorbis's shoulders, reached the next rock island. It was bigger than the one with the snake. The wind had carved the stones into gaunt, unlikely shapes, like fingers. There were even plants lodging in crevices in the rock. There's water somewhere, said Brutha. There's always water, even in the worst deserts, said Om. "One, oh, maybe two inches of rain a year. " I can smell something, said Brutha, as his feet stopped treading on sand and crunched up the limestone scree around the boulders. "Something rank. " Hold me over your head. Om scanned the rocks. Right. Now bring me down again. And head for that rock that looks like. . . that looks very unexpected, really. Brutha stared. "It does, too," he croaked, eventually. "Amazing to think it was carved by the wind. " The wind god has a sense of humour, said Om. "Although it's pretty basic. " Near the foot of the rock huge slabs had fallen over the years, forming a jagged pile with, here and there, shadowy openings. That smell-” Brutha began. Probably animals come to drink the water," said Om. Brutha's foot kicked against something yellowwhite, which bounced away among the rocks making a noise like a sackful of coconuts. In the stifling empty silence of the desert, it echoed loudly. "What was that?" "Definitely not a skull," lied Om. "Don't worry. . . There's bones everywhere! Well? What did you expect? This is a desert! People die here! It's a very popular occupation in this vicinity! Brutha picked up a bone. He was, as he well knew, stupid. But people didn't gnaw their own bones after they died. Om-” There's water here!" shouted Om. "We need it! But-there's probably one or two drawbacks!" "What kind of drawbacks?" "As in natural hazards!" "Like-?" "Well, you know lions?" said Om desperately. "There's lions here?" "Well. . . slightly. " "Slightly lions?" "Only one lion. " "Only one-” -generally a solitary creature. Most to be feared are the old males, who are forced into the most inhospitable regions by their younger rivals. They are eviltempered and cunning and in their extremity have lost all fear of man-' The memory faded, letting go of Brutha's vocal chords. That kind?" Brutha finished. "It won't take any notice of us once it's fed," said Om. "Yes?" "They go to sleep. " "After feeding-?" Brutha looked round at Vorbis, who was slumped against a rock. "Feeding?" he repeated. "It'll be a kindness," said Om. "To the lion, yes! You want to use him as bait?" "He's not going to survive the desert. Anyway, he's done much worse to thousands of people.
He'll be dying for a good cause. " "A good cause?" "I like it. " There was a growl, from somewhere in the stones. It wasn't loud, but it was a sound with sinews in it. Brutha backed away. "We don't just throw people to the lions!" "He does. " "Yes. I don't. " "All right, we'll get on top of a slab and when the lion starts on him you can brain it with a rock. He'll probably get away with an arm or a leg. He'll never miss it. " "No! You can't do that to people just because they're helpless!" "You know, I can't think of a better time?" There was another growl from the rock pile. It sounded closer. Brutha looked down desperately at the scattered bones. Among them, half-hidden by debris, was a sword. It was old, and not well-made, and scoured by sand. He picked it up gingerly by the blade. "Other end," said Om. "I know!. Can you use one? I don't know! I really hope you're a fast learner. The lion emerged, slowly. Desert lions, it has been said, are not like the lions of the veldt. They had been, when the great desert had been verdant woodland. [7] Then there had been time to lie around for most of the day, looking majestic, in between regular meals of goat. [8] But the woodland had become scrubland, the scrubland had become, well, poorer scrubland, and the goats and the people and, eventually, even the cities, went away. [7] i. e. , before the inhabitants had let goats graze everywhere. Nothing makes a desert like a goat. [8] But not enough. The lions stayed. There's always something to eat, if you're hungry enough. People still had to cross the desert. There were lizards. There were snakes. It wasn't much of an ecological niche, but the lions were hanging on to it like grim death, which was what happened to most people who met a desert lion. Someone had already met this one. Its mane was matted. Ancient scars criss-crossed its pelt. It dragged itself towards Brutha, back legs trailing uselessly. It's hurt, said Brutha. Oh, good. And there's plenty of eating on one of those, said Om. "A bit stringy, but-” The lion collapsed, its toast-rack chest heaving. A spear was protruding from its flank. Flies, which can always find something to eat in any desert, flew up in a swarm. Brutha put down the sword. Om stuck his head in his shell. "Oh no," he murmured. "Twenty million people in this world, and the only one who believes in me is a suicide" "We can't just leave it," said Brutha. "We can. We can. It's a lion. You leave lions alone. " Brutha knelt down. The lion opened one crusted yellow eye, too weak even to bite him. "You're going to die, you're going to die. I'm not going to find anyone to believe in me out here-” Brutha's knowledge of animal anatomy was rudimentary. Although some of the inquisitors had an enviable knowledge of the insides of the human body that is denied to all those who are not allowed to open it while it's still working, medicine as such was frowned upon in Omnia. But somewhere, in every village, was someone who officially didn't set bones and who didn't know a few things about certain plants, and who stayed out of reach of the Quisition because of the fragile gratitude of their patients. And every peasant picked up a smattering of knowledge. Acute toothache can burn through all but the strongest in faith. Brutha grasped the spear-haft. The lion growled as he moved it. Can't you speak to it? said Brutha. It's an animal. So are you. You could try to calm it down. Because if it gets excited-” Om snapped into concentration. In fact the lion's mind contained nothing but pain, a spreading nebula of the stuff, overcoming even the normal background hunger. Om tried to encircle the pain, make it flow away. . . and not to think about what would happen if it went. By the feel of things, the lion had not eaten for days. The lion grunted as Brutha withdrew the spearhead. Omnian," he said. "It hasn't been there long. It must have met the soldiers when they were on the way to Ephebe. They must have passed close by. " He tore another strip from his robe, and tried to clean the wound. We want to eat it, not cure it! shouted Om. "What're you thinking of? You think it's going to be grateful?" It wanted to be helped. And soon it will want to be fed, have you thought about that? It's looking pathetically at me. Probably never seen a week's meals all walking around on one pair of legs before. That wasn't true, Om reflected. Brutha was shedding weight like an ice-cube, out here in the desert. That kept him alive! The boy was a two-legged camel. Brutha crunched towards the rock pile, shards and bones shifting under his feet. The boulders formed a maze of half-open tunnels and caves. By the smell, the lion had lived there for a long time, and had quite often been ill. He stared at the nearest cave for some time. What's so fascinating about a lion's den? said Om. The way it's got steps down into it, I think, said Brutha. Didactylos could feel the crowd. It filled the barn. How many are there? he said. Hundreds! said Urn. "They're even sitting on the rafters! And. . . master?" Yes? There's even one or two priests! And dozens of soldiers! Don't worry, said Simony, joining them on the makeshift platform made of fig barrels. "They are Turtle believers, just like you. We have friends in unexpected places!" But I don't- Didactylos began, helplessly. There isn't anyone here who doesn't hate the Church with all their soul, said Simony. But that's not-” They're just waiting for someone to lead them!" "But I never-” I know you won't let us down. You're a man of reason. Urn, come over here. There's a blacksmith I want you to meet-” Didactylos turned his face to the crowd. He could feel the hot, hushed silence of their stares. Each drop took minutes. It was hypnotic. Brutha found himself staring at each developing drip. It was almost impossible to see it grow, but they had been growing and dripping for thousands of years. How?" said Om. "Water seeps down after the rains," said Brutha. "It lodges in the rocks. Don't gods know these things?" "We don't need to. " Om looked around. "Let's go. I hate this place. " "It's just an old temple. There's nothing here. " "That's what I mean. " Sand and rubble half-filled it. Light lanced in through the broken roof high above, on to the slope that they had climbed down. Brutha wondered how many of the windcarved rocks in the desert had once been buildings. This one must have been huge, perhaps a mighty tower. And then the desert had come. There were no whispering voices here. Even the small gods kept away from abandoned temples, fo the same reason that people kept away from graveyards. The only sound was the occasional plink of the water. It dripped into a- shallow pool in front of what looked like an altar. From the pool it had worn a groove in the slabs of the floor all the way to a round pit, which appeared to be bottomless. There were a few statues, all of them toppled; they were heavy-proportioned, lacking any kind of detail, each one a child's clay model chiselled in granite. The distant walls had once been covered with some kind of bas-relief, but it had crumbled away except in a few places, which showed strange designs that mainly consisted of tentacles. "Who were the people who lived here?" said Brutha. "I don't know. " "What god did they worship?" "I don't know. " "The statues are made of granite, but there's no granite near here. " "They were very devout, then. They dragged it all the way. " "And the altar block is covered in grooves. " "Ah. Extremely devout. That would be to let the blood run off. " "You really think they did human sacrifice?" "I don't know! I want to get out of here!" "Why? There's water and it's cool-” Because. . . a god lived here. A powerful god. Thousands worshipped it. I can feel it. You know? It comes out of the walls. A Great God. Mighty were his dominions and magnificent was his word. Armies went forth in his name and conquered and slew. That kind of thing. And now no one, not you, not me, no one, even knows who the god was or his name or what he looked like.
Lions drink in the holy places and those little squidgy things with eight legs, there's one by your foot, what d'you call 'em, the ones with the antennae, crawl beneath the altar. Now do you understand? No, said Brutha. Don't you fear death? You're a human! Brutha considered this. A few feet away. Vorbis stared mutely at the patch of sky. He's awake. He's just not speaking. Who cares? I didn't ask you about him. Well. . . sometimes. . . when I'm on catacomb duty. . . it's the kind of place where you can't help. . . I mean, all the skulls and things. . . and the Book says. . . There you are, said Om, a note of bitter triumph in his voice. "You don't know. That's what stops everyone going mad, the uncertainty of it, the feeling that it might work out all right after all. But it's different for gods. We do know. You know that story about the sparrow flying through a room?" No. Everyone knows it. Not me. About life being like a sparrow flying through a room? Nothing but darkness outside? And it flies through the room and there's just a moment of warmth and light? There are windows open? said Brutha. Can't you imagine what it's like to be that sparrow, and know about the darkness? To know that afterward there'll be nothing to remember, ever, except that one moment of the light? No. No. Of course you can't. But that's what it's like, being a god. And this place. . . it's a morgue. Brutha looked around at the ancient, shadowy temple. Well. . . do you know what it's like, being human? Om's head darted into his shell for a moment, the nearest he was capable of to a shrug. Compared to a god? Easy. Get born. Obey a few rules. Do what you're told. Die. Forget. Brutha stared at him. Is something wrong? Brutha shook his head. Then he stood up and walked over to Vorbis. The deacon had drunk water from Brutha's cupped hands. But there was a switched-off quality about him. He walked, he drank, he breathed. Or something did. His body did. The dark eyes opened, but appeared to be looking at nothing that Brutha could see. There was no sense that anyone was looking out through them. Brutha was certain that if he walked away, Vorbis would sit on the cracked flagstones until he very gently fell over. Vorbis' body was present, but the whereabouts of his mind was probably not locatable on any normal atlas. It was just that, here and now and suddenly, Brutha felt so alone that even Vorbis was good company. Why do you bother with him? He's had thousands of people killed! Yes, but perhaps he thought you wanted it. I never said I wanted that. You didn't care, said Brutha. But I-” Shut up!" Om's mouth opened in astonishment. "You could have helped people," said Brutha. "But all you did was stamp around and roar and try to make people afraid. Like. . . like a man hitting a donkey with a stick. But people like Vorbis made the stick so good, that's all the donkey ends up believing in. " "That could use some work, as a parable," said Om sourly. "This is real life I'm talking about!" "It's not my fault if people misuse the-” It is! It has to be! If you muck up people's minds just because you want them to believe in you, what they do is all your fault! Brutha glared at the tortoise, and then stamped off toward the pile of rubble that dominated one end of the ruined temple. He rummaged around in it. What are you looking for? We'll need to carry water, said Brutha. There won't be anything, said Om. "People just left. The land ran out and so did the people. They took everything with them. Why bother to look?" Brutha ignored him. There was something under the rocks and sand. Why worry about Vorbis? Om whined. "In a hundred years' time, he'll be dead anyway. We'll all be dead. " Brutha tugged at the piece of curved pottery. It came away, and turned out to be about two-thirds of a wide bowl, broken right across. It had been almost as wide as Brutha's outstretched arms, but had been too broken for anyone to loot. It was useful for nothing. But it had once been useful for something. There were embossed figures round its rim. Brutha peered at them, for want of something to distract himself, while Om's voice droned on in his head. The figures looked more or less human. And they were engaged in religion. You could tell by the knives (it's not murder if you do it for a god). In the centre of the bowl was a larger figure, obviously important, some kind of god they were doing it for. . . What? he said. I said, in a hundred years' time we'll all be dead. Brutha stared at the figures round the bowl. No one knew who their god was, and they were gone. Lions slept in the holy places and-Chilopoda aridius, the common desert centipede, his memory resident library supplied -scuttled beneath the altar. Yes, said Brutha. "We will. " He raised the bowl over his head, and turned. Om ducked into his shell. But here-” Brutha gritted his teeth as he staggered under the weight. And now-” He threw the bowl. It landed against the altar. Fragments of ancient pottery fountained up, and clattered down again. The echoes boomed around the temple. -we are alive! He picked up Om, who had withdrawn completely into his shell. And we'll make it home. All of us, he said. "I know it. " It's written, is it? said Om, his voice muffled. It is said. And if you argue-a tortoise shell is a pretty good water container, I expect. You wouldn't. Who knows? I might. In a hundred years' time we'll all be dead, you said. Yes! Yes! said Om desperately. "But here and now-” "Right. " Didactylos smiled. It wasn't something that came easily to him. It wasn't that he was a sombre man, but he could not see the smiles of others. It took several dozen muscle movements to smile, and there was no return on his investment. He'd spoken many times to crowds in Ephebe, but they were invariably made up of other philosophers, whose shouts of "Bloody daft!," "You're making it up as you go along!" and other contributions to the debate always put him at his ease. That was because no one really paid any attention. They were just working out what they were going to say next. But this crowd put him in mind of Brutha. Their listening was like a huge pit waiting for his words to fill it. The trouble was that he was talking in philosophy, but they were listening in gibberish. "You can't believe in Great A'Tuin," he said. "Great A'Tuin exists. There's no point in believing in things that exist. " "Someone's put up their hand," said Urn. "Yes?" "Sir, surely only things that exist are worth believing in?" said the enquirer, who was wearing a uniform of a sergeant of the Holy Guard. "If they exist, you don't have to believe in them," said Didactylos. "They just are. " He sighed. "What can I tell you? What do you want to hear? I just wrote down what people know. Mountains rise and fall, and under them the Turtle swims onward. Men live and die, and the Turtle Moves. Empires grow and crumble, and the Turtle Moves. Gods come and go, and still the Turtle Moves. The Turtle Moves. " From the darkness came a voice, "And that is really true?" Didactylos shrugged. "The Turtle exists. The world is a flat disc. The sun turns round it once every day, dragging its light behind it. And this will go on happening, whether you believe it is true or not. It is real. I don't know about truth. Truth is a lot more complicated than that. I don't think the Turtle gives a bugger whether it's true or not, to tell you the truth. " Simony pulled Urn to one side as the philosopher went on talking. This isn't what they came to hear! Can't you do anything? Sorry? said Urn. They don't want philosophy. They want a reason to move against the Church! Now! Vorbis is dead, the Cenobiarch is gaga, the hierarchy are busy stabbing one another in the back. The Citadel is like a big rotten plum. Still a few wasps in it, though, said Urn. "You said you've only got a tenth of the army. " But they're free men, said Simony. "Free in their heads. They'll be fighting for more than fifty cents a day. " Urn looked down at his hands.
He often did that when he was uncertain about anything, as if they were the only things he was sure of in all the world. They'll get the odds down to three to one before the rest know what's happening, said Simony grimly. "Did you talk to the blacksmith?" Yes. Can you do it? I. . . think so. It wasn't what I. . . They tortured his father. Just for having a horseshoe hanging up in his forge, when everyone knows that smiths have to have their little rituals. And they took his son off into the army. But he's got a lot of helpers. They'll work through the night. All you have to do is tell them what you want. I've made some sketches. . . Good, said Simony. "Listen, Urn. The Church is run by people like Vorbis. That's how it all works. Millions of people have died for-for nothing but lies. We can stop all that-” Didactylos had stopped talking. "He's muffed it," said Simony. "He could have done anything with them. And he just told them a lot of facts. You can't inspire people with facts. They need a cause. They need a symbol. " They left the temple just before sundown. The lion had crawled into the shade of some rocks, but stood up unsteadily to watch them go. "It'll track us," moaned Om. "They do that. For miles and miles. " "We'll survive. " "I wish I had your confidence. " "Ah, but I have a God to have faith in. " "There'll be no more ruined temples. " "There'll be something else. " "And not even snake to eat. " "But I walk with my God. " "Not as a snack, though. And you're walking the wrong way, too. " "No. I'm still heading away from the coast. " "That's what I mean. " "How far can a lion go with a spear wound like that in him?" "What's that got to do with anything?" "Everything. " And, half an hour later, a black shadowy line on the silver moonlit desert, there were the tracks. "The soldiers came this way. We just have to follow the tracks back. If we head where they've come from, we'll get where we're going. " "We'll never do it!" "We're travelling light. " "Oh, yeah. They were burdened by all the food and water they had to carry," said Om bitterly. "How lucky for us we haven't got any. " Brutha glanced at Vorbis. He was walking unaided now, provided that you gently turned him around whenever you needed to change direction. But even Om had to admit that the tracks were some comfort. In a way they were alive, in the same way that an echo is alive. People had been this way, not long ago. There were other people in the world. Someone, somewhere, was surviving. Or not. After an hour or so they came across a mound beside the track. There was a helmet atop it, and a sword stuck in the sand. "A lot of soldiers died to get here quickly," said Brutha. Whoever had taken enough time to bury their dead had also drawn a symbol in the sand of the mound. Brutha half expected it to be a turtle, but the desert wind had not quite eroded the crude shape of a pair of horns. "I don't understand that," said Om. "They don't really believe I exist, but they go and put something like that on a grave. " "It's hard to explain. I think it's because they believe they exist," said Brutha. "It's because they're people, and so was he. " He pulled the sword out of the sand. "What do you want that for?" "Might be useful. " "Against who?" "Might be useful. " An hour later the lion, who was limping after Brutha, also arrived at the grave. It had lived in the desert for sixteen years, and the reason it had lived so long was that it had not died, and it had not died because it never wasted handy protein. It dug. Humans have always wasted handy protein ever since they started wondering who had lived in it. But, on the whole, there are worse places to be buried than inside a lion. There were snakes and lizards on the rock islands. They were probably very nourishing and every one was, in its own way, a taste explosion. There was no more water. But there were plants. . . more or less. They looked like groups of stones, except where a few had put up a central flower spike that was a brilliant pink and purple in the dawn light. "Where do they get the water from?" "Fossil seas. " "Water that's turned to stone?" "No. Water that sank down thousands of years ago. Right down in the bedrock. " Can you dig down to it? Don't be stupid. Brutha glanced from the flower to the nearest rock island. Honey, he said. What? The bees had a nest high on the side of a spire of rock. The buzzing could be heard from ground level. There was no possible way up. Nice try, said Om. The sun was up. Already the rocks were warm to the touch. "Get some rest," said Om, kindly. "I'll keep watch. " Watch for what? I'll watch and find out. Brutha led Vorbis into the shade of a large boulder, and gently pushed him down. Then he lay down too. The thirst wasn't too bad yet. He'd drunk from the temple pool until he squelched as he walked. Later on, they might find a snake. . . When you considered what some people in the world had, life wasn't too bad. Vorbis lay on his side, his black-on-black eyes staring at nothing. Brutha tried to sleep. He had never dreamed. Didactylos had been quite excited about that. Someone who remembered everything and didn't dream would have to think slowly, he said. Imagine a heart,[9] he said, that was nearly all memory, and had hardly any beats to spare for the everyday purposes of thinking. That would explain why Brutha moved his lips while he thought. [9] Like many early thinkers, the Ephebians believed that thoughts originated in the heart and that the brain was merely a device to cool the blood. So this couldn't have been a dream. It must have been the sun. He heard Om's voice in his head. The tortoise sounded as though he was holding a conversation with people Brutha could not hear. Mine! Go away! No. Mine! Both of them! Mine! Brutha turned his head. The tortoise was in a gap between two rocks, neck extended and weaving from side to side. There was another sound, a sort of gnat-like whining, that came and went. . . and promises in his head. They flashed past. . . faces talking to him, shapes, visions of greatness, moments of opportunity, picking him up, taking him high above the world, all this was his, he could do anything, all he had to do was believe, in me, in me, in meAn image formed in front of him. There, on a stone beside him, was a roast pig surrounded by fruit, and a mug of beer so cold the air was frosting on the sides. Mine! Brutha blinked. The voices faded. So did the food. He blinked again. There were strange after-images, not seen but felt. Perfect though his memory was, he could not remember what the voices had said or what the other pictures had been. All that lingered was a memory of roast pork and cold beer. That's because they don't know what to offer you, said Om's voice, quietly. "So they try to offer you anything. Generally they start with visions of food and carnal gratification. " They got as far as the food, said Brutha. Good job I overcame them, then, said Om. "No telling what they might have achieved with a young man like yourself. " Brutha raised himself on his elbows. Vorbis had not moved. Were they trying to get through to him, too? I suppose so. Wouldn't work. Nothing gets in, nothing gets out. Never seen a mind so turned in on itself. Will they be back? Oh, yes. It's not as if they've got anything else to do. When they do, said Brutha, feeling lightheaded, "could you wait until they've shown me visions of carnal gratification?" Very bad for you. Brother Nhumrod was very down on them. But I think perhaps we should know our enemies, yes? Brutha's voice faded to a croak. I could have done with the vision of the drink, he said, wearily. The shadows were long. He looked around in amazement. How long were they trying? All day. Persistent devils, too. Thick as flies. Brutha learned why at sunset. He met St. Ungulant the anchorite, friend of all small gods. Everywhere. Well, well, well, said St. Ungulant. "We don't get very many visitors up here. Isn't that so, Angus?" He addressed the air beside him.
Brutha was trying to keep his balance, because the cartwheel rocked dangerously every time he moved. They'd left Vorbis seated on the desert twenty feet below, hugging his knees and staring at nothing. The wheel had been nailed flat on top of a slim pole. It was just wide enough for one person to lie uncomfortably. But St. Ungulant looked designed to lie uncomfortably. He was so thin that even skeletons would say, "Isn't he thin?" He was wearing some sort of minimalist loin-cloth, insofar as it was possible to tell under the beard and hair. It had been quite hard to ignore St. Ungulant, who had been capering up and down at the top of his pole shouting Coo-ee! and "Over here!" There was a slightly smaller pole a few feet away, with an old-fashioned half-moon-cut-out-on-the-door privy on it. Just because you were an anchorite, St. Ungulant said, didn't mean you had to give up everything. Brutha had heard of anchorites, who were a kind of oneway prophet. They went out into the desert but did not come back, preferring a hermit's life of dirt and hardship and dirt and holy contemplation and dirt. Many of them liked to make life even more uncomfortable for themselves by being walled up in cells or living, quite appropriately, at the top of a pole. The Omnian Church encouraged them, on the basis that it was best to get madmen as far away as possible where they couldn't cause any trouble and could be cared for by the community, insofar as the community consisted of lions and buzzards and dirt. I was thinking of adding another wheel, said St. Ungulant, "just over there. To catch the morning sun, you know. " Brutha looked around him. Nothing but flat rock and sand stretched away on every side. Don't you get the sun everywhere all the time? he said. But it's much more important in the morning, said St. Ungulant. "Besides, Angus says we ought to have a patio. " He could barbecue on it, said Om, inside Brutha's head. Um, said Brutha. "What. . . religion. . . are you a saint of, exactly?" An expression of embarrassment crossed the very small amount of face between St. Ungulant's eyebrows and his moustache Uh. None, really. That was all rather a mistake, he said. "My parents named me Sevrian Thaddeus Ungulant, and then one day, of course, most amusing, someone drew attention to the initials. After that, it all seemed rather inevitable. " The wheel rocked slightly. St. Ungulant's skin was almost blackened by the desert sun. I've had to pick up herming as I went along, of course, he said. "I taught myself. I'm entirely selftaught. You can't find a hermit to teach you herming, because of course that rather spoils the whole thing. " Er. . . but there's. . . Angus? said Brutha, stating at the spot where he believed Angus to be, or at least where he believed St. Ungulant believed Angus to be. He's over here now, said the saint sharply, pointing to a different part of the wheel. "But he doesn't do any of the herming. He's not, you know, trained. He's just company. My word, I'd have gone quite mad if it wasn't for Angus cheering me up all the time!" Yes. . . I expect you would, said Brutha. He smiled at the empty air, in order to show willing. Actually, it's a pretty good life. The hours are rather long but the food and drink are extremely worthwhile. Brutha had a distinct feeling that he knew what was going to come next. Beer cold enough? he said. Extremely frosty, said St. Ungulant, beaming. And the roast pig? St. Ungulant's smile was manic. All brown and crunchy round the edges, yes, he said. But I expect, er. . . you eat the occasional lizard or snake, too? Funny you should say that. Yes. Every once in a while. Just for a bit of variety. And mushrooms, too? said Om. Any mushrooms in these parts? said Brutha innocently. St. Ungulant nodded happily. After the annual rains, yes. Red ones with yellow spots. The desert becomes really interesting after the mushroom season. Full of giant purple singing slugs? Talking pillars of flame? Exploding giraffes? That sort of thing? said Brutha carefully. Good heavens, yes, said the saint. "I don't know why. I think they're attracted by the mushrooms. " Brutha nodded. You're catching on, kid, said Om. And I expect sometimes you drink. . . water? said Brutha. You know, it's odd, isn't it, said St. Ungulant. "There's all this wonderful stuff to drink but every so often I get this, well, I can only call it a craving, for a few sips of water. Can you explain that?" It must be. . . a little hard to come by, said Brutha, still talking very carefully, like someone playing a fifty-pound fish on a fifty-one-pound breakingstrain fishing-line. Strange, really, said St. Ungulant. "When icecold beer is so readily available, too. " Where, uh, do you get it? The water? said Brutha. You know the stone plants? The ones with the big flowers? If you cut open the fleshy part of the leaves, there's up to half a pint of water, said the saint. "It tastes like weewee, mind you. " I think we could manage to put up with that, said Brutha, through dry lips. He backed toward the rope-ladder that was the saint's contact with the ground. Are you sure you won't stay? said St. Ungulant. "It's Wednesday. We get sucking pig plus chef's selection of sun-drenched dew-fresh vegetables on Wednesdays. " We, uh, have lots to do, said Brutha, halfway down the swaying ladder. Sweets from the trolley? I think perhaps. . . St. Ungulant looked down sadly at Brutha helping Vorbis away across the wilderness. And afterward there's probably mints!" he shouted, through cupped hands. "No?" Soon the figures were mere dots on the sand. "There may be visions of sexual grati-no, I tell a lie, that's Fridays. . . " St. Ungulant murmured. Now that the visitors had gone, the air was once again filled with the zip and whine of the small gods. There were billions of them. St. Ungulant smiled. He was, of course, mad. He'd occasionally suspected this. But he took the view that madness should not be wasted. He dined daily on the food of the gods, drank the rarest vintages, ate fruits that were not only out of season but out of reality. Having to drink the occasional mouthful of brackish water and chew the odd lizard leg for medicinal purposes was a small price to pay. He turned back to the laden table that shimmered in the air. All this. . . and all the little gods wanted was someone to know about them, someone to even believe that they existed. There was jelly and ice-cream today, too. "All the more for us, eh, Angus?" Yes, said Angus. The fighting was over in Ephebe. It hadn't lasted long, especially when the slaves joined in. There were too many narrow streets, too many ambushes and, above all, too much terrible determination. It's generally held that free men will always triumph over slaves, but perhaps it all depends on your point of view. Besides, the Ephebian garrison commander had declared somewhat nervously that slavery would henceforth be abolished, which infuriated the slaves. What would be the point of saving up to become free if you couldn't own slaves afterwards? Besides, how'd they eat? The Omnians couldn't understand, and uncertain people fight badly. And Vorbis had gone. Certainties seemed less certain when those eyes were elsewhere. The Tyrant was released from his prison. He spent his first day of freedom carefully composing messages to the other small countries along the coast. It was time to do something about Omnia. Brutha sang. His voice echoed off the rocks. Flocks of scalbies shook off their lazy pedestrian habits and took off frantically, leaving feathers behind in their rush to get airborne. Snakes wriggled into cracks in the stone. You could live in the desert. Or at least survive. . . Getting back to Omnia could only be a matter of time. One more day. . . Vorbis trooped along a little behind him. He said nothing and, when spoken to, gave no sign that he had understood what had been said to him. Om, bumping along in Brutha's pack, began to feel the acute depression that steals over every realist in the presence of an optimist.
The strained strains of Claws of Iron shall Rend the Ungodly faded away. There was a small rockslide, some way off. "We're alive," said Brutha. "For now. " "And we're close to home. " "Yes?" "I saw a wild goat on the rocks back there. " "There's still a lot of 'em about. " "Goats?" "Gods. And the ones we had back there were the puny ones, mind you. " "What do you mean?" Om sighed. "It's reasonable, isn't it? Think about it. The stronger ones hang around the edge, where there's prey. . . I mean, people. The weak ones get pushed out to the sandy places, where people hardly ever go-” The strong gods, said Brutha, thoughtfully. "Gods that know about being strong. " That's right. Not gods that know what it feels like to be weak. . . What? They wouldn't last five minutes. It's a god-eat-god world. Perhaps that explains something about the nature of gods. Strength is hereditary. Like sin. His face clouded. Except that. . . it isn't. Sin, I mean. I think, perhaps, when we get back, I shall talk to some people. Oh, and they'll listen, will they? Wisdom comes out of the wilderness, they say. Only the wisdom that people want. And mushrooms. When the sun was starting to climb Brutha milked a goat. It stood patiently while Om soothed its mind. And Om didn't suggest killing it, Brutha noticed. Then they found shade again. There were bushes here, lowgrowing, spiky, every tiny leaf barricaded behind its crown of thorns. Om watched for a while, but the small gods on the edge of the wilderness were more cunning and less urgent. They'd be here, probably at noon, when the sun turned the landscape into a hellish glare. He'd hear them. In the meantime, he could eat. He crawled through the bushes, their thorns scraping harmlessly along his shell. He passed another tortoise, which wasn't inhabited by a god and gave him that vague stare that tortoises employ when they're deciding whether something is there to be eaten or made love to, which are the only things on a normal tortoise mind. He avoided it, and found a couple of leaves it had missed. Periodically he'd stomp back through the gritty soil and watch the sleepers. And then he saw Vorbis sit up, look around him in a slow methodical way, pick up a stone, study it carefully, and then bring it down sharply on Brutha's head. Brutha didn't even groan. Vorbis got up and strode directly toward the bushes that hid Om. He tore the branches aside, regardless of the thorns, and pulled out the tortoise Om had just met. For a moment it was held up, legs moving slowly, before the deacon threw it overarm into the rocks. Then he picked up Brutha with some effort, slung him across his shoulders, and set off towards Omnia. It happened in seconds. Om fought to stop his head and legs retracting automatically into his shell, a tortoise's instinctive panic reaction. Vorbis was already disappearing round some rocks. He disappeared. Om started to move forward and then ducked into his shell as a shadow skimmed over the ground. It was a familiar shadow, and one fiIled with tortoise dread. The eagle swept down and towards the spot where the stricken tortoise was struggling and, with barely a pause in the stoop, snatched the reptile and soared back up into the sky with long, lazy sweeps of its wings. Om watched it until it became a dot, and then looked away as a smaller dot detached itself and tumbled over and over toward the rocks below. The eagle descended slowly, preparing to feed. A breeze rattled the thornbushes and stirred the sand. Om thought he could hear the taunting, mocking voices of all the small gods. St. Ungulant, on his bony knees, smashed open the hard swollen leaf of a stone plant. Nice lad, he thought. Talked to himself a lot, but that was only to be expected. The desert took some people like that, didn't it, Angus? Yes, said Angus. Angus didn't want any of the brackish water. He said it gave him wind. Please yourself, said St. Ungulant. "Well, well! Here's a little treat. " You didn't often get Chilopoda aridius out here in the open desert, and here were three, all under one rock! Funny how you felt like a little nibble, even after a good meal of Petit porc rôti avec pommes de terre nouvelles et légumes du jour et bière glacée avec figment de l'imagination. He was picking the legs of the second one out of his tooth when the lion padded to the top of the nearest dune behind him. The lion was feeling odd sensations of gratitude. It felt it should catch up with the nice food that had tended to it and, well, refrain from eating it in some symbolic way. And now here was some more food, hardly paying it any attention. Well, it didn't owe this one anything. . . It padded forward, then lumbered up into a run. Oblivious to his fate, St. Ungulant started on the third centipede. The lion leapt. . . And things would have looked very bad for St. Ungulant if Angus hadn't caught it right behind the ear with a rock. Brutha was standing in the desert, except that the sand was as black as the sky and there was no sun, although everything was brilliantly lit. Ah, he thought. So this is dreaming. There were thousands of people walking across the desert. They paid him no attention. They walked as if completely unaware that they were in the middle of a crowd. He tried to wave at them, but he was nailed to the spot. He tried to speak, and the words evaporated in his mouth. And then he woke up. The first thing he saw was the light, slanting through a window. Against the light was a pair of hands, raised in the sign of the holy horns. With some difficulty, his head screaming pain at him, Brutha followed the hands along a pair of arms to where they joined not far under the bowed head ofBrother Nhumrod? The master of novices looked up. Brutha? Yes? Om be praised! Brutha craned his neck to look around. Is he here? -here? How do you feel? I-” His head ached, his back felt as though it was on fire, and there was a dull pain in his knees. You were very badly sunburned," said Nhumrod. "And that was a nasty knock on the head you had in the fall. " "What fall?" "-fall. From the rocks. In the desert. You were with the Prophet," said Nhumrod. "You walked with the Prophet. One of my novices. " I remember. . . the desert. . . said Brutha, touching his head gingerly. "But. . . the. . . Prophet. . . ?" -Prophet. People are saying you could be made a bishop, or even an Iam, said Nhumrod. "There's a precedent, you know. The Most Holy St. Bobby was made a bishop because he was in the desert with the Prophet Ossory, and he was a donkey. " But I don't. . . remember. . . any Prophet. There was just me and-” Brutha stopped. Nhumrod was beaming. Vorbis?" "He most graciously told me all about it," said Nhumrod. "I was privileged to be in the Place of Lamentation when he arrived. It was just after the Sestine prayers. The Cenobiarch was just departing. . . well, you know the ceremony. And there was Vorbis. Covered in dust and leading a donkey. I'm afraid you were across the back of the donkey. " "I don't remember a donkey," said Brutha. "-donkey. He'd picked it up at one of the farms. There was quite a crowd with him!" Nhumrod was flushed with excitement. "And he's declared a month of Jhaddra, and double penances, and the Council has given him the Staff and the Halter, and the Cenobiarch has gone off to the hermitage in Skant!" "Vorbis is the eighth Prophet," said Brutha. "-Prophet. Of course. " "And. . . was there a tortoise? Has he mentioned anything about a tortoise?" "-tortoise? What have tortoises got to do with anything?" Nhumrod's expression softened. "But, of course, the Prophet said the sun had affected you. He said you were raving-excuse me-about all sorts of strange things. " "He did?" "He sat by your bed for three days. It was. . . inspiring. " "How long. . . since we came back?" "-back? Almost a week. " "A week!" "He said the journey exhausted you very much. " Brutha stared at the wall. "And he left orders that you were to be brought to him as soon as you were fully conscious," said Nhumrod. "He was very definite about that.
" His tone of voice suggested that he wasn't quite sure of Brutha's state of consciousness, even now. "Do you think you can walk? I can get some novices to carry you, if you'd prefer. " "I have to go and see him now?" "-now. Right away. I expect you'll want to thank him. " Brutha had known about these parts of the Citadel only by hearsay. Brother Nhumrod had never seen them, either. Although he had not been specifically included in the summons, he had come nevertheless, fussing importantly around Brutha as two sturdy novices carried him in a kind of sedan chair normally used by the more crumbling of the senior clerics. In the centre of the Citadel, behind the Temple, was a walled garden. Brutha looked at it with an expert eye. There wasn't an inch of natural soil on the bare rock-every spadeful that these shady trees grew in must have been carried up by hand. Vorbis was there, surrounded by bishops and Iams. He looked round as Brutha approached. "Ah, my desert companion," he said, amiably. "And Brother Nhumrod, I believe. My brothers, I should like you to know that I have it in mind to raise our Brutha to archbishophood. " There was a very faint murmur of astonishment from the clerics, and then a clearing of a throat. Vorbis looked at Bishop Treem, who was the Citadel's archivist. "Well, technically he is not yet even ordained," said Bishop Treem, doubtfully. "But of course we all know there has been a precedent. " "Ossory's ass," said Brother Nhumrod promptly. He put his hand over his mouth and went red with shame and embarrassment. Vorbis smiled. "Good Brother Nhumrod is correct," he said. "Who had also not been ordained, unless the qualifications were somewhat relaxed in those days. " There was a chorus of nervous laughs, such as there always is from people who owe their jobs and possibly their lives to a whim of the person who has just cracked the not very amusing line. "Although the donkey was only made a bishop," said Bishop "Deathwish" Treem. "A role for which it was highly qualified," said Vorbis sharply. "And now, you will all leave. Including Subdeacon Nhumrod," he added. Nhumrod went from red to white at this sudden preferment. "But Archbishop Brutha will remain. We wish to talk. " The clergy withdrew. Vorbis sat down on a stone chair under an elder tree. It was huge and ancient, quite unlike its short-lived relatives outside the garden, and its berries were ripening. The Prophet sat with his elbows on the stone arms of the chair, his hands interlocked in front of him, and gave Brutha a long, slow stare. "You are. . . recovered?" he said, eventually. "Yes, lord," said Brutha. "But, lord, I cannot be a bishop, I cannot even-” I assure you the job does not require much intelligence, said Vorbis. "If it did, bishops would not be able to do it. " There was another long silence. When Vorbis next spoke, it was as if every word was being winched up from a great depth. We spoke once, did we not, of the nature of reality? Yes. And about how often what is perceived is not that which is fundamentally true? Yes. Another pause. High overhead, an eagle circled, looking for tortoises. I am sure you have confused memories of our wanderings in the wilderness. No. " It is only to be expected. The sun, the thirst, the hunger. . . No, lord. My memory does not confuse readily. Oh, yes. I recall. So do I, lord. Vorbis turned his head slightly, looking sidelong at Brutha as if he was trying to hide behind his own face. In the desert, the Great God Om spoke to me. Yes, lord. He did. Every day. You have a mighty if simple faith, Brutha. When it comes to people, I am a great judge. Yes, lord. Lord? Yes, my Brutha? Nhumrod said you led me through the desert, lord. Remember what I said about fundamental truth, Brutha? Of course you do. There was a physical desert, indeed, but also a desert of the soul. My God led me, and I led you. Ah. Yes. I see. Overhead, the spiralling dot that was the eagle appeared to hang motionless in the air for a moment. Then it folded its wings and fellMuch was given to me in the desert, Brutha. Much was learned. Now I must tell the world. That is the duty of a prophet. To go where others have not been, and bring back the truth of it. -faster than the wind, its whole brain and body existing only as a mist around the sheer intensity of its purposeI did not expect it to be this soon. But Om guided my steps. And now that we have the Cenobiarchy, we shall. . . make use of it. Somewhere out on the hillsides the eagle swooped, picked something up, and strove for height. . . I'm just a novice, Lord Vorbis. I am not a bishop, even if everyone calls me one. You will get used to it. It sometimes took a long time for an idea to form in Brutha's mind, but one was forming now. It was something about the way Vorbis was sitting, something about the edge in his voice. Vorbis was afraid of him. Why me? Because of the desert? Who would care? For all I know, it was always like this-probably it was Ossory's ass that carried him in the wilderness, who found the water, who kicked a lion to death. Because of Ephebe? Who would listen? Who would care? He is the Prophet and the Cenobiarch. He could have me killed just like that. Anything he does is right. Anything he says is true. Fundamentally true. I have something to show you that may amuse you, said Vorbis, standing up. "Can you walk?" Oh, yes. Nhumrod was just being kind. It's mainly sunburn. As they moved away, Brutha saw something he hadn't noticed before. There were members of the Holy Guard, armed with bows, in the garden. They were in the shade of trees, or amongst bushes-not too obvious, but not exactly hidden. Steps led from the garden to the maze of underground tunnels and rooms that underlay the Temple and, indeed, the whole of the Citadel. Noiselessly, a couple of guards fell in behind them at a respectful distance. Brutha followed Vorbis through the tunnels to the artificers' quarter, where forges and workshops clustered around one wide, deep light-well. Smoke and fumes billowed up around the hewn rock walls. Vorbis walked directly to a large alcove that glowed red with the light of forge fires. Several workers were clustered around something wide and curved. There, said Vorbis. "What do you think?" It was a turtle. The iron-founders had done a pretty good job, even down to the patterning on the shell and the scales on the legs. It was about eight feet long. Brutha heard a rushing noise in his ears as Vorbis spoke. They speak poisonous gibberish about turtles, do they not? They think they live on the back of a Great Turtle. Well, let them die on one. Now Brutha could see the shackles attached to each iron leg. A man, or a woman, could with great discomfort lie spread-eagled on the back of the turtle and be chained firmly at the wrists and ankles. He bent down. Yes, there was the firebox underneath. Some aspects of Quisition thinking never changed. That much iron would take ages to heat up to the point of pain. Much time, therefore, to reflect on things. . . What do you think? said Vorbis. A vision of the future flashed across Brutha's mind. Ingenious, he said. And it will be a salutary lesson for all others tempted to stray from the path of true knowledge, said Vorbis. When do you intend to, uh, demonstrate it? I am sure an occasion will present itself, said Vorbis. When Brutha straightened up, Vorbis was staring at him so intently that it was as if he was reading Brutha's thoughts off the back of his head. And now, please leave, said Vorbis. "Rest as much as you can. . . my son. " Brutha walked slowly across the Place, deep in unaccustomed thought. Afternoon, Your Reverence. You know already? Cut-Me-Own-Hand-Off Dhblah beamed over the top of his lukewarm ice-cold sherbet stand. Heard it on the grapevine, he said. "Here, have a slab of Klatchian Delight. Free. Onna stick. " The Place was more crowded than usual. Even Dhblah's hot cakes were selling like hot cakes. Busy today, said Brutha, hardly thinking about it.
Time of the Prophet, see, said Dhblah, "when the Great God is manifest in the world. And if you think it's busy now, you won't be able to swing a goat here in a few days' time. " What happens then? You all right? You look a bit peaky. What happens then? The Laws. You know. The Book of Vorbis? I suppose-” Dhblah leaned toward Brutha-you wouldn't have a hint, would you? I suppose the Great God didn't happen to say anything of benefit to the convenience food industry?" I don't know. I think he'd like people to grow more lettuce. Really? It's only a guess. Dhblah grinned evilly. "Ah, yes, but it's your guess. A nod's as good as a poke with a sharp stick to a deaf camel, as they say. I know where I can get my hands on a few acres of well-irrigated land, funnily enough. Perhaps I ought to buy now, ahead of the crowd?" Can't see any harm in it, Mr. Dhblah. Dhblah sidled closer. This was not hard. Dhblah sidled everywhere. Crabs thought he walked sideways. Funny thing, he said. "I mean. . . Vorbis?" Funny? said Brutha. Makes you think. Even Ossory must have been a man who walked around, just like you and me. Got wax in his ears, just like ordinary people. Funny thing. What is? The whole thing. Dhblah gave Brutha another conspiratorial grin and then sold a footsore pilgrim a bowl of hummus that he would come to regret. Brutha wandered down to his dormitory It was empty at this time of day, hanging around dormitories being discouraged in case the presence of the rockhard mattresses engendered thoughts of sin. His few possessions were gone from the shelf by his bunk. Probably he had a room of his own somewhere, although no one had told him. Brutha felt totally lost. He lay down on the bunk, just in case, and offered up a prayer to Om. There was no reply. There had been no reply for almost all of his life, and that hadn't been too bad, because he'd never expected one. And before, there'd always been the comfort that perhaps Om was listening and simply not deigning to say anything. Now, there was nothing to hear. He might as well be talking to himself, and listening to himself. Like Vorbis. That thought wouldn't go away. Mind like a steel ball, Om had said. Nothing got in or out. So all Vorbis could hear were the distant echoes of his own soul. And out of the distant echoes he would forge a Book of Vorbis, and Brutha suspected he knew what the commandments would be. There would be talk of holy wars and blood and crusades and blood and piety and blood. Brutha got up, feeling like a fool. But the thoughts wouldn't go away. He was a bishop, but he didn't know what bishops did. He'd only seen them in the distance, drifting along like earthbound clouds. There was only one thing he felt he knew how to do. Some spotty boy was hoeing the vegetable garden. He looked at Brutha in amazement when he took the hoe, and was stupid enough to try to hang on to it for a moment. I am a bishop, you know, said Brutha. "Anyway, you aren't doing it right. Go and do something else. " Brutha jabbed viciously at the weeds around the seedlings. Only away a few weeks and already there was a haze of green on the soil. You're a bishop. For being good. And here's the iron turtle. In case you're bad. Because. . . . . . there were two people in the desert, and Om spoke to one of them. It had never occurred to Brutha like that before. Om had spoken to him. Admittedly, he hadn't said the things that the Great Prophets said he said. Perhaps he'd never said things like that. . . He worked his way along to the end of the row. Then he tidied up the bean vines. Lu-Tze watched Brutha carefully from his little shed by the soil heaps. It was another barn. Urn was seeing a lot of barns. They'd started with a cart, and invested a lot of time in reducing its weight as much as possible. Gearing had been a problem. He'd been doing a lot of thinking about gears. The ball wanted to spin much faster than the wheels wanted to turn. That was probably a metaphor for something or other. And I can't get it to go backward, he said. Don't worry, said Simony. "It won't have to go backward. What about armour?" Urn waved a distracted hand around his workshop. This is a village forge! he said. "This thing is twenty feet long! Zacharos can't make plates bigger than a few feet across. I've tried nailing them on a framework, but it just collapses under the weight. " Simony looked at the skeleton of the steam car and the pile of plates stacked beside it. Ever been in a battle, Urn? he said. No. I've got flat feet. And I'm not very strong. Do you know what a tortoise is? Urn scratched his head. "Okay. The answer isn't a little reptile in a shell, is it? Because you know I know that. " I mean a shield tortoise. When you're attacking a fortress or a wall, and the enemy is dropping everything he's got on you, every man holds his shield overhead so that it. . . kind of. . . slots into all the shields around it. Can take a lot of weight. Overlapping, murmured Urn. Like scales, said Simony. Urn looked reflectively at the cart. A tortoise, he said. And the battering-ram? said Simony. Oh, that's no problem, said Urn, not paying much attention. "Tree-trunk bolted to the frame. Big iron rammer. They're only bronze doors, you say?" Yes. But very big. Then they're probably hollow. Or cast bronze plates on wood. That's what I'd do. Not solid bronze? Everyone says they're solid bronze. That's what I'd say, too. Excuse me, sirs. A burly man stepped forward. He wore the uniform of the palace guards. This is Sergeant Fergmen, said Simony. "Yes, sergeant?" The doors is reinforced with Klatchian steel. Because of all the fighting in the time of the False Prophet Zog. And they opens outwards only. Like lock gates on a canal, you understand? If you push on 'em, they only locks more firmly together. How are they opened, then? said Urn. The Cenobiarch raises his hand and the breath of God blows them open, said the sergeant. In a logical sense, I meant. Oh. Well, one of the deacons goes behind a curtain and pulls a lever. But. . . when I was on guard down in the crypts, sometimes, there was a room. . . there was gratings and things. . . well, you could hear water gushing. . . Hydraulics, said Urn. "Thought it would be hydraulics. " Can you get in? said Simony. To the room? Why not? No one bothers with it. Could he make the doors open? said Simony. Hmm? said Urn. Urn was rubbing his chin reflectively with a hammer. He seemed to be lost in a world of his own. I said, could Fergmen make these hydra haulics work? Hmm? Oh. Shouldn't think so, said Urn, vaguely. Could you? What? Could you make them work? Oh. Probably. It's just pipes and pressures, after all. Um. Urn was still staring thoughtfully at the steam cart. Simony nodded meaningfully at the sergeant, indicating that he should go away, and then tried the mental interplanetary journey necessary to get to whatever world Urn was in. He tried looking at the cart, too. How soon can you have it all finished? Hmm? I said-” Late tomorrow night. If we work through tonight. " "But we'll need it for the next dawn! We won't have time to see if it works!" "It'll work first time," said Urn. "Really?" "I built it. I know about it. You know about swords and spears and things. I know about things that go round and round. It will work first time. " "Good. Well, there are other things I've got to do-” Right. Urn was left alone in the barn. He looked reflectively at his hammer, and then at the iron cart. They didn't know how to cast bronze properly here. Their iron was pathetic, just pathetic. Their copper? It was terrible. They seemed to be able to make steel that shattered at a blow. Over the years the Quisition had weeded out all the good smiths. He'd done the best he could, but. . . Just don't ask me about the second or third time, he said quietly to himself. Vorbis sat in the stone chair in his garden, papers strewn around him. Well? The kneeling figure did not look up. Two guards stood over it, with drawn swords. The Turtle people. . .
the people are plotting something, it said, the voice shrill with terror. Of course they are. Of course they are, said Vorbis. "And what is this plot?" There is some kind of. . . when you are confirmed as Cenobiarch. . . some kind of device, some machine that goes by itself. . . it will smash down the doors of the Temple. . . The voice faded away. And where is this device now? said Vorbis. I don't know. They've bought iron from me. That's all I know. An iron device. Yes. The man took a deep breath-half-breath, half-gulp. "People say. . . the guards said. . . you have my father in prison and you might. . . I plead. . . " Vorbis looked down at the man. But you fear, he said, "that I might have you thrown into the cells as well. You think I am that sort of person. You fear that I may think, this man has associated with heretics and blasphemers in familiar circumstances. . . " The man continued to stare fixedly at the ground. Vorbis's fingers curled gently around his chin and raised his head until they were eye to eye. What you have done is a good thing, he said. He looked at one of the guards. "Is this man's father still alive?" Yes, lord. Still capable of walking? The inquisitor shrugged. "Ye-es, lord. " Then release him this instant, put him in the charge of his dutiful son here, and send them both back home. The armies of hope and fear fought in the informant's eyes. Thank you, lord, he said. Go in peace. Vorbis watched one of the guards escort the man from the garden. Then he waved a hand vaguely at one of the head inquisitors. Do we know where he lives? Yes, lord. Good. The inquisitor hesitated. And this. . . device, lord? Om has spoken to me. A machine that goes by itself? Such a thing is against all reason. Where are its muscles? Where is its mind? Yes, lord. The inquisitor, whose name was Deacon Cusp, had got where he was today, which was a place he wasn't sure right now that he wanted to be, because he liked hurting people. It was a simple desire, and one that was satisfied in abundance within the Quisition. And he was one of those who were terrified in a very particular way by Vorbis. Hurting people because you enjoyed it. . . that was understandable. Vorbis just hurt people because he'd decided that they should be hurt, without passion, even with a kind of hard love. In Cusp's experience, people didn't make things up, ultimately, not in front of an exquisitor. Or course there were no such things as devices that moved by themselves, but he made a mental note to increase the guardHowever, said Vorbis, "there will be a disturbance during the ceremony tomorrow. " Lord? I have. . . special knowledge, said Vorbis. Of course, lord. You know the breaking strain of sinews and muscles, Deacon Cusp. Cusp had formed an opinion that Vorbis was somewhere on the other side of madness. Ordinary madness he could deal with. In his experience there were quite a lot of mad people in the world, and many of them became even more insane in the tunnels of the Quisition. But Vorbis had passed right through that red barrier and had built some kind of logical structure on the other side. Rational thoughts made out of insane components. . . Yes, lord, he said. I know the breaking strain of people. It was night, and cold for the time of year. Lu-Tze crept through the gloom of the barn, sweeping industriously. Sometimes he took a rag from the recesses of his robe and polished things. He polished the outside of the Moving Turtle, which loomed low and menacing in the shadows. And he swept his way toward the forge, where he watched for a while. It takes extreme concentration to pour good steel. No wonder gods have always clustered around isolated smithies. There are so many things that can go wrong. A slight mis-mix of ingredients, a moment's lapse-Urn, who was almost asleep on his feet, grunted as he was nudged awake and something was put in his hands. It was a cup of tea. He looked into the little round face of LuTze. Oh, he said. "Thank you. Thank you very much. " Nod, smile. Nearly done, said Urn, more or less to himself. "Just got to let it cool now. Got to let it cool really slowly. Otherwise it crystallises, you see. " Nod, smile, nod. It was good tea. S'not 'n important cast anyway, said Urn, swaying. "Jus' the control levers-” Lu-Tze caught him carefully and steered him to a seat on a heap of charcoal. Then he went and watched the forge for a while. The bar of steel was glowing in the mould He poured a bucket of cold water over it, watched the great cloud of steam spread and disperse, and then put his broom over his shoulder and ran away hurriedly. People to whom Lu-Tze was a vaguely glimpsed figure behind a very slow broom would have been surprised at his turn of speed, especially in a man six thousand years old who ate nothing but brown rice and drank only green tea with a knob of rancid butter in it. A little way away from the Citadel's main gates he stopped running and started sweeping. He swept up to the gates, swept around the gates themselves, nodded and smiled at a soldier who glared at him and then realised that it was only the daft old sweeper, polished one of the handles of the gates, and swept his way by passages and cloisters to Brutha's vegetable garden. He could see a figure crouched among the melons. Lu-Tze found a rug and padded back out into the garden, where Brutha was sitting hunched up with his hoe over his knees. Lu-Tze had seen many agonised faces in his time, which was a longer time than most whole civilisations managed to see. Brutha's was the worst. He tugged the rug over the bishop's shoulders. "I can't hear him," said Brutha hoarsely. "It may mean that he's too far away. I keep on thinking that. He might be out there somewhere. Miles away!" Lu-Tze smiled and nodded. "It'll happen all over again. He never told anyone to do anything. Or not to do anything. He didn't care!" Lu-Tze nodded and smiled again. His teeth were yellow. They were in fact his two-hundredth set. "He should have cared. " Lu-Tze disappeared into his corner again and returned with a shallow bowl full of some kind of tea. He nodded and smiled and proffered it until Brutha took it and had a sip. It tasted like hot water with a lavender bag in it. "You don't understand anything I'm talking about, do you?" said Brutha. "Not much," said Lu-Tze. "You can talk?" Lu-Tze put a wisened finger to his lips. "Big secret," he said. Brutha looked at the little man. How much did he know about him? How much did anyone know about him? "You talk to God," said Lu-Tze. "How do you know that?" "Signs. Man who talk to God have difficult life. " "You're right!" Brutha stared at Lu-Tze over the cup. "Why are you here?" he said. "You're not Omnian. Or Ephebian. " "Grew up near Hub. Long time ago. Now Lu-Tze a stranger everywhere he goes. Best way. Learned religion in temple at home. Now go where job is. " "Carting soil and pruning plants?" "Sure. Never been bishop or high panjandrum. Dangerous life. Always be man who cleans pews or sweeps up behind altar. No one bother useful man. No one bother small man. No one remember name. " "That's what I was going to do! But it doesn't work for me. " "Then find other way. I learn in temple. Taught by ancient master. When trouble, always remember wise words of ancient and venerable master. " "What were they?" "Ancient master say: `That boy there! What you eating? Hope you brought enough for everybody!' Ancient master say: `You bad boy! Why you no do homework?' Ancient master say: `What boy laughing? No tell what boy laughing, whole dojo stay in after school!' When remember these wise words, nothing seems so bad. " "What shall I do? I can't hear him!" "You do what you must. I learn anything, it you have to walk it all alone. " Brutha hugged his knees. "But he told me nothing! Where's all this wisdom? All the other prophets came back with commandments!" "Where they get them?" "I. . . suppose they made them up. " "You get them from same place. " "You call this philosophy?" roared Didactylos, waving his stick.
Urn cleaned pieces of the sand mould from the lever. "Well. . . natural philosophy," he said. The stick whanged down on the Moving Turtle's flanks. "I never taught you this sort of thing!" shouted the philosopher. "Philosophy is supposed to make life better! " "This will make it better for a lot of people," said Urn, calmly. "It will help overthrow a tyrant. " "And then?" said Didactylos. "And then what?" "And then you'll take it to bits, will you?" said the old man. "Smash it up? Take the wheels off? Get rid of all those spikes? Burn the plans? Yes? When it's served its purpose, yes?" "Well-” Urn began. Aha! Aha what? What if we do keep it? It'll be a. . . a deterrent to other tyrants! You think tyrants won't build 'em too? Well. . . I can build bigger ones! Urn shouted. Didactylos sagged. "Yes," he said. "No doubt you can. So that's all right, then. My word. And to think I was worrying. And now. . . I think I'll go and have a rest somewhere. . . He looked hunched up, and suddenly old. Master? said Urn. Don't `master' me, said Didactylos, feeling his way along the barn walls to the door. "I can see you know every bloody thing there is to know about human nature now. Hah!" The Great God Om slid down the side of an irrigation ditch and landed on his back in the weeds at the bottom. He righted himself by gripping a root with his mouth and hauling himself over. The shape of Brutha's thoughts flickered back and forth in his mind. He couldn't make out any actual words, but he didn't need to, any more than you needed to see the ripples to know which way the river flowed. Occasionally, when he could see the Citadel as a gleaming dot in the twilight, he'd try shouting his own mind back as loudly as he could: Wait! Wait! You don't want to do that! We can go to Ankh-Morpork! Land of opportunity! With my brains and your. . . with you, the world is our mollusk! Why throw it all away. . . And then he'd slide into another furrow. Once or twice he saw the eagle, forever circling. Why put your hand into a grinder? This place deserves Vorbis! Sheep deserve to be led!" It had been like this when his very first believer had been stoned to death. Of course, by then he had dozens of other believers. But it had been a wrench. It had been upsetting. You never forgot your first believer. They gave you shape. Tortoises are not well equipped for cross-country navigation. They need longer legs or shallower ditches. Om estimated that he was doing less than a fifth of a mile an hour in a direct line, and the Citadel was at least twenty miles away. Occasionally he made good time between the trees in an olive grove, but that was more than pulled back by rocky ground and field walls. All the time, as his legs whirred, Brutha's thoughts buzzed in his head like a distant bee. He tried shouting in his mind again. "What've you got? He's got an army! You've got an army? How many divisions have you got?" But thoughts like that needed energy, and there was a limit to the amount of energy available in one tortoise. He found a bunch of fallen grapes and gobbled them until the juice covered his head, but it didn't make a lot of difference. And then there was nightfall. Nights here weren't as cold as the desert, but they weren't as warm as the day. He'd slow down at night as his blood cooled. He wouldn't be able to think as fast. Or walk as fast. He was losing heat already. Heat meant speed. He pulled himself up on to an anthill"You're going to die! You're going to die!" -and slid down the other side. Preparations for the inauguration of the Cenobiarch Prophet began many hours before the dawn. Firstly, and not according to ancient tradition, there was a very careful search of the temple by Deacon Cusp and some of his colleagues. There was a prowling for tripwires and a poking of odd corners for hidden archers. Although it was against the thread, Deacon Cusp had his head screwed on. He also sent a few squads into the town to round up the usual suspects. The Quisition always found it advisable to leave a few suspects at large. Then you knew where to find them when you needed them. After that a dozen lesser priests arrived to shrive the premises and drive out all afreets, djinns, and devils. Deacon Cusp watched them without comment. He'd never had any personal dealings with supernatural entities, but he knew what a well-placed arrow would do to an unexpecting stomach. Someone tapped him on the rib-cage. He gasped at the sudden linkage of real life into the chain of thought, and reached instinctively for his dagger. "Oh," he said. Lu-Tze nodded and smiled and indicated with his broom that Deacon Cusp was standing on a patch of floor that he, Lu-Tze, wished to sweep. "Hello, you ghastly little yellow fool," said Deacon Cusp. Nod, smile. "Never say a bloody word, do you?" said Deacon Cusp. Smile, smile. "Idiot. " Smile. Smile. Watch. Urn stood back. "Now," he said, "you sure you've got it all?" "Easy," said Simony, who was sitting in the Turtle's saddle. "Tell me again," said Urn. "We-stoke-up-the-firebox," said Simony. "Then-when-thered-needle-points-to-xxvi, turn-the-brass-tap; when-the-bronze-whistle-blows, pull-the-big-lever. And steer by pulling the ropes. " "Right," said Urn. But he still looked doubtful. "It's a precision device," he said. "And I am a professional soldier," said Simony. "I'm not a superstitious peasant. " "Fine, fine. Well. . . if you're sure. . . ' They'd had time to put a few finishing touches to the Moving Turtle. There were serrated edges to the shell and spikes on the wheels. And of course the waste steam pipe. . . he was a little uncertain about the waste steam pipe. . . It's merely a device, said Simony. "It does not present a problem. " Give us an hour, then. You should just get to the Temple by the time we get the doors open. Right. Understood. Off you go. Sergeant Fergmen knows the way. Urn looked at the steam pipe and bit his lip. I don't know what effect it's going to have on the enemy, he thought, but it scares the hells out of me. Brutha woke up, or at least ceased trying to sleep. Lu-Tze had gone. Probably sweeping somewhere. He wandered through the deserted corridors of the novice section. It would be hours before the new Cenobiarch was crowned. There were dozens of ceremonies to be undertaken first. Everyone who was anyone would be in the Place and the surrounding piazzas, and so would the even greater number of people who were no one very much. The sestinas were empty, the endless prayers left unsung. The Citadel might have been dead, were it not for the huge indefinable background roar of tens of thousands of people being silent. Sunlight filtered down through the light-wells. Brutha had never felt more alone. The wilderness had been a feast of fun compared to this. Last night. . . last night, with Lu-Tze, it had all seemed so clear. Last night he had been in a mood to confront Vorbis there and then. Last night there seemed to be a chance. Anything was possible last night. That was the trouble with last nights. They were always followed by this mornings. He wandered out into the kitchen level, and then into the outside world. There were one or two cooks around, preparing the ceremonial meal of meat, bread, and salt, but they paid him no attention at all. He sat down outside one of the slaughterhouses. There was, he knew, a back gate somewhere around. Probably no one would stop him, today, if he walked out. Today they would be looking for unwanted people walking in. He could just walk away. The wilderness had seemed quite pleasant, apart from the thirst and hunger. St. Ungulant with his madness and his mushrooms seemed to have life exactly right. It didn't matter if you fooled yourself provided you didn't let yourself know it, and did it well. Life was so much simpler, in the desert. But there were a dozen guards by the gate. They had an unsympathetic look. He went back to his seat, which was tucked away in a corner, and stared gloomily at the ground.
If Om was alive, surely he could send a sign? A grating by Brutha's sandals lifted itself up a few inches and slid aside. He stared at the hole. A hooded head appeared, stared back, and disappeared again. There was a subterranean whispering. The head reappeared, and was followed by a body. It pulled itself on to the cobbles. The hood was pushed back. The man grinned conspiratorially at Brutha, put his finger to his lips and then, without warning, launched himself at him with violent intent. Brutha rolled across the cobbles and raised his hands frantically as he saw the gleam of metal. One filthy hand clamped against his mouth. A knifeblade made a dramatic and very final silhouette against the lightNo! Why not? We said the first thing we'll do, we'll kill all the priests! Not that one! Brutha dared to swivel his eyes sideways. Although the second figure rising from the hole was also wearing a filthy robe, there was no mistaking the paintbrush hairstyle. He tried to say "Urn?" Shut up, you, said the other man, pressing the knife to his throat. Brutha? said Urn. "You're alive?" Brutha moved his eyes from his captor to Urn in a way which he hoped would indicate that it was too soon to make any commitment on this point. He's all right, said Urn. All right? He's a priest! But he's on our side. Aren't you, Brutha? Brutha tried to nod, and thought: I'm on everyone's side. It'd be nice if, just for once, someone was on mine. The hand was unclamped from his mouth, but the knife remained resting on his throat. Brutha's normally careful thought processes ran like quicksilver. The Turtle Moves? he ventured. The knife was withdrawn, with obvious reluctance. I don't trust him, said the man. "We should shove him down the hole at least. " Brutha's one of us, said Urn. That's right. That's right, said Brutha. "Which ones are you?" Urn leaned closer. How's your memory? Unfortunately, it is fine. Good. Good. Uh. It would be a good idea to stay out of trouble, d'you hear. . . if anything happens. Remember the Turtle. Well, of course you would. What things? Urn patted him on the shoulder, making Brutha think for a moment of Vorbis. Vorbis, who never touched another person inside his head, was a great toucher with his hands. Best if you don't know what's happening, said Urn. But I don't know what's happening, said Brutha. Good. That's the way. The burly man gestured with his knife towards the tunnels that led into the rock. Are we going, or what? he demanded. Urn ran after him and then stopped briefly and turned. Be careful, he said. "We need what's in your head!" Brutha watched them go. So do I, he murmured. And then he was alone again. But he thought: Hold on. I don't have to be. I'm a bishop. At least I can watch. Om's gone and soon the world will end, so at least I might as well watch it happen. Sandals flapping, Brutha set off towards the Place. Bishops move diagonally. That's why they often turn up where the kings don't expect them to be. You godawful idiot! Don't go that way! The sun was well up now. In fact it was probably setting, if Didactylos's theories about the speed of light were correct, but in matters of relativity the point of view of the observer is very important, and from Om's point of view the sun was a golden ball in a flaming orange sky. He pulled himself up another slope, and stared blearily at the distant Citadel. In his mind's eye, he could hear the mocking voices of all small gods. They didn't like a god who had failed. They didn't like that at all. It let them all down. It reminded them of mortality. He'd be thrust out into the deep desert, where no one would ever come. Ever. Until the end of the world. He shivered in his shell. Urn and Fergmen walked nonchalantly through the tunnels of the Citadel, using the kind of nonchalant walk which, had there been anyone to take an interest in it, would have drawn detailed and arrow-sharp attention to them within seconds. But the only people around were those with vital jobs to do. Besides, it was not a good idea to stare too hard at the guards, in case they stared back. Simony had told Urn he'd agreed to this. He couldn't quite remember doing so. The sergeant knew a way into the Citadel, that was sensible. And Urn knew about hydraulics. Fine. Now he was walking through these dry tunnels with his toolbelt clinking. There was a logical connection, but it had been made by someone else. Fergmen turned a corner and stopped by a large grille, which stretched from floor to ceiling. It was very rusty. It might once have been a door-there was a suggestion of hinges, rusted into the stone. Urn peered through the bars. Beyond, in the gloom, there were pipes. Eureka, he said. Going to have a bath, then? said Fergmen. Just keep watch. Urn selected a short crowbar from his belt and inserted it between the grille and the stonework. Give me a foot of good steel and a wall to brace. . . my. . . foot. . . against-the grille ground forward and then popped out with a leaden sound-and I can change the world. . . He stepped inside the long, dark, damp room, and gave a whistle of admiration. No one had done any maintenance for-well, for as long as it took iron hinges to become a mass of crumbling rust-but all this still worked? He looked up at lead and iron buckets bigger than he was, and a tangle of man-sized pipes. This was the breath of God. Probably the last man who knew how it worked had been tortured to death years before. Or as soon as it was installed. Killing the creator was a traditional method of patent-protection. There were the levers and there, hanging over pits in the rock floor, were the two sets of counterweights. Probably it'd only take a few hundred gallons of water to swing the balance either way. Of course, the water'd have to be pumped upSergeant? Fergmen peered round the door. He looked nervous, like an atheist in a thunderstorm. What? Urn pointed. There's a big shaft through the wall there, see? At the bottom of the gear-chain? The what? The big knobbly wheels? Oh. Yeah. Where does the shaft go to? Don't know. There's the big Treadmill of Correction through there. Ah. The breath of God was ultimately the sweat of men. Didactylos would have appreciated the joke, Urn thought. He was aware of a sound that had been there all the time but was only now penetrating through his concentration. It was tinny and faint and full of echoes, but it was voices. From the pipes. The sergeant, to judge by his expression, had heard them too. Urn put his ear to the metal. There was no possibility of making out words, but the general religious rhythm was familiar enough. It's just the service going on in the Temple, he said. "It's probably resonating off the doors and the sound's being carried down the pipes. " Fergmen did not look reassured. No gods are involved in any way, Urn translated. He turned his attention to the pipes again. Simple principle, said Urn, more to himself than to Fergmen. "Water pours into the reservoirs on the weights, disturbing the equilibrium. One lot of weights descends and the other rises up the shaft in the wall. The weight of the door is immaterial. As the bottom weights descend, these buckets here tip over, pouring the water out. Probably quite a smooth action. Perfect equilibrium at either end of the movement, too. Nicely thought out. " He caught Fergmen's expression. Water goes in and out and the doors swing open, he translated. "So all we've got to do is wait for. . . what did he say the sign would be?" They'll blow a trumpet when they're through the main gate, said Fergmen, pleased to be of service. Right. Urn eyed the weights and the reservoirs overhead. The bronze pipes dripped with corrosion. But perhaps we'd better just check that we know what we're doing, he said. "It probably takes a minute or two before the doors start moving. " He fumbled under his robe and produced something that looked, to Fergmen's eye, very much like a torture instrument. This must have communicated itself to Urn, who said very slowly and kindly: This is an ad-just-ab-ble span-ner.
Yes? It's for twisting nuts off. Fergmen nodded miserably. Yes? he said. And this is a bottle of penetrating oil. Oh, good. Just give me a leg up, will you? It'll take time to unhook the linkage to the valve, so we might as well make a start. Urn heaved himself into the ancient machinery while, above, the ceremony droned on. Cut-Me-Own-Hand-Off Dhblah was all for new prophets. He was even in favour of the end of the world, if he could get the concession to sell religious statues, cut-price icons, rancid sweetmeats, fermenting dates, and putrescent olives on a stick to any watching crowds. Subsequently, this was his testament. There never was a Book of the Prophet Brutha, but an enterprising scribe, during what came to be called the Renovation, did assemble some notes, and Dhblah had this to say: I. I was standing right by the statue of Ossory, right, when I noticed Brutha just beside me. Everyone was keeping away from him because of him being a bishop and they do things to you if you jostle bishops. II. I said to him, hello, Your Graciousness, and offered him a yoghurt practically free. III. He responded, no. IV. I said, it's very healthy, it's a live yoghurt. V. He said, yes, he could see. VI. He was staring at the doors. This was about the time of the third gong, right, so we all knew we'd got hours to wait. He was looking a bit down and it's not as if he even ate the yoghurt, which I admit was on the hum a bit, what with the heat. I mean, it was more alive than usual. I mean, I had to keep hitting it with a spoon to stop it getting out of the. . . all right. I was just explaining about the yoghurt. All right. I mean, you want to put a bit of colour in, don't you? People like a bit of colour It was green. VII. He just stood there, staring. So I said, got a problem, Your Reverence? Upon which he vouchsafed, I cannot hear him. I said, what is this he to whom what you refer? He said, if he was here, he would send me a sign. VIII. There is no truth whatsoever in the rumour that I ran away at this juncture. It was just the pressure of the crowd. I have never been a friend of the Quisition. I might have sold them food, but I always charged them extra. IX. Anyway, right, then he pushed through the line of guards what was holding the crowd back and stood right in front of the doors, and they weren't sure what to do about bishops, and I heard him say something like, I carried you in the desert, I believed all my life, just give me this one thing. X. Something like that, anyway. How about some yoghurt? Bargain offer. Onna stick. " Om lifted himself over a creeper-clad wall by grasping tendrils in his beak and hauling himself up by the neck muscles. Then he fell down the other side. The Citadel was as far away as ever. Brutha's mind was flaming like a beacon in Om's senses. There's a streak of madness in everyone who spends quality time with gods, and it was driving the boy now. "It's too soon!" Om yelled. "You need followers! It can't be just you! You can't do it by yourself! You have to get disciples first!" Simony turned to look down the length of the Turtle. Thirty men were crouched under the shell, looking very apprehensive. A corporal saluted. "The needle's there, sergeant. " The brass whistle whistled. Simony picked up the steering ropes. This was what war should be, he thought. No uncertainty. A few more Turtles like this, and no one would ever fight again. "Stand by," he said. He pulled the big lever hard. The brittle metal snapped in his hand. Give anyone a lever long enough and they can change the world. It's unreliable levers that are the problem. In the depths of the Temple's hidden plumbing, Urn grasped a bronze pipe firmly with his spanner and gave the nut a cautious turn. It resisted. He changed position, and grunted as he used more pressure. With a sad little metal sound, the pipe twisted-and broke. . . Water gushed out, hitting him in the face. He dropped the tool and tried to block the flow with his fingers, but it spurted around his hands and gurgled down the channel towards one of the weights. "Stop it! Stop it!" he shouted. "What?" said Fergmen, several feet below him. "Stop the water!" "How?" "The pipe's broken!" "I thought that's what we wanted to do?" "Not yet!" "Stop shouting, mister! There's guards around!" Urn let the water gush for a moment as he struggled out of his robe, and then he rammed the sodden material into the pipe. It shot out again with some force and slapped wetly against the lead funnel, sliding down until it blocked the tube that led to the weights. The water piled up behind it and then spilled over on to the floor. Urn glanced at the weight. It hadn't begun to move. He relaxed slightly. Now, provided there was still enough water to make the weight drop. . . "Both of you-stand still. " He looked around, his mind going numb. There was a heavy-set man in a black robe standing in the stricken doorway. Behind him, a guard held a sword in a meaningful manner. "Who are you? Why are you here?" Urn hesitated for only a moment. He gestured with his spanner. "Well, it's the seating, innit," he said. "You've got shocking seepage around the seating. Amazing it holds together. " The man stepped into the room. He glared uncertainly at Urn for a moment and then turned his attention to the gushing pipe. And then back to Urn. "But you're not-” he began. He spun around as Fergmen hit the guard hard with a length of broken pipe. When he turned back, Urn's spanner caught him full in the stomach. Urn wasn't strong, but it was a long spanner, and the wellknown principles of leverage did the rest. He doubled up and then sagged backwards against one of the weights. What happened next happened in frozen time. Deacon Cusp grabbed at the weight for support. It sank down, ponderously, his extra poundage adding to the weight of the water. He clawed higher. It sank further, dropping below the lip of the pit. He sought for balance again, but this time it was against fresh air, and he tumbled on top of the falling weight. Urn saw his face staring up at him as the weight fell into the gloom. With a lever, he could change the world. It had certainly changed it for Deacon Cusp. It had made it stop existing. Fergmen was standing over the guard, his pipe raised. I know this one, he said. "I'm going to give him a-” "Never mind about that!" "But-” Above them linkage clanked into action. There was a distant creaking of bronze against bronze. Let's get out of here, said Urn. "Only the gods know what's happening up there. " And blows rained on the unmoving Moving Turtle's carapace. Damn! Damn! Damn! shouted Simony, thumping it again. "Move! I command you to move! Can you understand plain Ephebian! Move!" The unmoving machine leaked steam and sat there. And Om pulled himself up the slope of a small hill. So it came to this, then. There was only one way to get to the Citadel now. It was a million-to-one chance, with any luck. And Brutha stood in front of the huge doors, oblivious to the crowd and the muttering guards. The Quisition could arrest anyone, but the guards weren't certain what happened to you if you apprehended an archbishop, especially one so recently favoured by the Prophet. Just a sign, Brutha thought, in the loneliness of his head. The doors trembled, and swung slowly outwards. Brutha stepped forward. He wasn't fully conscious now, not in any coherent way as understood by normal people. Just one part of him was still capable of looking at the state of his own mind and thinking: perhaps the Great Prophets felt like this all the time. The thousands inside the temple were looking around in confusion. The choirs of lesser Iams paused in their chant. Brutha walked on up the aisle, the only one with a purpose in the suddenly bewildered throng. Vorbis was standing in the centre of the temple, under the vault of the dome. Guards hurried toward Brutha, but Vorbis raised a hand in a gentle but very positive movement. Now Brutha could take in the scene. There was the staff of Ossory, and Abbys's cloak, and the sandals of Cena.
And, supporting the dome, the massive statues of the first four prophets. He'd never seen them. He'd heard about them every day of his childhood. And what did they mean now? They didn't mean anything. Nothing meant anything, if Vorbis was Prophet. Nothing meant anything, if the Cenobiarch was a man who'd heard nothing in the inner spaces of his own head but his own thoughts. He was aware that Vorbis's gesture had not only halted the guards, although they surrounded him like a hedge. It had also filled the temple with silence. Into which Vorbis spoke. Ah. My Brutha. We had looked for you in vain. And now even you are here. . . Brutha stopped a few feet away. The moment of. . . whatever it had been. . . that had propelled him through the doors had drained away. Now all there was, was Vorbis. Smiling. The part of him still capable of thought was thinking: there is nothing you can say. No one will listen. No one will care. It doesn't matter what you tell people about Ephebe, and Brother Murduck, and the desert. It won't be fundamentally true. Fundamentally true. That's what the world is, with Vorbis in it. Vorbis said, "There is something wrong? Something you wish to say?" The black-on-black eyes filled the world, like two pits. Brutha's mind gave up, and Brutha's body took over. It brought his hand back and raised it, oblivious to the sudden rush forward of the guards. He saw Vorbis turn his cheek, and smile. Brutha stopped, and lowered his hand. He said, "No. I won't. " Then, for the first and only time, he saw Vorbis really enraged. There had been times before when the deacon had been angry, but it had been something driven by the brain, switched on and off as the need arose. This was something else, something out of control. And it flashed across his face only for a moment. As the hands of the guards closed on him, Vorbis stepped forward and patted him on the shoulder. He looked Brutha in the eye for a moment and then said softly: Thrash him within an inch of his life and burn him the rest of the way. An Iam began to speak, but stopped when he saw Vorbis's expression. Do it now. A world of silence. No sound up here, except the rush of wind through the feathers. Up here the world is round, bordered by a band of sea. The viewpoint is from horizon to horizon, the sun is closer. And yet, looking down, looking for shapes. . . . . . down in the farmland on the edge of the wilderness. . . . . . on a small hill. . . . . . a tiny moving dome, ridiculously exposed. . . No sound but the rush of wind through feathers as the eagle pulls in its wings and drops like an arrow, the world spinning around the little moving shape that is the focus of all the eagle's attention. Closer and. . . . . . talons down. . . . . . grip. . . . . . and rise. . . Brutha opened his eyes. His back was merely agonising He'd long ago got used to switching off pain. But he was spread-eagled on a surface, his arms and legs chained to something he couldn't see. Sky above. The towering frontage of the temple to one side. By turning his head a little he could see the silent crowd. And the brown metal of the iron turtle. He could smell smoke. Someone was just tightening the shackles on his hand. Brutha looked over at the inquisitor. Now, what was it he had to say? Oh, yes. The Turtle Moves? he mumbled. The man sighed. Not this one, friend, he said. The world spun under Om as the eagle sought for shellcracking height, and his mind was besieged by the tortoise's existential dread of being off the ground. And Brutha's thoughts, bright and clear this close to death. . . I'm on my back and getting hotter and I'm going to die. . . Careful, careful. Concentrate, concentrate. It'll let go any second. . . Om stuck out his long scrawny neck, stared at the body just above him, picked what he hoped was about the right spot, plunged his beak through the brown feathers between the talons, and gripped. The eagle blinked. No tortoise had ever done that to an eagle, anywhere else in history. Om's thoughts arrived in the little silvery world of its mind: We don't want to hurt one another, now do we? The eagle blinked again. Eagles have never evolved much imagination or forethought, beyond that necessary to know that a turtle smashes when you drop it on the rocks. But it was forming a mental picture of what happened when you let go of a heavy tortoise that was still intimately gripping an essential bit of you. Its eyes watered. Another thought crept into its mind. Now. You play, uh, ball with me, I'll play. . . ball with you. Understand? This is important. This is what I want you to do. . . The eagle soared on a thermal off the hot rocks, and sped towards the distant gleam of the Citadel. No tortoise had ever done this before. No tortoise in the whole universe. But no tortoise had ever been a god, and knew the unwritten motto of the Quisition: Cuius testiculos habes, habeas cardia et cerebellum. When you have their full attention in your grip, their hearts and minds will follow. Urn pushed his way through the crowds, with Fergmen trailing behind. That was the best and the worst of civil war, at least at the start-everyone wore the same uniform. It was much easier when you picked enemies who were a different colour or at least spoke with a funny accent. You could call them "gooks" or something. It made things easier. Hey, Urn thought. This is nearly philosophy. Pity I probably won't live to tell anyone. The big doors were ajar. The crowd was silent, and very attentive. He craned forward to see, and then looked up at the soldier beside him. It was Simony. I thought-” It didn't work," said Simony, bitterly. "Did you-?" "We did everything! Something broke!" "It must be the steel they make here," said Urn. "The link pins on-” That doesn't matter now, said Simony. The flat tones of his voice made Urn follow the eyes of the crowd. There was another iron turtle there-a proper model of a turtle, mounted on a sort of open gridwork of metal bars in which a couple of inquisitors were even now lighting a fire. And chained to the back of the turtleWho's that? Brutha. What? I don't know what happened. He hit Vorbis, or didn't hit him. Or something. Enraged him anyway. Vorbis stopped the ceremony, right there and then. Urn glanced at the deacon. Not Cenobiarch yet, so uncrowned. Among the Iams and bishops standing uncertainly in the open doorway, his bald head gleamed in the morning light. Come on, then, said Urn. Come on what? We can rush the steps and save him! There's more of them than there are of us, said Simony. Well, haven't there always been? There's not magically more of them than there are of us just because they've got Brutha, are there? Simony grabbed his arm. Think logically, will you? he said. "You're a philosopher, aren't you? Look at the crowd!" Urn looked at the crowd. Well? They don't like it,. Simon turned. "Look, Brutha's going to die anyway. But this way it'll mean something. People don't understand, really understand, about the shape of the universe and all that stuff, but they'll remember what Vorbis did to a man. Right? We can make Brutha's death a symbol for people, don't you see?" Urn stared at the distant figure of Brutha. It was naked, except for a loin-cloth. A symbol? he said. His throat was dry. It has to be. He remembered Didactylos saying the world was a funny place. And, he thought distantly, it really was. Here people were about to roast someone to death, but they'd left his loin-cloth on, out of respectability. You had to laugh. Otherwise you'd go mad. You know, he said, turning to Simony. "Now I know Vorbis is evil. He burned my city. Well, the Tsorteans do it sometimes, and we burn theirs. It's just war. It's all part of history. And he lies and cheats and claws power for himself, and lots of people do that, too. But do you know what's special? Do you know what it is?" Of course, said Simony. "It's what he's doing to-” "It's what he's done to you. " "What?" "He turns other people into copies of himself. " Simony's grip was like a vice.
"You're saying I'm like him?" "Once you said you'd cut him down," said Urn. "Now you're thinking like him. . . So we rush them, then? said Simony. "I'm sure of-maybe four hundred on our side. So I give the signal and a few hundred of us attack thousands of them? And he dies anyway and we die too? What difference does that make?" Urn's face was grey with horror now. You mean you don't know? he said. Some of the crowd looked round curiously at him. You don't know? he said. The sky was blue. The sun wasn't high enough yet to turn it into Omnia's normal copper bowl. Brutha turned his head again, towards the sun. It was about a width above the horizon, although if Didactylos's theories about the speed of light were correct, it was really setting, thousands of years in the future. It was eclipsed by the head of Vorbis. Hot yet, Brutha? said the deacon. Warm. It will get warmer. There was a disturbance in the crowd. Someone was shouting. Vorbis ignored it. Nothing you want to say? he said. "Can't you manage even a curse? Not even a curse?" You never heard Om, said Brutha. "You never believed. You never, ever heard his voice. All you heard were the echoes inside your own mind. " Really? But I am the Cenobiarch and you are going to burn for treachery and heresy, said Vorbis. "So much for Om, perhaps?" There will be justice, said Brutha. "If there is no justice, there is nothing. " He was aware of a small voice in his head, too faint yet to distinguish words. Justice? said Vorbis. The idea seemed to enrage him. He spun around to the crowd of bishops. "Did you hear him? There will be justice? Om has judged! Through me! This is justice!" There was a speck in the sun now, speeding toward the Citadel. And the little voice was saying left left left up up left right a bit up left-The mass of metal under him was getting uncomfortably hot. He comes now, said Brutha. Vorbis waved his hand to the great facade of the temple. "Men built this. We built this," he said. "And what did Om do? Om comes? Let him come! Let him judge between us!" He comes now, Brutha repeated. "The God. " People looked apprehensively upward. There was that moment, just one moment, when the world holds its breath and against all experience waits for a miracle. -up left now, when I say three, one, two, THREEVorbis? croaked Brutha. What? snapped the deacon. You're going to die. It was hardly a whisper, but it bounced off the bronze doors and carried across the Place. . . It made people uneasy, although they couldn't quite say why. The eagle sped across the square, so low that people ducked. Then it cleared the roof of the temple and curved away towards the mountains. The watchers relaxed. It was only an eagle. For a moment there, just for a moment. . . No one saw the tiny speck, tumbling down from the sky. Don't put your faith in gods. But you can believe in turtles. A feeling of rushing wind in Brutha's mind, and a voice. . . -obuggerbuggerbuggerhelpaarghnoNoNoAarghBuggerNONOAARGHEven Vorbis got a grip of himself. There had been just a moment, when he'd seen the eagle-but, no. . . He extended his arms and smiled beatifically at the sky. I'm sorry, said Brutha. One or two people, who had been watching Vorbis closely, said later that there was just time for his expression to change before two pounds of tortoise, travelling at three meters a second, hit him between the eyes. It was a revelation. And that does something to people watching. For a start, they believe with all their heart. Brutha was aware of feet running up the steps, and hands pulling at the chains. And then a voice: I. He is Mine. The Great God rose over the Temple, billowing and changing as the belief of thousands of people flowed into him. There were shapes there, of eagle-headed men, and bulls, and golden horns, but they tangled and flamed and fused into one another. Four bolts of fire whirred out of the cloud and burst the chains holding Brutha. II. He Is Cenobiarch And Prophet of Prophets. The voice of theophany rumbled off the distant mountains. III. Do I Hear Any Objections? No? Good. The cloud had by now condensed into a shimmering golden figure, as tall as the Temple. It leaned down until its face was a few feet away from Brutha, and in a whisper that boomed across the Place said: IV. Don't Worry. This Is Just The Start. You and Me, Kid! People Are Going To Find Out What Wailing and Gnashing Of Teeth Really Is. Another shaft of flame shot out and struck the Temple doors. They slammed shut, and then the white-hot bronze melted, erasing the commandments of the centuries. V. What Shall It Be, Prophet? Brutha stood up, unsteadily. Urn supported him by one arm, and Simony by the other. Mm? he said, muzzily. VI. Your Commandments? I thought they were supposed to come from you, said Brutha. "I don't know if I can think of any. . . The world waited. "How about `Think for Yourself'?" said Urn, staring in horrified fascination at the manifestation. "No," said Simony. "Try something likèSocial Cohesiveness is the Key to Progress. ' " "Can't say it rolls off the tongue," said Urn. "If I can be of any help," said Cut-Me-Own-Hand-Off Dhblah, from the crowd, "something of benefit to the convenience food industry would be very welcome. " "Not killing people. We could do with one like that," said someone else. "It'd be a good start," said Urn. They looked at the Chosen One. He shook himself free of their grip and stood alone, swaying a little. "No-oo," said Brutha. "No. I thought like that once, but it wouldn't. Not really. " Now, he said. Only now. Just one point in history. Not tomorrow, not next month, it'll always be too late unless it's now. They stared at him. "Come on," said Simony. "What's wrong with it? You can't argue with it. " "It's hard to explain," said Brutha. "But I think it's got something to do with how people should behave. I think. . you should do things because they're right. Not because gods say so. They might say something different another time. " VII. I Like One About Not Killing, said Om, from far above. VIII. It's Got A Good Ring To It. Hurry Up, I've Got Some Smiting To Do. You see? said Brutha. "No. No smiting. No commandments unless you obey them too. " Om thumped on the roof of the Temple. IX. You Order Me? Here? NOW? ME? No. I ask. X. That's Worse Than Ordering! Everything works both ways. Om thumped his Temple again. A wall caved in. That part of the crowd that hadn't managed to stampede from the Place redoubled its efforts. XI. There Must Be Punishment! Otherwise There Will Be No Order! ` No. XII. I Do Not Need You! I Have Believers Enough Now! But only through me. And, perhaps, not for long. It will all happen again. It's happened before. It happens all the time. That's why gods die. They never believe in people. But you have a chance. All you need to do is. . . believe. XIII. What? Listen To Stupid Prayers? Watch Over Small Children? Make It Rain? Sometimes. Not always. It could be a bargain. XIV. BARGAIN! I don't Bargain! Not With Humans! Bargain now, said Brutha. "While you have the chance. Or one day you'll have to bargain with Simony, or someone like him. Or Urn, or someone like him. " XV. I Could Destroy You Utterly. Yes. I am entirely in your power. XVI. I Could Crush You Like An Egg! Yes. Om paused. Then he said: XVII. You Can't Use Weakness As A Weapon. It's the only one I've got. XVIII. Why Should I Yield, Then? Not yield. Bargain. Deal with me in weakness. Or one day you'll have to bargain with someone in a position of strength. The world changes. XIX. Hah! You Want A Constitutional Religion? Why not? The other sort didn't work. Om leaned on the Temple, his temper subsiding. Chap. II v. l. Very Well, Then. But Only For A Time. A grin spread across the enormous, smoking face. For One Hundred Years, Yes? And after a hundred years? II. We Shall See. Agreed. A finger the length of a tree unfolded, descended, touched Brutha. III. You Have A Persuasive Way. You Will Need It. A Fleet Approaches. Ephebians? said Simony. IV. And Tsorteans. And Djelibeybians. And Klatchians.
Every Free Country Along The Coast. To Stamp Out Omnia For Good. Or Bad. You don't have many friends, do you? said Urn. Even I don't like us much, and I am us, said Simony. He looked up at the god. Will you help? V. You Don't Even Believe In Me! Yes, but I'm a practical man. VI. And Brave, Too, To Declare Atheism Before Your God. This doesn't change anything, you know! said Simony. "Don't think you can get round me by existing! " No help, said Brutha, firmly. What? said Simony. "We'll need a mighty army against that lot!" Yes. And we haven't got one. So we'll do it another way. You're crazy! Brutha's calmness was like a desert. This may be the case. We have to fight! Not yet. Simony clenched his fists in anger. Look. . . listen. . . We died for lies, for centuries we died for lies. He waved a hand towards the god. "Now we've got a truth to die for!" No. Men should die for lies. But the truth is too precious to die for. Simony's mouth opened and shut soundlessly as he sought for words. Finally, he found some from the dawn of his education. I was told it was the finest thing to die for a god, he mumbled. Vorbis said that. And he was. . . stupid. You can die for your country or your people or your family, but for a god you should live fully and busily, every day of along life. And how long is that going to be? We shall see. Brutha looked up at Om. You will not show yourself like this again? Chap. III v. I. No. Once Is Enough. Remember the desert. II. I Will Remember. Walk with me. Brutha went over to the body of Vorbis and picked it up. I think, he said, "that they will land on the beach on the Ephebian side of the forts. They won't use the rock shore and they can't use the cliffs. I'll meet them there. " He glanced down at Vorbis. "Someone should. " You can't mean you want to go by yourself? Ten thousand won't be sufficient. One might be enough. He walked down the steps. Urn and Simony watched him go. He's going to die, said Simony. "He won't even be a patch of grease on the sand. " He turned to Om. "Can you stop him?" III. It May Be That I Cannot. Brutha was already halfway across the Place. Well, we're not deserting him, said Simony. IV. Good. Om watched them go, too. And then he was alone, except for the thousands watching him, crammed around the edges of the great square. He wished he knew what to say to them. That's why he needed people like Brutha. That's why all gods needed people like Brutha. Excuse me? The god looked down. V. Yes? Um. I can't sell you anything, can I? VI. What Is Your Name? Dhblah, god. VII. Ah, Yes. And What Is It You Wish? The merchant hopped anxiously from one foot to the other. You couldn't manage just a small commandment? Something about eating yoghurt on Wednesdays, say? It's always very difficult to shift, midweek. VIII. You Stand Before Your God And Look For Business Opportunities? We-ell, said Dhblah, "we could come to an arrangement. Strike while the iron is hot, as the inquisitors say. Haha. Twenty percent? How about it? After expenses, of course-” The Great God Om smiled. IX. I Think You Will Make A Little Prophet, Dhblah, he said. "Right. Right. That's all I'm looking for. Just trying to make both ends hummus. " X. Tortoises Are To Be Left Alone. Dhblah put his head on one side. "Doesn't sing, does it?" he said. "But. . . tortoise necklaces. . . hmm. . . brooches, of course. Tortoiseshel-” XI. NO! Sorry, sorry. See what you mean. All right. Tortoise statues. Ye-ess. I thought about them. Nice shape. Incidentally, you couldn't make a statue wobble every now and again, could you? Very good for business wobbling statues. The statue of Ossory wobbles eve; Fast of Ossory, reg'lar. By means of a small piston device operated in the basement, it is said. But very good for the prophets, all the same. XII. You Make me Laugh, Little Prophet. Sell Your Tortoises, By All Means. Tell you the truth, said Dhblah, "I've already drawn a few designs just now. . . " Om vanished. There was a brief thunderclap. Dhblah looked reflectively at his sketches. . . . but I suppose I'll have to take the little figure off them, he said, more or less to himself. The shade of Vorbis looked around. Ah. The desert, he said. The black sand was absolutely still under the starlit sky. It looked cold. He hadn't planned on dying yet. In fact. . . he couldn't quite remember how he'd died. . . The desert, he repeated, and this time there was a hint of uncertainty. He'd never been uncertain about anything in his. . . life. The feeling was unfamiliar and terrifying. Did ordinary people feel like this? He got a grip on himself. Death was impressed. Very few people managed this, managed to hold on to the shape of their old thinking after death. Death took no pleasure in his job. It was an emotion he found hard to grasp. But there was such a thing as satisfaction. So, said Vorbis. "The desert. And at the end of the desert?" JUDGEMENT. Yes, yes, of course. Vorbis tried to concentrate. He couldn't. He could feel certainty draining away. And he'd always been certain. He hesitated, like a man opening a door to a familiar room and finding nothing there but a bottomless pit. The memories were still there. He could feel them. They had the right shape. It was just that he couldn't remember what they were. There had been a voice. . . . Surely, there had been a voice? But all he could remember was the sound of his own thoughts, bouncing off the inside of his own head. Now he had to cross the desert. What could there be to fear? The desert was what you believed. Vorbis looked inside himself. And went on looking. He sagged to his knees. I CAN SEE THAT YOU ARE BUSY, said Death. Don't leave me! It's so empty! Death looked around at the endless desert. He snapped his fingers and a large white horse trotted up. I SEE A HUNDRED THOUSAND PEOPLE, he said, swinging himself into the saddle. Where? Where? HERE. WITH YOU. I can't see them! Death gathered up the reins. NEVERTHELESS, he said. His horse trotted forward a few steps. I don't understand! screamed Vorbis. Death paused. YOU HAVE PERHAPS HEARD THE PHRASE, he said, THAT HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE? Yes. Yes, of course. Death nodded. IN TIME, he said, YOU WILL LEARN THAT IT IS WRONG. The first boats grounded in the shallows, and the troops leapt into shoulder-high surf. No one was quite sure who was leading the fleet. Most of the countries along the coast hated one another, not in any personal sense, but simply on a kind of historical basis. On the other hand, how much leadership was necessary? Everyone knew where Omnia was. None of the countries in the fleet hated the others worse than they did Omnia. Now it was necessary for it. . . not to exist. General Argavisti of Ephebe considered that he was in charge, because although he didn't have the most ships he was avenging the attack on Ephebe. But Imperiator Borvorius of Tsort knew that he was in charge, because there were more Tsortean ships than any others. And Admiral Rham-ap-Efan of Djelibeybi knew that he was in charge, because he was the kind of person who always thought he was in charge of anything. The only captain who did not, in fact, think that he was commanding the fleet was Fasta Benj, a fisherman from a very small nation of marsh-dwelling nomads of whose existence all the other countries were in complete ignorance, and whose small reed boat had been in the path of the fleet and had got swept along. Since his tribe believed that there were only fifty-one people in the world, worshipped a giant newt, spoke a very personal language which no one else understood, and had never seen metal or fire before, he was spending a lot of time wearing a puzzled grin. Clearly they had reached a shore, not of proper mud and reeds, but of very small gritty bits. He lugged his little reed boat up the sand, and sat down with interest to see what the men in the feathery hats and shiny fish-scale vests were going to do next. General Argavisti scanned the beach. They must have seen us coming, he said. "So why would they let us establish a beachhead?" Heat haze wavered over the dunes.
A dot appeared, growing and contracting in the shimmering air. More troops poured ashore. General Argavisti shaded his eyes against the sun. Fella's just standing there, he said. Could be a spy, said Borvorius. Don't see how he could be a spy in his own country, said Argavisti. "Anyway, if he was a spy he'd be creepin' around. That's how you can tell. " The figure had stopped at the foot of the dunes. There was something about it that drew the eye. Argavisti had faced many an opposing army, and this was normal. One patiently waiting figure was not. He found he kept turning to look at it. S'carrying something, he said eventually. "Sergeant? Go and bring that man here. " A few minutes later the sergeant returned. Says he'll meet you in the middle of the beach, sir, he reported. Didn't I tell you to bring him here? He didn't want to come, sir. You've got a sword, haven't you? Yessir. Prodded him a bit, but he dint want to move, sir. And he's carrying a dead body, sir. On a battlefield? It's not bring-your-own, you know. And. . . sir? What? Says he's probably the Cenobiarch, sir. Wants to talk about a peace treaty. Oh, he does? Peace treaty? We know about peace treaties with Omnia. Go and tell. . . no. Take a couple of men and bring him here. Brutha walked back between the soldiers, through the organised pandemonium of the camp. I ought to feel afraid, he thought. I was always afraid in the Citadel. But not now. This is through fear and out the other side. Occasionally one of the soldiers would give him a push. It's not allowed for an enemy to walk freely into a camp, even if he wants to. He was brought before a trestle table, behind which sat half a dozen large men in various military styles, and one small olive-skinned man who was gutting a fish and grinning hopefully at everyone. Well, now, said Argavisti, "Cenobiarch of Omnia, eh?" Brutha dropped Vorbis's body on to the sand. Their gaze followed it. I know him-” said Borvorius. Vorbis! Someone killed him at last, eh? And will you stop trying to sell me fish? Does anyone know who this man is?" he added, indicating Fasta Benj. It was a tortoise, said Brutha. Was it? Not surprised. Never did trust them, always creeping around. Look, I said no fish! He's not one of mine, I know that. Is he one of yours? Argavisti waved a hand irritably. "Who sent you, boy?" No one. I came by myself. But you could say I come from the future. Are you a philosopher? Where's your sponge? You've come to wage war on Omnia. This would not be a good idea. From Omnia's point of view, yes. From everyone's. You will probably defeat us. But not all of us. And then what will you do? Leave a garrison? For ever? And eventually a new generation will retaliate. Why you did this won't mean anything to them. You'll be the oppressors. They'll fight. They might even win. And there'll be another war. And one day people will say: why didn't they sort it all out, back then? On the beach. Before it all started. Before all those people died. Now we have that chance. Aren't we lucky? Argavisti stared at him. Then he nudged Borvorius. What did he say? Borvorius, who was better at thinking than the others, said, "Are you talking about surrender?" Yes. If that's the word. Argavisti exploded. You can't do that! Someone will have to. Please listen to me. Vorbis is dead. He's paid. Not enough. What about your soldiers? They tried to sack our city! Do your soldiers obey your orders? Certainly! And they'd cut me down here and now if you commanded it? I should say so! And I'm unarmed, said Brutha. The sun beat down on an awkward pause. When I say they'd obey-” Argavisti began. We were not sent here to parley," said Borvorius abruptly. "Vorbis's death changes nothing fundamental. We are here to see that Omnia is no longer a threat. " "It is not. We will sent materials and people to help rebuild Ephebe. And gold, if you like. We will reduce the size of our army. And so on. Consider us beaten. We will even open Omnia to whatever other religions wish to build holy places here. " A voice echoed in his head, like the person behind you who says, "Put the red Queen on the black King," when you think you have been playing all by yourself. . . I. What? "This will encourage. . . local effort," said Brutha. II Other Gods? Here? "There will be free trade along the coast. I wish to see Omnia take its place among its fellow nations. " III. I heard You Mention Other Gods. "Its place is at the bottom," said Borvorius. "No. That won't work. " IV. Could We Please Get Back To The Matter Of Other Gods? "Will you please excuse me a moment?" said Brutha, brightly. "I need to pray. " Even Argavisti raised no objection as Brutha walked off a little way up the beach. As St. Ungulant preached to any who would listen, there were plus points in being a madman. People hesitated to stop you, in case it made things worse. "Yes?" said Brutha, under his breath. V. I Don't Seem To Recall Any Discussion About Other Gods Being Worshipped In Omnia? "Ah, but it'll work for you," said Brutha. "People will soon see that those other ones are no good at all, won't they?" He crossed his fingers behind his back. VI. This Is Religion, Boy. Not Comparison Bloody Shopping! You Shall Not Subject Your God To Market Forces! "I'm sorry. I can see that you would be worried about-” VII. Worried? Me? By A Bunch Of Primping Women And Musclebound Posers In Curly Beards? Fine. Is that settled, then? VIII. They Won't Last Five Minutes!. . . what? And now I'd better go and talk to these men one more time. His eye was caught by a movement among the dunes. Oh, no, he said. "The idiots. . . He turned and ran desperately toward the beached fleet. "No! It's not like that! Listen! Listen!" But they had seen the army, too. It looked impressive, perhaps more impressive than it really was. When news gets through that a huge enemy fleet has beached with the intent of seriously looting, pillaging, and-because they are from civilised countries-whistling and making catcalls at the women and impressing them with their flash bloody uniforms and wooing them away with their flash bloody consumer goods, I don't know, show them a polished bronze mirror and it goes right to their heads, you'd think there was something wrong with the local lads. . . then people either head for the hills or pick up some handy, swingable object, get Granny to hide the family treasures in her drawers, and prepare to make a fight of it. And, in the lead, the iron cart. Steam poured out of its funnel. Urn must have got it working again. "Stupid! Stupid!" Brutha shouted, to the world in general, and carried on running. The fleet was already forming battle-lines, and its commander, whichever he was, was amazed to see an apparent attack by one man. Borvorius caught him as he plunged towards a line of spears. "I see," he said. "Keep us talking while your soldiers got into position, eh?" "No! I didn't want that!" Borvorius's eyes narrowed. He had not survived the many wars of his life by being a stupid man. "No," he said, "maybe you didn't. But it doesn't matter. Listen to me, my innocent little priest. Sometimes there has to be a war. Things go too far for words. There's. . . other forces. Now. . . go back to your people. Maybe we'll both be alive when all this is over and then we can talk. Fight first, talk after. That's how it works, boy. That's history. Now, go back. " Brutha turned away. I. Shall I Smite Them? "No!" Il. I Could Make Them As Dust. Just Say The Word. "No. That's worse than war. " III. But You Said A God Must Protect His People "What would we be if I told you to crush honest men?" IV. Not Stuck Full Of Arrows? No. The Omnians were assembling among the dunes. A lot of them had clustered around the iron-shielded cart. Brutha looked at it through a mist of despair. "Didn't I say I'd go down there alone?" he said. Simony, who was leaning against the Turtle, gave him a grim smile. "Did it work?" he said. "I think. . . it didn't. " "I knew it. Sorry you had to find out.
Things have a way of wanting to happen, see? Sometimes you get people facing off and. . . that's it. " "But if only people would-” Yeah. You could use that as a commandment. There was a clanging noise, and a hatch opened on the side of the Turtle. Urn emerged, backward, holding a spanner. What is this thing? said Brutha. It's a machine for fighting, said Simony. "The Turtle Moves, eh?" For fighting Ephebians? said Brutha. Urn turned around. What? he said. You've built this. . . this thing. . . to fight Ephebians? Well. . . no. . . no, said Urn, looking bewildered. "We're fighting Ephebians?" Everyone, said Simony. But I never. . . I'm an. . . I never-” Brutha looked at the spiked wheels and the sawedged plates around the edge of the Turtle. It's a device that goes by itself," said Urn. "We were going to use it for. . . I mean. . . look, I never wanted it to. . . ' We need it now, said Simony. Which we? What comes out of the big long spout thing at the front? said Brutha. Steam, said Urn dully. "It's connected to the safety valve. " Oh. It comes out very hot, said Urn, sagging even more. Oh? Scalding, in fact. Brutha's gaze drifted from the steam funnel to the rotating knives. Very philosophical, he said. We were going to use it against Vorbis, said Urn. And now you're not. It's going to be used against Ephebians. You know, I used to think I was stupid, and then I met philosophers. Simony broke the silence by patting Brutha on the shoulder. It will all work out, he said. "We won't lose. After all," he smiled encouragingly, "we have God on our side. " Brutha turned. His fist shot out. It wasn't a scientific blow, but it was hard enough to spin Simony around. He clutched his chin. What was that for? Isn't this what you wanted? We get the gods we deserve, said Brutha, "and I think we don't deserve any. Stupid. Stupid. The sanest man I've met this year lives up a pole in the desert. Stupid. I think I ought to join him. " I. Why? Gods and men, men and gods, said Brutha. "Everything happens because things have happened before. Stupid. " II. But You Are The Chosen One. Choose someone else. Brutha strode off through the ragged army. No one tried to stop him. He reached the path that led up to the cliffs, and did not even turn to look at the battlelines. Aren't you going to watch the battle? I need someone to watch the battle. Didactylos was sitting on a rock, his hands folded on his stick. Oh, hello, said Brutha, bitterly. "Welcome to Omnia. " It helps if you're philosophical about it, said Didactylos. But there's no reason to fight! Yes there is. Donor and revenge and duty and things like that. Do you really think so? I thought philosophers were supposed to be logical? Didactylos shrugged. Well, the way I see it, logic is only a way of being ignorant by numbers. I thought it would all be over when Vorbis was dead. Didactylos stared into his inner world. It takes a long time for people like Vorbis to die. They leave echoes in history. I know what you mean. How's Urn's steam machine? said Didactylos. I think he's a bit upset about it, said Brutha. Didactylos cackled and banged his stick on the ground. Hah! He's learning! Everything works both ways! It should do, said Brutha. Something like a golden comet sped across the sky of the Discworld. Om soared like an eagle, buoyed up by the freshness, by the strength of the belief. For as long as it lasted, anyway. Belief this hot, this desperate, never lasted long. Human minds could not sustain it. But while it did last, he was strong. The central spire of Cori Celesti rises up from the mountains at the Hub, ten vertical miles of green ice and snow, topped by the turrets and domes of Dunmanifestin. There the gods of the Discworld live. At the least, any god who is anybody. And it is strange that, although it takes years of effort and work and scheming for a god to get there, once there they never seem to do a lot apart from drink too much and indulge in a little mild corruption. Many systems of government follow the same broad lines. They play games. They tend to be very simple games, because gods are easily bored by complicated things. It is strange that, while small gods can have one aim in mind for millions of years, are in fact one aim, large gods seem to have the attention span of the common mosquito. And style? If the gods of the Discworld were people they would think that three plaster ducks is a bit avant-garde. There was a double door at the end of the main hall. It rocked to a thunderous knocking. The gods looked up vaguely from their various preoccupations, shrugged and turned away. The doors burst inward. Om strode through the debris, looking around with the air of one who has a search to complete and not a lot of time to do it in. Right, he said. Io, God of Thunder, looked up from his throne and waved his hammer threateningly. Who are you? Om strode toward the throne, picked up to by his toga, and gave a quick jab with his forehead. Hardly anyone really believes in thunder gods any more. . . Ow. Listen, friend. I've got no time for talking to some pantywaister in a sheet. Where's the gods of Ephebe and Tsort? lo, clutching at his nose, waved vaguely towards the centre of the hall. You nidn't naf to ndo dat! he said reproachfully. Om strode across the hall. In the centre of the room was what at first looked like a round table, and then looked like a model of the Discworld, Turtle, elephants and all, and then in some undefinable way looked like the real Discworld, seen from far off yet brought up close to. There was something subtly wrong about the distances, a feeling of vast space curled up small. But possibly the real Discworld wasn't covered with a network of glowing lines, hovering just above the surface. Or perhaps miles above the surface? Om hadn't seen this before, but he knew what it was. Both a wave and a particle; both a map and the place mapped. If he focused on the tiny glittering dome on top of the tiny Cori Celesti, he would undoubtedly see himself, looking down on an even smaller model. . . and so on, down to the point where the universe coiled up like the tail of an ammonite, a kind of creature that lived millions of years ago and never believed in any gods at all. . . The gods clustered around it, watching intently. Om elbowed aside a minor Goddess of Plenty. There were dice floating just above the world, and a mess of little clay figures and gaming counters. You didn't need to be even slightly omnipotent to know what was going on. He hid by nose! Om turned around. I never forget a face, friend. Just take yours away, right? While you still have some left? He turned back to the game. S'cuse me, said a voice by his waist. He looked down at a very large newt. Yes? You not supposed do that here. No Smiting. Not up here. It the rules. You want fight, you get your humans fight his humans. Who're you? P'tang-P'tang, me. You're a god? Definite. Yeah? How many worshipers have you got? Fifty-one! The newt looked at him hopefully, and added, "Is that lots? Can't count. " It pointed at a rather crudely moulded figure on the beach in Omnia and said, "But got a stake!" Om looked at the figure of the little fisherman. When he dies, you'll have fifty worshippers, he said. That more or less than fifty-one? A lot less. Definite? Yes. No one tell me that. There were several dozen gods watching the beach. Om vaguely remembered the Ephebian statues. There was the goddess with the badly carved owl. Yes. Om rubbed his head. This wasn't god-like thinking. It seemed simpler when you were up here. It was all a game. You forgot that it wasn't a game down there. People died. Bits got chopped off. We're like eagles up here, he thought. Sometimes we show a tortoise how to fly. Then we let go. He said, to the occult world in general, "There's people going to die down there. " A Tsortean God of the Sun did not even bother to look round. That's what they're for, he said. In his hand he was holding a dice box that looked very much like a human skull with rubies in the eye-sockets. Ah, yes, said Om.
"I forgot that, for a moment. " He looked at the skull, and then turned to the little Goddess of Plenty. What's this, love? A cornucopia? Can I have a look? Thanks. Om emptied some of the fruit out. Then he nudged the Newt God. If I was you, friend, I'd find something long and hefty, he said. Is one less than fifty-one? said P'Tang-P'Tang. It's the same, said Om, firmly. He eyed the back of the Tsortean God's head. But you have thousands, said the Newt God. "You fight for thousands. " Om rubbed his forehead. I spent too long down there, he thought. I can't stop thinking at ground level. I think, he said, "I think, if you want thousands, you have to fight for one. " He tapped the Solar God on the shoulder. "Hey, sunshine?" When the God looked around, Om broke the cornucopia over his head. It wasn't a normal thunderclap. It stuttered like the shyness of supernovas, great ripping billows of sound that tore up the sky. Sand fountained up and whirled across the recumbent bodies lying face down on the beach. Lightning stabbed down, and sympathetic fire leapt from spear-tip and sword-point. Simony looked up at the booming darkness. What the hell's happening? He nudged the body next to him. It was Argavisti. They stared at one another. More thunder smashed across the sky. Waves climbed up one another to rip into the fleet. Hull drifted with awful grace into hull, giving the bass line of the thunder a counterpoint of groaning wood. A broken spar thudded into the sand by Simony's head. We're dead if we stay here, he said. "Come on. " They staggered through the spray and sand, amidst groups of cowering and praying soldiers, fetching up against something hard, half-covered. They crawled into the calm under the Turtle. Other people had already had the same idea. Shadowy figures sat or sprawled in the darkness. Urn sat dejectedly on his toolbox. There was a hint of gutted fish. The gods are angry, said Borvorius. Bloody furious, said Argavisti. I'm not that happy myself, said Simony. "Gods? Huh!" This is no time for impiety, said Rham-ap-Efan. There was a shower of grapes outside. Can't think of a better one, said Simony. A piece of cornucopia shrapnel bounced off the roof of the Turtle, which rocked on its spiked wheels. But why be angry with us? said Argavisti. "We're doing what they want. " Borvorius tried to smile. "Gods, eh?" he said. "Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em. " Someone nudged Simony, and passed him a soggy cigarette. It was a Tsortean soldier. Despite himself, he took a puff. It's good tobacco, he said. "The stuff we grow tastes like camel's droppings. " He passed it along to the next hunched figure. THANK YOU. Borvorius produced a flask from somewhere. Will you go to hell if you have a drop of spirit? he said. So it seems, said Simony, absently. Then he noticed the flask. "Oh, you mean alcohol? Probably. But who cares? I won't be able to get near the fire for priests. Thanks. " Pass it round. THANK YOU. The Turtle rocked to a thunderbolt. G'n y'himbe bo? They all looked at the pieces of raw fish, and Fasta Benj's hopeful expression. I could rake some of the coals out of the firebox from here, said Urn, after a while. Someone tapped Simony on the shoulder, creating a strange tingling sensation. THANK YOU. I HAVE TO GO. As he took it he was aware of the rush of air, a sudden breath in the universe. He looked around in time to see a wave lift a ship out of the water and smash it against the dunes. A distant scream coloured the wind. The soldiers stared. There were people under there, said Argavisti. Simony dropped the flask. Come on, he said. And no one, as they hauled on timbers in the teeth of the gale, as Urn applied everything he knew about levers, as they used their helmets as shovels to dig under the wreckage, asked who it was they were digging for, or what kind of uniform they'd been wearing. Fog rolled in on the wind, hot and flashing with electricity, and still the sea pounded down. Simony hauled on a spar, and then found the weight lessen as someone grasped the other end. He looked up into Brutha's eyes. Don't say anything, said Brutha. Gods are doing this to us? Don't say anything! I've got to know! It's better than us doing this to us, isn't it? There's still people who never got off the ships! No one ever said it was going to be nice! Simony pulled aside some planking. There was a man there, armour and leathers so stained as to be unrecognisable, but alive. Listen, said Simony, as the wind whipped at him, "I'm not giving in! You've haven't won! I'm not doing this for any sort of god, whether they exist or not! I'm doing it for other people! And stop smiling like that!" A couple of dice dropped on to the sand. They sparkled and crackled for a while and then evaporated. The sea calmed. The fog went ragged and curled into nothingness. There was still a haze in the air, but the sun was at least visible again, if only as a brighter area in the dome of the sky. Once again, there was the sensation of the universe drawing breath. The gods appeared, transparent and shimmering in and out of focus. The sun glinted off a hint of golden curls, and wings, and lyres. When they spoke, they spoke in unison, their voices drifting ahead or trailing behind the others, as always. happens when a group of people are trying to faithfully repeat something they've been told to say. Om was in the throng, standing right behind the Tsortean God of Thunder with a faraway expression on his face. It was noticeable, if only to Brutha, that the Thunder God's right arm disappeared up behind his own back in a way that, if such a thing could be imagined, would suggest that someone was twisting it to the edge of pain. What the gods said was heard by each combatant in his own language, and according to his own understanding. It boiled down to: I. This is Not a Game. II. Here and Now, You are Alive. And then it was over. You'd make a good bishop, said Brutha. Me? said Didactylos. "I'm a philosopher!" Good. It's about time we had one. And an Ephebian!" "Good. You can think up a better way of ruling the country. Priests shouldn't do it. They can't think about it properly. Nor can soldiers. " "Thank you," said Simony. They were sitting in the Cenobiarch's garden. Far overhead an eagle circled, looking for anything that wasn't a tortoise. "I like the idea of democracy. You have to have someone everyone distrusts," said Brutha. "That way, everyone's happy. Think about it. Simony?" "Yes?" "I'm making you head of the Quisition. " "What?" "I want it stopped. And I want it stopped the hard way. " "You want me to kill all the inquisitors? Right!" "No. That's the easy way. I want as few deaths as possible. Those who enjoyed it, perhaps. But only those. Now. . . where's Urn?" The Moving Turtle was still on the beach, wheels buried in the sand blown about by the storm. Urn had been too embarrassed to try to unearth it. The last I saw, he was tinkering with the door mechanism, said Didactylos. "Never happier than when he's tinkering with things. " Yes. We shall have to find things to keep him occupied. Irrigation. Architecture. That sort of thing. And what are you going to do? said Simony. I've got to copy out the Library, said Brutha. But you can't read and write, said Didactylos. No. But I can see and draw. Two copies. One to keep here. Plenty of room when we burn the Septateuch, said Simony. No burning of anything. You have to take a step at a time, said Brutha. He looked out at the shimmering line of the desert. Funny. He'd been as happy as he'd ever been in the desert. And then. . . he began. Yes? Brutha lowered his eyes, to the farmlands and villages around the Citadel. He sighed. And then we'd better get on with things, he said. "Every day. " Fasta Benj rowed home, in a thoughtful frame of mind. It had been a very good few days. He'd met a lot of new people and sold quite a lot of fish. P'Tang-P'Tang, with his lesser servants, had talked personally to him, making him promise not to wage war on some place he'd never heard of. He'd agreed.
[10] [10] Fasta Benj's people had no word for war, since they had no one to fight and life was quite tough enough as it was. P'Tang-P'tang's words had arrived as: "remember when Pacha Moj hit his uncle with big rock? Like that, only more worse. " Some of the new people had shown him this amazing way of making lightning. You hit this rock with this piece of hard stuff and you got little bits of lightning which dropped on to dry stuff which got red and hot like the sun. If you put more wood on it got bigger and if you put a fish on it got black but if you were quick it didn't get black but got brown and tasted better than anything he'd ever tasted, although this was not difficult. And he'd been given some knives not made out of rock and cloth not made out of reeds and, all in all, life was looking up for Fasta Benj and his people. He wasn't sure why lots of people would want to hit Pacha Moj's uncle with a big rock, but it definitely escalated the pace of technological progress. No one, not even Brutha, noticed that old Lu-Tze wasn't around any more. Not being noticed, either as being present or absent, is part of a history monk's stock in trade. In fact he'd packed his broom and his bonsai mountains and had gone by secret tunnels and devious means to the hidden valley in the central peaks, where the abbot was waiting for him. The abbot was playing chess in the long gallery that overlooked the valley. Fountains bubbled in the gardens, and swallows flew in and out of the windows. All went well? said the abbot, without looking up. Very well, lord, said Lu-Tze. "I had to nudge things a little, though. " I wish you wouldn't do that sort of thing, said the abbot, fingering a pawn. "You'll overstep the mark one day. " It's the history we've got these days, said Lu-Tze. "Very shoddy stuff, lord. I have to patch it up all the time-” "Yes, Yes-” We used to get much better history in the old days. Things were always better than they are now. It's in the nature of things. Yes, lord. Lord? The abbot looked up in mild exasperation. Er. . . you know the books say that Brutha died and there was a century of terrible warfare? You know my eyesight isn't what it was, Lu-Tze. Well. . . it's not entirely like that now. Just so long as it all turns out all right in the end, said the abbot. Yes, lord, said the history monk. There are a few weeks before your next assignment. Why don't you have a little rest? Thank you, lord. I thought I might go down to the forest and watch a few falling trees. Good practice. Good practice. Mind always on the job, eh? As Lu-Tze left, the abbot glanced up at his opponent. Good man, that, he said. "Your move. " The opponent looked long and hard at the board. The abbot waited to see what long-term, devious strategies were being evolved. Then his opponent tapped a piece with a bony finger. REMIND ME AGAIN, he said. HOW THE LITTLE HORSESHAPED ONES MOVE. Eventually Brutha died, in unusual circumstances. He had reached a great age, but this at least was not unusual in the Church. As he said, you had to keep busy, every day. He rose at dawn, and wandered over to the window. He liked to watch the sunrise. They hadn't got around to replacing the Temple doors. Apart from anything else, even Urn hadn't been able to think of a way of removing the weirdly contorted heap of molten metal. So they'd just built steps over them. And after a year or two people had quite accepted it, and said it was probably a symbol. Not of anything, exactly, but still a symbol. Definitely symbolic. But the sun did shine off the copper dome of the Library. Brutha made a mental note to enquire about the progress of the new wing. There were too many complaints about overcrowding these days. People came from everywhere to visit the Library. It was the biggest non-magical library in the world. Half the philosophers of Ephebe seemed to live there now, and Omnia was even producing one or two of its own. And even priests were coming to spend some time in it, because of the collection of religious books. There were one thousand, two hundred and eighty-three religious books in there now, each one-according to itself-the only book any man need ever read. It was sort of nice to see them all together. As Didactylos used to say, you had to laugh. Ix was while Brutha was eating his breakfast that the subdeacon whose job it was to read him his appointments for the day, and tactfully make sure he wasn't wearing his underpants on the outside, shyly offered him congratulations. Mmm? said Brutha, his gruel dripping off the spoon. One hundred years, said the subdeacon. "Since you walked in the desert, Sir. " Really? I thought it was, mm, fifty years? Can't be more than sixty years, boy. Uh, one hundred years, lord. We had a look in the records. Really. One hundred years? One hundred years' time? Brutha laid down his spoon very carefully, and stared at the plain white wall opposite him. The subdeacon found himself turning to see what it was the Cenobiarch was looking at, but there was nothing, only the whiteness of the wall. "One hundred years," mused Brutha. "Mmm. Good lord. I forgot. " He laughed. "I forgot. One hundred years, eh? But here and now, we- The subdeacon turned round. "Cenobiarch?" He stepped closer, the blood draining from his face. "Lord?" He turned and ran for help. Brutha's body toppled forward almost gracefully, smacking into the table. The bowl overturned, and gruel dripped down on to the floor. And then Brutha stood up, without a second glance at his corpse. "Hah. I wasn't expecting you," he said. Death stopped leaning against the wall. HOW FORTUNATE YOU WERE. "But there's still such a lot to be done. . . " YES. THERE ALWAYS IS. Brutha followed the gaunt figure through the wall where, instead of the privy that occupied the far side in normal space, there was. . . . . . black sand. The light was brilliant, crystalline, in a black sky filled with stars. "Ah. There really is a desert. Does everyone get this?" said Brutha. WHO KNOWS? "And what is at the end of the desert?" JUDGEMENT. Brutha considered this. "Which end?" Death grinned and stepped aside. What Brutha had thought was a rock in the sand was a hunched figure, sitting clutching its knees. It looked paralysed with fear. He stared. "Vorbis?" he said. He looked at Death. "But Vorbis died a hundred years ago!" YES. HE HAD TO WALK IT ALL ALONE. ALL ALONE WITH HIMSELF. IF HE DARED. "He's been here for a hundred years?" POSSIBLY NOT. TIME IS DIFFERENT HERE. IT IS. . . MORE PERSONAL. "Ah. You mean a hundred years can pass like a few seconds?" A HUNDRED YEARS CAN PASS LIKE INFINITY. The black-on-black eyes stared imploringly at Brutha, who reached out automatically, without thinking. . . and then hesitated. HE WAS A MURDERER, said Death. AND A CREATOR OF MURDERERS. A TORTURER. WITHOUT PASSION. CRUEL. CALLOUS. COMPASSIONLESS. "Yes. I know. He's Vorbis," said Brutha. Vorbis changed people. Sometimes he changed them into dead people. But he always changed them. That was his triumph. He sighed. "But I'm me," he said. Vorbis stood up, uncertainly, and followed Brutha across the desert. Death watched them walk away. The End Terry Pratchett Moving Pictures A Novel of Discworld ® I would like to thank all the wonderful people who made this book possible. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you… W atch… This is space. It’s sometimes called the final frontier. (Except that of course you can’t have a final frontier, because there’d be nothing for it to be a frontier to , but as frontiers go, it’s pretty penultimate…) And against the wash of stars a nebula hangs, vast and black, one red giant gleaming like the madness of gods… And then the gleam is seen as the glint in a giant eye and it is eclipsed by the blink of an eyelid and the darkness moves a flipper and Great A’Tuin, star turtle, swims onward through the void. On its back, four giant elephants. On their shoulders, rimmed with water, glittering under its tiny orbiting sunlet, spinning majestically around the mountains at its frozen Hub, lies the Discworld, world and mirror of worlds.
Nearly unreal. Reality is not digital, an on-off state, but analog. Something gradual. In other words, reality is a quality that things possess in the same way that they possess, say, weight. Some people are more real than others, for example. It has been estimated that there are only about five hundred real people on any given planet, which is why they keep unexpectedly running into one another all the time. The Discworld is as unreal as it is possible to be while still being just real enough to exist. And just real enough to be in real trouble. About thirty miles Turnwise of Ankh-Morpork the surf boomed on the wind-blown, seagrass-waving, sand-dune-covered spit of land where the Circle Sea met the Rim Ocean. The hill itself was visible for miles. It wasn’t very high, but lay among the dunes like an upturned boat or a very unlucky whale, and was covered in scrub trees. No rain fell here, if it could possibly avoid it. Although the wind sculpted the dunes around it, the low summit of the hill remained in an everlasting, ringing calm. Nothing but the sand had changed here in hundreds of years. Until now. A crude hut of driftwood had been built on the long curve of the beach, although describing it as “built” was a slander on skilled crude hut builders throughout the ages; if the sea had simply been left to pile the wood up it might have done a better job. And, inside, an old man had just died. “Oh,” he said. He opened his eyes and looked around the interior of the hut. He hadn’t seen it very clearly for the past ten years. Then he swung, if not his legs, then at least the memory of his legs off the pallet of sea-heather and stood up. Then he went outside, into the diamond-bright morning. He was interested to see that he was still wearing a ghostly image of his ceremonial robe—stained and frayed, but still recognizable as having originally been a dark red plush with gold frogging—even though he was dead. Either your clothes died when you did, he thought, or maybe you just mentally dressed yourself from force of habit. Habit also led him to the pile of driftwood beside the hut. When he tried to gather a few sticks, though, his hands passed through them. He swore. It was then that he noticed a figure standing by the water’s edge, looking out to sea. It was leaning on a scythe. The wind whipped at its black robes. He started to hobble toward it, remembered he was dead, and began to stride. He hadn’t stridden for decades, but it was amazing how it all came back to you. Before he was halfway to the dark figure, it spoke to him. D ECCAN R IBOBE , it said. “That’s me. ” L AST K EEPER OF THE D OOR. “Well, I suppose so. ” Death hesitated. Y OU ARE OR YOU AREN ’ T , he said. Deccan scratched his nose. Of course, he thought, you have to be able to touch yourself. Otherwise you’d fall to bits. “ Technic’ly , a Keeper has to be invested by the High Priestess,” he said. “And there ain’t been a High Priestess for thousands o’ years. See, I just learned it all from old Tento, who lived here before me. He jus’ said to me one day, ‘Deccan, it looks as though I’m dyin’, so it’s up to you now, ’cos if there’s no one left that remembers properly it’ll all start happening again and you know what that means. ’ Well, fair enough. But that’s not what you’d call a proper investmenting, I’d say. ” He looked up at the sandy hill. “There was jus’ me and him,” he said. “And then jus’ me, remembering Holy Wood. And now…” He raised his hand to his mouth. “Oo-er,” he said. Y ES , said Death. It would be wrong to say a look of panic passed across Deccan Ribobe’s face, because at that moment it was several yards away and wearing a sort of fixed grin, as if it had seen the joke at last. But his spirit was definitely worried. “See, the thing is,” it said hastily, “no one ever comes here, see, apart from the fishermen from the next bay, and they just leaves the fish and runs off on account of superstition and I couldn’t sort of go off to find an apprentice or somethin’ because of keepin’ the fires alight and doin’ the chantin’…” Y ES. “…It’s a terrible responsibility, bein’ the only one able to do your job…” Y ES , said Death. “Well, of course, I’m not telling you anything…” N O. “…I mean, I was hopin’ someone’d get shipwrecked or somethin’, or come treasure huntin’, and I could explain it like old Tento explained it to me, teach ’em the chants, get it all sorted out before I died…” Y ES ? “I s’pose there’s no chance that I could sort of…” N O. “Thought not,” said Deccan despondently. He looked at the waves crashing down on the shore. “Used to be a big city down there, thousands of years ago,” he said. “I mean, where the sea is. When it’s stormy you can hear the ole temple bells ringin’ under the sea. ” I KNOW. “I used to sit out here on windy nights, listenin’. Used to imagine all them dead people down there, ringin’ the bells. ” A ND NOW WE MUST GO. “Ole Tento said there was somethin’ under the hill there that could make people do things. Put strange fancies in their ’eads,” said Deccan, reluctantly following the stalking figure. “I never had any strange fancies. ” B UT YOU WERE CHANTING , said Death. He snapped his fingers. A horse ceased trying to graze the sparse dune grass and trotted up to Death. Deccan was surprised to see that it left hoofprints in the sand. He’d have expected sparks, or at least fused rock. “Er,” he said, “can you tell me, er…what happens now?” Death told him. “Thought so,” said Deccan glumly. Up on the low hill the fire that had been burning all night collapsed in a shower of ash. A few embers still glowed, though. Soon they would go out…. …. . They went out. . … …. Nothing happened for a whole day. Then, in a little hollow on the edge of the brooding hill, a few grains of sand shifted and left a tiny hole. Something emerged. Something invisible. Something joyful and selfish and marvelous. Something as intangible as an idea, which is exactly what it was. A wild idea. It was old in a way not measurable by any calendar known to Man and what it had, right now, was memories and needs. It remembered life, in other times and other universes. It needed people. It rose against the stars, changing shape, coiling like smoke. There were lights on the horizon. It liked lights. It regarded them for a few seconds and then, like an invisible arrow, extended itself toward the city and sped away. It liked action , too… And several weeks went past. There’s a saying that all roads lead to Ankh-Morpork, greatest of Discworld cities. At least, there’s a saying that there’s a saying that all roads lead to Ankh-Morpork. And it’s wrong. All roads lead away from Ankh-Morpork, but sometimes people just walk along them the wrong way. Poets long ago gave up trying to describe the city. Now the more cunning ones try to excuse it. They say, well, maybe it is smelly, maybe it is overcrowded, maybe it is a bit like Hell would be if they shut the fires off and stabled a herd of incontinent cows there for a year, but you must admit that it is full of sheer, vibrant, dynamic life. And this is true, even though it is poets that are saying it. But people who aren’t poets say, so what? Mattresses tend to be full of life too, and no one writes odes to them. Citizens hate living there and, if they have to move away on business or adventure or, more usually, until some statute of limitations runs out, can’t wait to get back so they can enjoy hating living there some more. They put stickers on the backs of their carts saying “Ankh-Morpork—Loathe It or Leave It. ” They call it The Big Wahooni, after the fruit. 1 Every so often a ruler of the city builds a wall around Ankh-Morpork, ostensibly to keep enemies out. But Ankh-Morpork doesn’t fear enemies. In fact it welcomes enemies, provided they are enemies with money to spend. 2 It has survived flood, fire, hordes, revolutions and dragons. Sometimes by accident, admittedly, but it has survived them. The cheerful and irrecoverably venal spirit of the city has been proof against anything… Until now. Boom.
The explosion removed the windows, the door and most of the chimney. It was the sort of thing you expected in the Street of alchemists. The neighbors preferred explosions, which were at least identifiable and soon over. They were better than the smells, which crept up on you. Explosions were part of the scenery, such as was left. And this one was pretty good, even by the standards of local connoisseurs. There was a deep red heart to the billowing black smoke which you didn’t often see. The bits of semi-molten brickwork were more molten than usual. It was, they considered, quite impressive. Boom. A minute or two after the explosion a figure lurched out of the ragged hole where the door had been. It had no hair, and what clothes it still had were on fire. It staggered up to the small crowd that was admiring the devastation and by chance laid a sooty hand on a hot-meat-pie-and-sausage-in-a-bun salesman called Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, who had an almost magical ability to turn up wherever a sale might be made. “Looking,” it said, in a dreamy, stunned voice, “f’r a word. Tip of my tongue. ” “Blister?” volunteered Throat. He recovered his commercial senses. “After an experience like that,” he added, proffering a pastry case full of so much reclaimed organic debris that it was very nearly sapient, “what you need is to get a hot meat pie inside you—” “Nonono. ’S not blister. ’S what you say when you’ve discovered something. You goes running out into the street shoutin’,” said the smouldering figure urgently. “’S’pecial word,” it added, its brow creasing under the soot. The crowd, reluctantly satisfied that there were going to be no more explosions, gathered around. This might be nearly as good. “Yeah, that’s right,” said an elderly man, filling his pipe. “You runs out shouting ‘Fire! Fire!’” He looked triumphant. “’S not that…” “Or ‘Help!’ or—” “No, he’s right,” said a woman with a basket of fish on her head. “There’s a special word. It’s foreign. ” “Right, right,” said her neighbor. “Special foreign word for people who’ve discovered something. It was invented by some foreign bugger in his bath—” “Well,” said the pipe man, lighting it off the alchemist’s smouldering hat, “ I for one don’t see why people in this city need to go around shouting heathen lingo just ’cos they’ve had a bath. Anyway, look at him. He ain’t had a bath. He needs a bath, yes, but he ain’t had one. What’s he want to go around shouting foreign lingo for? We’ve got perfectly satisfactory words for shoutin’. ” “Like what?” said Cut-me-own-Throat. The pipe-smoker hesitated. “Well,” he said, “like…‘I’ve discovered something’…or…‘Hooray’…” “No, I’m thinking about the bugger over Tsort way, or somewhere. He was in his bath and he had this idea for something, and he ran out down the street yelling. ” “Yelling what?” “Dunno. P’raps ‘Give me a towel!’” “Bet he’d be yellin’ all right if he tried that sort of thing around here,” said Throat cheerfully. “Now, ladies and gents, I have here some sausage in a bun that’d make your—” “Eureka,” said the soot-colored one, swaying back and forth. “What about it?” said Throat. “No, that’s the word. Eureka. ” A worried grin spread across the black features. “It means ‘I have it. ’” “Have what?” said Throat. “ It. At least, I had it. Octo-cellulose. Amazing stuff. Had it in my hand. But I held it too close to the fire,” said the figure, in the perplexed tones of the nearly concussed. “V’ry important fact. Mus’ make a note of it. Don’t let it get hot. V’ry important. Mus’ write down v’ry important fact. ” He tottered back into the smoking ruins. Dibbler watched him go. “Wonder what that was all about?” he said. Then he shrugged and raised his voice to a shout. “Meat pies! Hot sausages! Inna bun! So fresh the pig h’an’t noticed they’re gone!” The glittering, swirling idea from the hill had watched all this. The alchemist didn’t even know it was there. All he knew was that he was being unusually inventive today. Now it had spotted the pie merchant’s mind. It knew that kind of mind. It loved minds like that. A mind that could sell nightmare pies could sell dreams. It leaped. On a hill far away the breeze stirred the cold, gray ash. Further down the hill, in a crack in a hollow between two rocks where a dwarf juniper bush struggled for a living, a little trickle of sand began to move. Boom. A fine film of plaster dust drifted down onto the desk of Mustrum Ridcully, the new Archchancellor of Unseen University, just as he was trying to tie a particularly difficult fly. He glanced out of the stained-glass window. A smoke cloud was rising over uptown Morpork. “Bur saar !” The Bursar arrived within a few seconds, out of breath. Loud noises always upset him. “It’s the alchemists, Master,” he panted. “That’s the third time this week. Blasted firework merchants,” muttered the Archchancellor. “I’m afraid so, Master,” said the Bursar. “What do they think they’re doing?” “I really couldn’t say, Master,” said the Bursar, getting his breath back. “Alchemy has never interested me. It’s altogether too…too…” “Dangerous,” said the Archchancellor firmly. “Lot of damn mixin’ things up and saying, hey, what’ll happen if we add a drop of the yellow stuff, and then goin’ around without yer eyebrows for a fortnight. ” “I was going to say impractical,” said the Bursar. “Trying to do things the hard way when we have perfectly simple everyday magic available. ” “I thought they were trying to cure the philosopher’s stones, or somethin’,” said the Archchancellor. “Lot of damn nonsense, if you ask me. Anyway, I’m off. ” As the Archchancellor began to sidle out of the room the Bursar hastily waved a handful of papers at him. “Before you go, Archchancellor,” he said desperately, “I wonder if you would just care to sign a few—” “Not now, man,” snapped the Archchancellor. “Got to see a man about a horse, what?” “What?” “Right. ” The door closed. The Bursar stared at it, and sighed. Unseen University had had many different kinds of Archchancellor over the years. Big ones, small ones, cunning ones, slightly insane ones, extremely insane ones—they’d come, they’d served, in some cases not long enough for anyone to be able to complete the official painting to be hung in the Great Hall, and they’d died. The senior wizard in a world of magic had the same prospects of long-term employment as a pogo stick tester in a minefield. However, from the Bursar’s point of view this didn’t really have to matter. The name might change occasionally, but what did matter was that there always was an Archchancellor and the Archchancellor’s most important job, as the Bursar saw it, was to sign things, preferably, from the Bursar’s point of view, without reading them first. This one was different. For one thing, he was hardly ever in, except to change out of his muddy clothes. And he shouted at people. Usually at the Bursar. And yet, at the time, it had seemed a really good idea to elect an Archchancellor who hadn’t set foot in the University in forty years. There had been so much in-fighting between the various orders of wizardry in recent years that, just for once, the senior wizards had agreed that what the University needed was a period of stability, so that they could get on with their scheming and intriguing in peace and quiet for a few months. A search of the records turned up Ridcully the Brown who, after becoming a Seventh Level mage at the incredibly young age of twenty-seven, had quit the University in order to look after his family’s estates deep in the country. He looked ideal. “Just the chap,” they all said. “Clean sweep. New broom. A country wizard. Back to the thingumajigs, the roots of wizardry. Jolly old boy with a pipe and twinkly eyes. Sort of chap who can tell one herb from another, roams-the-high-forest-with-every-beast-his-brother kind of thing. Sleeps under the stars, like as not. Knows what the wind is saying, we shouldn’t wonder. Got a name for all the trees, you can bank on it. Speaks to the birds, too. ” A messenger had been sent.
Ridcully the Brown had sighed, cursed a bit, found his staff in the kitchen garden where it had been supporting a scarecrow, and had set out. “And if he’s any problem,” the wizards had added, in the privacy of their own heads, “anyone who talks to trees should be no trouble to get rid of. ” And then he’d arrived, and it turned out that Ridcully the Brown did speak to the birds. In fact he shouted at birds, and what he normally shouted was, “Winged you, yer bastard!” The beasts of the field and fowls of the air did know Ridcully the Brown. They’d got so good at pattern-recognition that, for a radius of about twenty miles around the Ridcully estates, they’d run, hide or in desperate cases attack violently at the mere sight of a pointy hat. Within twelve hours of arriving, Ridcully had installed a pack of hunting dragons in the butler’s pantry, fired his dreadful crossbow at the ravens on the ancient Tower of Art, drunk a dozen bottles of red wine, and rolled off to bed at two in the morning singing a song with words in it that some of the older and more forgetful wizards had to look up. And then he got up at five o’clock to go duck hunting down in the marshes on the estuary. And came back complaining that there wasn’t a good trout fishin’ river for miles. (You couldn’t fish in the river Ankh; you had to jump up and down on the hooks even to make them sink. ) And he ordered beer with his breakfast. And told jokes. On the other hand, thought the Bursar, at least he didn’t interfere with the actual running of the University. Ridcully the Brown wasn’t the least interested in running anything except maybe a string of hounds. If you couldn’t shoot arrows at it, hunt it or hook it, he couldn’t see much point in it. Beer at breakfast! The Bursar shuddered. Wizards weren’t at their best before noon, and breakfast in the Great Hall was a quiet, fragile occasion, broken only by coughs, the quiet shuffling of the servants, and the occasional groan. People shouting for kidneys and black pudding and beer were a new phenomenon. The only person not terrified of the ghastly man was old Windle Poons, who was one hundred and thirty years old and deaf and, while an expert on ancient magical writings, needed adequate notice and a good run-up to deal with the present day. He’d managed to absorb the fact that the new Archchancellor was going to be one of those hedgerow-and-dickie-bird chappies, it would take a week or two for him to grasp the change of events, and in the meantime he made polite and civilized conversation based on what little he could remember about Nature and things. On the lines of: “I expect it must be a, mm, a change for you, mm, sleeping in a real bed, instead of under the, mm, stars?” And: “These things, mm, here, are called knives and forks, mm. ” And: “This, mm, green stuff on the scrambled egg, mm, would it be parsley, do you think?” But since the new Archchancellor never paid much attention to anything anyone said while he was eating, and Poons never noticed that he wasn’t getting any answers, they got along quite well. Anyway, the Bursar had other problems. The Alchemists, for one thing. You couldn’t trust alchemists. They were too serious-minded. Boom. And that was the last one. Whole days went by without being punctuated by small explosions. The city settled down again, which was a foolish thing to do. What the Bursar failed to consider was that no more bangs doesn’t mean they’ve stopped doing it, whatever it is. It just means they’re doing it right. It was midnight. The surf boomed on the beach, and made a phosphorescent glow in the night. Around the ancient hill, though, the sound seemed as dead as if it was arriving through several layers of velvet. The hole in the sand was quite big now. If you could put your ear to it, you might think you could hear applause. It was still midnight. A full moon glided above the smoke and fumes of Ankh-Morpork, thankful that several thousand miles of sky lay between it and them. The Alchemists’ Guildhall was new. It was always new. It had been explosively demolished and rebuilt four times in the last two years, on the last occasion without a lecture and demonstration room in the hope that this might be a helpful move. On this night a number of muffled figures entered the building in a surreptitious fashion. After a few minutes the lights in a window on the top floor dimmed and went out. Well, nearly out. Something was happening up there. A strange flickering filled the window, very briefly. It was followed by a ragged cheering. And there was a noise. Not a bang this time, but a strange mechanical purring, like a happy cat at the bottom of a tin drum. It went clickaclickaclickaclicka…click. It went on for several minutes, to a background of cheers. And then a voice said: “That’s all, folks. ” “That’s all what?” said the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, next morning. The man in front of him shivered with fear. “Don’t know, lordship,” he said. “They wouldn’t let me in. They made me wait outside the door, lordship. ” He twisted his fingers together nervously. The Patrician’s stare had him pinned. It was a good stare, and one of the things it was good at was making people go on talking when they thought they had finished. Only the Patrician knew how many spies he had in the city. This particular one was a servant in the Alchemists’ Guild. He had once had the misfortune to come up before the Patrician accused of malicious lingering, and had then chosen of his own free will to become a spy. 3 “That’s all , lordship,” he whined. “There was just this clicking noise and this sort of flickery glow under the door. And, er, they said the daylight here was wrong. ” “Wrong? How?” “Er. Dunno, sir. Just wrong, they said. They ought to go somewhere where it was better, they said. Uh. And they told me to go and get them some food. ” The Patrician yawned. There was something infinitely boring about the antics of alchemists. “Indeed,” he said. “But they’d had their supper only fifteen minutes before,” the servant blurted out. “Perhaps whatever they were doing makes people hungry,” said the Patrician. “Yes, and the kitchen was all shut up for the night and I had to go and buy a tray of hot sausages in buns from Throat Dibbler. ” “Indeed. ” The Patrician looked down at the paperwork on his desk. “Thank you. You may go. ” “You know what, lordship? They liked them. They actually liked them!” That the Alchemists had a Guild at all was remarkable. Wizards were just as uncooperative, but they also were by nature hierarchical and competitive. They needed organization. What was the good of being a wizard of the Seventh Level if you didn’t have six other levels to look down on and the Eighth Level to aspire to? You needed other wizards to hate and despise. Whereas every alchemist was an alchemist alone, working in darkened rooms or hidden cellars and endlessly searching for the big casino—the Philosopher’s Stone, the Elixir of Life. They tended to be thin, pink-eyed men, with beards that weren’t really beards but more like groups of individual hairs clustering together for mutual protection, and many of them had that vague, unworldly expression that you get from spending too much time in the presence of boiling mercury. It wasn’t that alchemists hated other alchemists. They often didn’t notice them, or thought they were walruses. And so their tiny, despised Guild had never aspired to the powerful status of the Guilds of, say, the Thieves or the Beggars or the Assassins, but devoted itself instead to the aid of widows and families of those alchemists who had taken an overly relaxed attitude to potassium cyanide, for example, or had distilled some interesting fungi, drunk the result, and then stepped off the roof to play with the fairies. There weren’t actually very many widows and orphans, of course, because alchemists found it difficult to relate to other people long enough, and generally if they ever managed to marry it was only to have someone to hold their crucibles.
By and large, the only skill the alchemists of Ankh-Morpork had discovered so far was the ability to turn gold into less gold. Until now… Now they were full of the nervous excitement of those who have found an unexpected fortune in their bank account and don’t know whether to draw people’s attention to it or simply take the lot and run. “The wizards aren’t going to like it,” said one of them, a thin, hesitant man called Lully. “They’re going to call it magic. You know they get really pissed if they think you’re doing magic and you’re not a wizard. ” “There isn’t any magic involved,” said Thomas Silverfish, the president of the Guild. “There’s the imps. ” “That’s not magic. That’s just ordinary occult. ” “Well, there’s the salamanders. ” “Perfectly normal natural history. Nothing wrong with that. ” “Well, all right. But they’ll call it magic. You know what they’re like. ” The alchemists nodded gloomily. “They’re reactionaries,” said Sendivoge, the Guild secretary. “Bloated thaumocrats. And the other Guilds, too. What do they know about the march of progress? What do they care? They could have been doing something like this for years, but did they? Not them! Just think how we can make people’s lives so much…well, better. The possibilities are immense. ” “Educational,” said Silverfish. “Historical,” said Lully. “And of course there’s entertainment,” said Peavie, the Guild treasurer. He was a small, nervous man. Most alchemists were nervous, in any case; it came from not knowing what the crucible of bubbling stuff they were experimenting with was going to do next. “Well, yes. Obviously some entertainment,” said Silverfish. “Some of the great historical dramas,” said Peavie. “Just picture the scene! You get some actors together, they act it just once, and people all over the Disc will be able to see it as many times as they like! A great saving in wages, by the way,” he added. “But tastefully done,” said Silverfish. “We have a great responsibility to see that nothing is done which is in any way…” his voice trailed off, “…you know… coarse. ” “They’ll stop us,” said Lully darkly. “I know those wizards. ” “I’ve been giving that some thought,” said Silverfish. “The light’s too bad here anyway. We agreed. We need clear skies. And we need to be a long way away. I think I know just the place. ” “You know, I can’t believe we’re doing this,” said Peavie. “A month ago it was just a mad idea. And now it’s all worked! It’s just like magic! Only not magical, if you see what I mean,” he added quickly. “Not just illusion, but real illusion,” said Lully. “I don’t know if anyone’s thought about this,” said Peavie, “but this could make us a bit of money. Um?” “But that isn’t important,” said Silverfish. “No. No, of course not,” muttered Peavie. He glanced at the others. “Shall we watch it again?” he said, shyly. “I don’t mind turning the handle. And, and…well, I know I haven’t contributed very much to this project, but I did come up with this, er, this stuff. ” He pulled a very large bag from the pocket of his robe and dropped it on the table. It fell over, and a few fluffy, white misshapen balls rolled out. The alchemists stared at it. “What is it?” said Lully. “Well,” said Peavie, uncomfortably, “what you do is, you take some corn, and you put it in, say, a Number 3 crucible, with some cooking oil, you see, and then you put a plate or something on top of it, and when you heat it up it goes bang, I mean, not seriously bang, and when it’s stopped banging you take the plate off and it’s metamorphosed into these, er, things…” He looked at their uncomprehending faces. “You can eat it,” he mumbled apologetically. “If you put butter and salt on it, it tastes like salty butter. ” Silverfish reached out a chemical-stained hand and cautiously selected a fluffy morsel. He chewed it thoughtfully. “Don’t really know why I did it,” said Peavie, blushing. “Just sort of had an idea that it was right. ” Silverfish went on chewing. “Tastes like cardboard,” he said, after a while. “Sorry,” said Peavie, trying to scoop the rest of the heap back into the sack. Silverfish laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Mind you,” he said, selecting another puffed morsel, “it does have a certain something, doesn’t it? They do seem right. What did you say it’s called?” “Hasn’t really got a name,” said Peavie. “I just call it banged grains. ” Silverfish took another one. “Funny how you want to go on eating them,” he said. “Sort of more-ish. Banged grains? Right. Anyway…gentlemen, let us turn the handle one more time. ” Lully started to wind the film back into the unmagical lantern. “You were saying you knew a place where we could really build up the project and where the wizards wouldn’t bother us?” he said. Silverfish grabbed a handful of banged grains. “It’s along the coast a way,” he said. “Nice and sunny and no one ever goes there these days. Nothing there but some wind-blown old forest and a temple and sand dunes. ” “A temple? Gods can get really pissed if you—” Peavie began. “Look,” said Silverfish, “the whole area’s been deserted for centuries. There’s nothing there. No people, no gods, no nothing. Just lots of sunlight and land, waiting for us. It’s our chance, lads. We’re not allowed to make magic, we can’t make gold, we can’t even make a living—so let’s make moving pictures. Let’s make history !” The alchemists sat back and looked more cheerful. “Yeah,” said Lully. “Oh. Right,” said Peavie. “Here’s to moving pictures,” said Sendivoge, holding up a handful of banged grains. “How’d you hear about this place?” “Oh, I—” Silverfish stopped. He looked puzzled. “Don’t know,” he said, eventually. “Can’t…quite remember. Must have heard about it once and forgot it, and then it just popped into my head. You know how these things happen. ” “Yeah,” said Lully. “Like with me and the film. It was like I was remembering how to do it. Funny old tricks the mind can play. ” “Yeah. ” “Yeah. ” “’S’n idea whose time has come, see. ” “Yeah. ” “Yeah. ” “That must be it. ” A slightly worried silence settled over the table. It was the sound of minds trying to put their mental fingers on something that was bothering them. The air seemed to glitter. “What’s this place called?” said Lully, eventually. “Don’t know what it was called in the old days,” said Silverfish, leaning back and pulling the banged grains toward him. “These days they call it the Holy Wood. ” “Holy Wood,” said Lully. “Sounds…familiar. ” There was another silence while they thought about it. It was broken by Sendivoge. “Oh, well,” he said cheerfully, “Holy Wood, here we come. ” “Yeah,” said Silverfish, shaking his head as if to dislodge a disquieting thought. “Funny thing, really. I’ve got this feeling…that we’ve been going there…all this time. ” Several thousand miles under Silverfish, Great A’Tuin the world turtle sculled dreamily on through the starry night. Reality is a curve. That’s not the problem. The problem is that there isn’t as much as there should be. According to some of the more mystical texts in the stacks of the library of Unseen University— —the Discworld’s premier college of wizardry and big dinners, whose collection of books is so massive that it distorts Space and Time— —at least nine-tenths of all the original reality ever created lies outside the multiverse, and since the multiverse by definition includes absolutely everything that is anything, this puts a bit of a strain on things. Outside the boundaries of the universes lie the raw realities, the could-have-beens, the might-bes, the never-weres, the wild ideas, all being created and uncreated chaotically like elements in fermenting supernovas. Just occasionally where the walls of the worlds have worn a bit thin, they can leak in. And reality leaks out. The effect is like one of those deep-sea geysers of hot water, around which strange submarine creatures find enough warmth and food to make a brief, tiny oasis of existence in an environment where there shouldn’t be any existence at all. The idea of Holy Wood leaked innocently and joyfully into the Discworld. And reality leaked out.
And was found. For there are Things outside, whose ability to sniff out tiny frail conglomerations of reality made the thing with the sharks and the trace of blood seem very boring indeed. They began to gather. A storm slid in across the sand dunes but, where it reached the low hill, the clouds seemed to curve away. Only a few drops of rain hit the parched soil, and the gale became nothing more than a faint breeze. It blew sand over the long-dead remains of a fire. Further down the slope, near a hole that was now big enough for, say, a badger, a small rock dislodged itself and rolled away. A month went by quickly. It didn’t want to hang around. The Bursar knocked respectfully at the Archchancellor’s door and then opened it. A crossbow bolt nailed his hat to the woodwork. The Archchancellor lowered the bow and glared at him. “Bloody dangerous thing to do, wasn’t it?” he said. “You could have caused a nasty accident. ” The Bursar hadn’t got where he was today, or rather where he had been ten seconds ago, which was where a calm and self-assured personality was, rather than where he was now, which was on the verge of a mild heart attack, without a tremendous ability to recover from unexpected upsets. He unpinned his hat from the target chalked on the ancient woodwork. “No harm done,” he said. No voice could be as calm as that without tremendous effort. “You can barely see the hole. Why, er, are you shooting at the door, Master?” “Use your common sense, man! It’s dark outside and the damn walls are made of stone. You don’t expect me to shoot at the damn walls?” “Ah,” said the Bursar. “The door is, er, five hundred years old, you know,” he added, with finely-tuned reproach. “Looks it,” said the Archchancellor, bluntly. “Damn great black thing. What we need around here, man, is a lot less stone and wood and a bit more jolliness. A few sportin’ prints, yer know. An ornament or two. ” “I shall see to it directly,” lied the Bursar smoothly. He remembered the sheaf of papers under his arm. “In the meantime, Master, perhaps you would care to—” “Right,” said the Archchancellor, ramming his pointed hat on his head. “Good man. Now, got a sick dragon to see to. Little devil hasn’t touched his tar oil for days. ” “Your signature on one or two of—” the Bursar burbled hurriedly. “Can’t be havin’ with all that stuff,” said the Archchancellor, waving him away. “Too much damn paper around here as it is. And—” He stared through the Bursar, as if he had just remembered something. “Saw a funny thing this mornin’,” he said. “Saw a monkey in the quad. Bold as brass. ” “Oh, yes,” said the Bursar, cheerfully. “That would be the Librarian. ” “Got a pet, has he?” “No, you misunderstand me, Archchancellor,” said the Bursar cheerfully. “That was the Librarian. ” The Archchancellor stared at him. The Bursar’s smile began to glaze. “The Librarian’s a monkey ?” It took some time for the Bursar to explain matters clearly, and then the Archchancellor said: “What yer tellin’ me, then, is that this chap got himself turned into a monkey by magic?” “An accident in the Library, yes. Magical explosion. One minute a human, next minute an orangutan. And you mustn’t call him a monkey, Master. He’s an ape. ” “Same damn difference, surely?” “Apparently not. He gets very, er, aggressive if you call him a monkey. ” “He doesn’t stick his bottom at people, does he?” The Bursar closed his eyes and shuddered. “No, Master. You’re thinking of baboons. ” “Ah. ” The Archchancellor considered this. “Haven’t got any of them workin’ here, then?” “No, Master. Just the Librarian, Master. ” “Can’t have it. Can’t have it, yer know. Can’t have damn great hairy things shambling around the place,” said the Archchancellor firmly. “Get rid of him. ” “Good grief, no! He’s the best Librarian we’ve ever had. And tremendous value for money. ” “Why? What d’we pay him?” “Peanuts,” said the Bursar promptly. “Besides, he’s the only one who knows how the Library actually works. ” “Turn him back, then. No life for a man, bein’ a monkey. ” “ Ape , Archchancellor. And he seems to prefer it, I’m afraid. ” “How d’yer know?” said the Archchancellor suspiciously. “Speaks, does he?” The Bursar hesitated. There was always this trouble with the Librarian. Everyone had got so accustomed to him it was hard to remember a time when the Library was not run by a yellow-fanged ape with the strength of three men. If the abnormal goes on long enough it becomes the normal. It was just that, when you came to explain it to a third party, it sounded odd. He coughed nervously. “He says ‘oook,’ Archchancellor,” he said. “And what’s that mean?” “Means ‘no,’ Archchancellor. ” “And how does he say ‘yes,’ then?” The Bursar had been dreading this. “‘Oook,’ Archchancellor,” he said. “That was the same oook as the other oook!” “Oh, no. No. I assure you. There’s a different inflection…I mean, when you get used to…,” the Bursar shrugged. “I suppose we’ve just got into the way of understanding him, Archchancellor. ” “Well, at least he keeps himself fit,” said the Archchancellor nastily. “Not like the rest of you fellows. I went into the Uncommon Room this morning, and it was full of chaps snoring!” “That would be the senior masters, Master,” said the Bursar. “I would say they are supremely fit, myself. ” “ Fit? The Dean looks like a man who’s swallered a bed!” “Ah, but Master,” said the Bursar, smiling indulgently, “the word ‘fit,’ as I understand it, means ‘appropriate to a purpose,’ and I would say the body of the Dean is supremely appropriate to the purpose of sitting around all day and eating big heavy meals. ” The Bursar permitted himself a little smile. The Archchancellor gave him a look so old-fashioned it might have belonged to an ammonite. “That a joke?” he said, in the suspicious tones of someone who wouldn’t really understand the term “sense of humor” even if you sat down for an hour and explained it to him with diagrams. “I was just making an observation, Master,” said the Bursar cautiously. The Archchancellor shook his head. “Can’t stand jokes. Can’t stand chaps goin’ round tryin’ to be funny the whole time. Comes of spendin’ too much time sitting indoors. A few twenty-mile runs and the Dean’d be a different man. ” “Well, yes,” said the Bursar. “He’d be dead. ” “He’d be healthy. ” “Yes, but still dead. ” The Archchancellor irritably shuffled the papers on his desk. “Slackness,” he muttered. “Far too much of it going on. Whole place gone to pot. People goin’ round sleepin’ all day and turnin’ into monkeys the whole time. We never even thought of turnin’ into a monkey when I was a student. ” He looked up irritably. “What was it you wanted?” he snapped. “What?” said the Bursar, unnerved. “You wanted me to do somethin’, didn’t you? You came in to ask me to do somethin’. Probably because I’m the only feller here not fast asleep or sittin’ in a tree whoopin’ every mornin’,” the Archchancellor added. “Er. I think that’s gibbons, Archchancellor. ” “What? What? Do try and make some sense, man!” The Bursar pulled himself together. He didn’t see why he had to be treated like this. “In fact , I wanted to see you about one of the students, Master,” he said coldly. “Students?” barked the Archchancellor. “Yes, Master. You know? They’re the thinner ones with the pale faces? Because we’re a university ? They come with the whole thing, like rats—” “I thought we paid people to deal with ’em. ” “The teaching staff. Yes. But sometimes…well, I wonder, Archchancellor, if you would care to look at these examination results…” It was midnight—not the same midnight as before, but a very similar midnight. Old Tom, the tongueless bell in the University bell tower, had just tolled its twelve sonorous silences. Rainclouds squeezed their last few drops over the city. Ankh-Morpork sprawled under a few damp stars, as real as a brick. Ponder Stibbons, student wizard, put down his book and rubbed his face. “All right,” he said. “Ask me anything. Go on. Anything at all.
” Victor Tugelbend, student wizard, picked up his battered copy of Necrotelicomnicon Discussed for Students, with Practical Experiments and turned the pages at random. He was lying on Ponder’s bed. At least, his shoulder blades were. His body extended up the wall. This is a perfectly normal position for a student taking his ease. “OK,” he said. “Right. OK? What, right, what is the name of the outer-dimensional monster whose distinctive cry is ‘Yerwhatyerwhatyerwhat’?” “Yob Soddoth,” said Ponder promptly. “Yeah. How does the monster Tshup Aklathep, Infernal Star Toad with A Million Young, torture its victims to death?” “It…don’t tell me…it holds them down and shows them pictures of its children until their brains implode. ” “Yep. Always wondered how that happens, myself,” said Victor, flicking through the pages. “I suppose after you’ve said ‘Yes, he’s got your eyes’ for the thousandth time you’re about ready to commit suicide in any case. ” “You know an awful lot, Victor,” said Ponder admiringly. “I’m amazed you’re still a student. ” “Er, yes,” said Victor. “Er. Just unlucky at exams, I guess. ” “Go on,” said Ponder, “Ask me one more. ” Victor opened the book again. There was a moment’s silence. Then he said, “Where’s Holy Wood?” Ponder shut his eyes and pounded his forehead. “Hang on, hang on…don’t tell me…” He opened his eyes. “What do you mean, where’s Holy Wood?” he added sharply. “I don’t remember anything about any Holy Wood. ” Victor stared down at the page. There was nothing about any Holy Wood there. “I could have sworn I heard…I think my mind must be wandering,” he finished lamely. “It must be all this revision. ” “Yes. It really gets to you, doesn’t it? But it’ll be worth it, to be a wizard. ” “Yes,” said Victor. “Can’t wait. ” Ponder shut the book. “Rain’s stopped. Let’s go over the wall,” he said. “We deserve a drink. ” Victor waggled a finger. “Just one drink, then. Got to keep sober,” he said. “It’s Finals tomorrow. Got to keep a clear head!” “Huh!” said Ponder. Of course, it is very important to be sober when you take an exam. Many worthwhile careers in the street-cleansing, fruit-picking and subway-guitar-playing industries have been founded on a lack of understanding of this simple fact. But Victor had a special reason for keeping alert. He might make a mistake, and pass. His dead uncle had left him a small fortune not to be a wizard. He hadn’t realized it when he’d drawn up the will, but that’s what the old man had done. He thought he was helping his nephew through college, but Victor Tugelbend was a very bright young lad in an oblique sort of way and had reasoned thusly: What are the advantages and disadvantages of being a wizard? Well, you got a certain amount of prestige, but you were often in dangerous situations and certainly always at risk of being killed by a fellow mage. He saw no future in being a well-respected corpse. On the other hand… What are the advantages and disadvantages of being a student wizard? You got quite a lot of free time, a certain amount of license in matters like drinking a lot of ale and singing bawdy songs, no one tried to kill you much except in the ordinary, everyday Ankh-Morpork way of things and, thanks to the legacy, you also got a modest but comfortable style of living. Of course, you didn’t get much in the way of prestige but at least you were alive to know this. So Victor had devoted a considerable amount of energy in studying firstly the terms of the will, the byzantine examination regulations of Unseen University, and every examination paper of the last fifty years. The pass mark in Finals was 88. Failing would be easy. Any idiot can fail. Victor’s uncle had been no fool. One of the conditions of the legacy was that, should Victor ever achieve a mark of less than 80, the money supply would dry up like thin spit on a hot stove. He’d won, in a way. Few students had ever studied as hard as Victor. It was said that his knowledge of magic rivaled that of some of the top wizards. He spent hours in a comfy chair in the Library, reading grimoires. He researched answer formats and exam techniques. He listened to lectures until he could quote them by heart. He was generally considered by the staff to be the brightest and certainly the busiest student for decades and, at every Finals, he carefully and competently got a mark of 84. It was uncanny. The Archchancellor reached the last page. Eventually he said: “Ah. I see. Feel sorry for the lad, do you?” “I don’t think you quite see what I mean,” said the Bursar. “Fairly obvious to me,” said the Archchancellor. “Lad keeps coming within an ace of passin’. ” He pulled out one of the papers. “Anyway, it says here he passed three years ago. Got 91. ” “Yes, Archchancellor. But he appealed. ” “ Appealed ? Against passin’ ?” “He said he didn’t think the examiners had noticed that he got the allotropes of octiron wrong in question six. He said he couldn’t live with his conscience. He said it would haunt him for the rest of his days if he succeeded unfairly over better and more worthy students. You’ll notice he got only 82 and 83 in the next two exams. ” “Why’s that?” “We think he was playing safe, Master. ” The Archchancellor drummed his fingers on the desk. “Can’t have this,” he said. “Can’t have someone goin’ around almost bein’ a wizard and laughin’ at us up his, his—what’s it that people laugh up?” “My feelings exactly,” purred the Bursar. “We should send him up,” said the Archchancellor firmly. “ Down , Master,” said the Bursar. “Sending him up would mean making spiteful and satirical comments about him. ” “Yes. Good thinkin’. Let’s do that,” said the Archchancellor. “No, Master,” said the Bursar patiently. “ He’s sending us up, so we send him down. ” “Right. Balance things up,” said the Archchancellor. The Bursar rolled his eyes. “Or down,” the Archchancellor added. “So you want me to give him his marchin’ orders, eh? Just send him along in the morning and—” “No, Archchancellor. We can’t do it just like that. ” “We can’t? I thought we were in charge here!” “Yes, but you have to be extremely careful when dealing with Master Tugelbend. He’s an expert on procedures. So what I thought we could do is give him this paper in the finals tomorrow. ” The Archchancellor took the proferred document. His lips moved silently as he read it. “Just one question. ” “Yes. And he’ll either pass or fail. I’d like to see him manage 84 percent on that. ” In a sense which his tutors couldn’t quite define, much to their annoyance, Victor Tugelbend was also the laziest person in the history of the world. Not simply, ordinarily lazy. Ordinary laziness was merely the absence of effort. Victor had passed through there a long time ago, had gone straight through commonplace idleness and out on the far side. He put more effort into avoiding work than most people put into hard labor. He had never wanted to be a wizard. He’d never wanted much, except perhaps to be left alone and not woken up until midday. When he’d been small, people had said things like, “And what do you want to be, little man?” and he’d said, “I don’t know. What have you got?” They didn’t let you get away with that sort of thing for very long. It wasn’t enough to be what you were, you had to be working to be something else. He’d tried. For quite a long while he’d tried wanting to be a blacksmith, because that looked interesting and romantic. But it also involved hard work and intractable bits of metal. Then he’d tried wanting to be an assassin, which looked dashing and romantic. But it also involved hard work and, when you got right down to it, occasionally having to kill someone. Then he’d tried wanting to be an actor, which looked dramatic and romantic, but it had involved dusty tights, cramped lodgings and, to his amazement, hard work. He’d allowed himself to be sent to the University because it was easier than not going. He tended to smile a lot, in a faintly puzzled way. This gave people the impression that he was slightly more intelligent than they were.
In fact, he was usually trying to work out what they had just said. And he had a thin mustache, which in a certain light made him look debonair and, in another, made him look as though he had been drinking a thick chocolate milk shake. He was quite proud of it. When you became a wizard you were expected to stop shaving and grow a beard like a gorse bush. Very senior wizards looked capable of straining nourishment out of the air via their mustaches, like whales. It was now half-past one. He was ambling back from the Mended Drum, the most determinedly disreputable of the city’s taverns. Victor Tugelbend always gave the impression of ambling, even when he was running. He was also quite sober and a bit surprised, therefore, to find himself in the Plaza of Broken Moons. He’d been heading for the little alley behind the University and the piece of wall with the conveniently-spaced removable bricks where, for hundreds and hundreds of years, student wizards had quietly got around, or more precisely climbed over, Unseen University’s curfew restrictions. The plaza wasn’t on the route. He turned to amble back the way he had come, and then stopped. There was something unusual going on. Usually there’d be a storyteller there, or some musicians, or an entrepreneur looking for prospective buyers of such surplus Ankh-Morpork landmarks as the Tower of Art or the Brass Bridge. Now there were just some people putting up a big screen, like a bedsheet stretched between poles. He sauntered over to them. “What’re you doing?” he said amiably. “There’s going to be a performance. ” “Oh. Acting,” said Victor, without much interest. He mooched back through the damp darkness, but stopped when he heard a voice coming from the gloom between two buildings. The voice said “Help,” quite quietly. Another voice said, “Just hand it over, right?” Victor wandered closer, and squinted into the shadows. “Hallo?” he said. “Is everything all right?” There was a pause, and then a low voice said, “You don’t know what’s good for you, kid. ” He’s got a knife, Victor thought. He’s coming at me with a knife. That means I’m either going to get stabbed or I’m going to have to run away, which is a real waste of energy. People who didn’t apply themselves to the facts in hand might have thought that Victor Tugelbend would be fat and unhealthy. In fact, he was undoubtedly the most athletically-inclined student in the University. Having to haul around extra poundage was far too much effort, so he saw to it that he never put it on and he kept himself in trim because doing things with decent muscles was far less effort than trying to achieve things with bags of flab. So he brought one hand around in a backhanded swipe. It didn’t just connect, it lifted the mugger off his feet. Then he looked for the prospective victim, who was still cowering against the wall. “I hope you’re not hurt,” he said. “Don’t move!” “I wasn’t going to,” said Victor. The figure advanced from the shadows. It had a package under one arm, and its hands were held in front of its face in an odd gesture, each forefinger and thumb extended at right angles and then fitted together, so that the man’s little weaselly eyes appeared to be looking out through a frame. He’s probably warding off the Evil Eye, Victor thought. He looks like a wizard, with all those symbols on his dress. “Amazing!” said the man, squinting through his fingers. “Just turn your head slightly, will you? Great! Pity about the nose, but I expect we can do something about that. ” He stepped forward and tried to put his arm around Victor’s shoulders. “It’s lucky for you,” he said, “that you met me. ” “It is?” said Victor, who had been thinking it was the other way around. “You’re just the type I’m looking for,” said the man. “Sorry,” said Victor. “I thought you were being robbed. ” “He was after this,” said the man, patting the package under his arm. It rang like a gong. “Wouldn’t have done him any good, though. ” “Not worth anything?” said Victor. “Priceless. ” “That’s all right then,” said Victor. The man gave up trying to reach across both of Victor’s shoulders, which were quite broad, and settled for just one of them. “But a lot of people would be disappointed,” he said. “Now, look. You stand well. Good profile. Listen, lad, how would you like to be in moving pictures?” “Er,” said Victor. “No. I don’t think so. ” The man gaped at him. “You did hear what I said, didn’t you?” he said. “Moving pictures?” “Yes. ” “Everyone wants to be in moving pictures!” “No, thanks,” said Victor, politely. “I’m sure it’s a worthwhile job, but moving pictures doesn’t sound very interesting to me. ” “I’m talking about moving pictures !” “Yes,” said Victor mildly. “I heard you. ” The man shook his head. “Well,” he said, “you’ve made my day. First time in weeks I’ve met someone who isn’t desperate to get into moving pictures. I thought everyone wanted to get into moving pictures. I thought as soon as I saw you: he’ll be expecting a job in moving pictures for this night’s work. ” “Thanks all the same,” said Victor. “But I don’t think I’d take to it. ” “Well, I owe you something. ” The little man fumbled in a pocket and produced a card. Victor took it. It read: Thomas Silverfish Interesting and Instructive Kinematography One and Two Reelers Nearly non-explosive Stock 1, Holy Wood “That’s if ever you change your mind,” he said. “Everyone in Holy Wood knows me. ” Victor stared at the card. “Thank you,” he said vaguely. “Er. Are you a wizard?” Silverfish glared at him. “Whatever made you think that?” he snapped. “You’re wearing a dress with magic symbols—” “ Magic symbols? Look closely, boy! These are certainly not the credulous symbols of a ridiculous and outmoded belief system! These are the badges of an enlightened craft whose clear, new dawn is just…er, dawning! Magic symbols!” he finished, in tones of withering scorn. “And it’s a robe, not a dress,” he added. Victor peered at the collection of stars and crescent moons and things. The badges of an enlightened craft whose new dawn was just dawning looked just like the credulous symbols of a ridiculous and outmoded belief system to him, but this was probably not the time to say so. “Sorry,” he said again. “Couldn’t see them clearly. ” “I’m an alchemist,” said Silverfish, only slightly mollified. “Oh, lead into gold, that sort of thing,” said Victor. “Not lead, lad. Light. It doesn’t work with lead. Light into gold…” “Really?” said Victor politely, as Silverfish started to set up a tripod in the middle of the plaza. A small crowd was collecting. A small crowd collected very easily in Ankh-Morpork. As a city, it had some of the most accomplished spectators in the universe. They’d watch anything, especially if there was any possibility of anyone getting hurt in an amusing way. “Why don’t you stay for the show?” said Silverfish, and hurried off. An alchemist. Well, everyone knew that alchemists were a little bit mad, thought Victor. It was perfectly normal. Who’d want to spend their time moving pictures? Most of them looked all right where they were. “Sausages inna bun! Get them while they’re hot!” bellowed a voice by his ear. He turned. “Oh, hallo, Mr. Dibbler,” he said. “Evening, lad. Want to get a nice hot sausage down you?” Victor eyed the glistening tubes in the tray around Dibbler’s neck. They smelled appetizing. They always did. And then you bit into them, and learned once again that Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler could find a use for bits of an animal that the animal didn’t know it had got. Dibbler had worked out that with enough fried onions and mustard people would eat anything. “Special rate for students,” Dibbler whispered conspiratorially. “Fifteen pence, and that’s cutting my own throat. ” He flapped the frying pan lid strategically, raising a cloud of steam. The piquant scent of fried onions did its wicked work. “Just one, then,” Victor said warily. Dibbler flicked a sausage out of the pan and snatched it into a bun with the expertise of a frog snapping a mayfly.
“You won’t live to regret it,” he said cheerfully, Victor nibbled a bit of onion. That was safe enough. “What’s all this?” he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the flapping screen. “Some kind of entertainment,” said Dibbler. “Hot sausages! They’re lovely!” He lowered his voice again to its normal conspiratorial hiss. “All the rage in the other cities, I hear,” he added. “Some sort of moving pictures. They’ve been trying to get it right before coming to Ankh-Morpork. ” They watched Silverfish and a couple of associates fumble technically with the box on the tripod. White light suddenly appeared at a circular orifice on the front of it, and illuminated the screen. There was a half-hearted cheer from the crowd. “Oh,” said Victor. “I see. Is that all? It’s just plain old shadow play. That’s all it is. My uncle used to do it to amuse me. You know? You kind of move your hands in front of the light and the shadows make a kind of silhouettey picture. ” “Oh, yeah,” said Dibbler uncertainly. “Like ‘Big Elephant,’ or ‘Bald Eagle. ’ My grandad used to do that sort of stuff. ” “Mainly my uncle did ‘Deformed Rabbit,’” said Victor. “He wasn’t very good at it, you see. It used to get pretty embarrassing. We’d all sit around desperately guessing things like ‘Surprised Hedgehog’ or ‘Rabid Stoat’ and he’d go off to bed in a sulk because we hadn’t guessed he was really doing ‘Lord Henry Skipps and His Men beating the Trolls at the Battle of Pseudopolis. ’ I can’t see what’s so special about shadows on a screen. ” “From what I hear it’s not like that,” said Dibbler. “I sold one of the men a Jumbo Sausage Special earlier on, and he said it’s all down to showing pictures very fast. Sticking lots of pictures together and showing them one after another. Very, very fast, he said. ” “Not too fast,” said Victor severely. “You wouldn’t be able to see them go past if they were too fast. ” “He said that’s the whole secret, not seeing ’em go past,” said Dibbler. “You have to see ’em all at once, or something. ” “They’d all be blurred,” said Victor. “Didn’t you ask him about that?” “Er, no,” said Dibbler. “Point of fact, he had to rush off just then. Said he felt a bit odd. ” Victor looked thoughtfully at the remnant of his sausage in a bun and, as he did so, he was aware of being stared at in his turn. He looked down. There was a dog sitting by his feet. It was small, bow-legged and wiry, and basically gray but with patches of brown, white and black in outlying areas, and it was staring. It was certainly the most penetrating stare Victor had ever seen. It wasn’t menacing or fawning. It was just very slow and very thorough, as though the dog was memorizing details so that it could give a full description to the authorities later on. When it was sure it had his full attention, it transferred its gaze to the sausage. Feeling wretched at being so cruel to a poor dumb animal, Victor flicked the sausage downward. The dog caught and swallowed it in one economical movement. More people were drifting into the plaza now. Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler had wandered off and was doing a busy trade with those late-night revelers who were too drunk to prevent optimism triumphing over experience; anyone who bought a meal at one a. m. after a night’s reveling was probably going to be riotously ill anyway, so they might as well have something to show for it. Victor was gradually surrounded by a large crowd. It didn’t consist solely of humans. He recognized, a few feet away, the big rangy shape of Detritus, an ancient troll well known to all the students as someone who found employment anywhere people needed to be thrown very hard out of places for money. The troll noticed him, and tried to wink. This involved closing both eyes, because Detritus wasn’t good at complicated things. It was widely believed that, if Detritus could be taught to read and write sufficiently to sit down and do an intelligence test, he’d prove to be slightly less intelligent than the chair. Silverfish picked up a megaphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “you are privileged tonight to witness a turning point in the history of the Century of—” he lowered the megaphone and Victor heard him whisper urgently to one of his assistants, “What century is this? Is it?” and then raised the megaphone again and continued in the original plummily optimistic tones “—Century of the Fruitbat! No less than the birth of Moving Pictures! Pictures that move without magic!” He waited for the applause. There wasn’t any. The crowd just watched him. You needed to do more than end your sentences with exclamation marks to get a around of applause from an Ankh-Morpork crowd. Slightly dispirited, he went on, “Seeing is Believing, they say! But, ladies and gentlemen, you will not believe the Evidence of Your Own Eyes! What you are about to witness is a Triumph of Natural Science! A Marvel of the Age! A Discovery of World, nay, dare I say, Universe-Shaking Proportions!—” “’S got to be better than that bloody sausage, anyway,” said a quiet voice by Victor’s knee. “—Harnessing Natural Mechanisms to create Illusion! Illusion, Ladies and Gentlemen, without recourse to Magic!—” Victor let his gaze slide downward. There was nothing down there but the little dog, industriously scratching itself. It looked up slowly, and said “Woof?” “—Potential for Learning! The Arts! History! I thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen! Ladies and Gentlemen, You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet!” There was another hopeful break for applause. Someone at the front of the crowd said, “That’s right. We ain’t. ” “Yeah,” said the woman next to him. “When’re you goin’ to stop goin’ on like that and get on with the shadow play?” “That’s right,” snapped a second woman. “Do ‘Deformed Rabbit. ’ My kids always love that one. ” Victor looked away for a while, to lull the dog’s suspicions, and then turned and glared hard at it. It was amiably watching the crowd, and apparently taking no notice of him. Victor poked an exploratory finger in his ear. It must have been a trick of an echo, or something. It wasn’t that the dog had gone “woof!,” although that was practically unique in itself; most dogs in the universe never went “woof!,” they had complicated barks like “whuuugh!” and “hwhoouf!” No, it was that it hadn’t in fact barked at all. It had said “woof. ” He shook his head, and looked back as Silverfish climbed down from the screen and motioned to one of his assistants to start turning a handle at the side of the box. There was a grinding noise that rose to a steady clicking. Vague shadows danced across the screen, and then… One of the last things Victor remembered was a voice beside his knee saying, “Could have bin worse, mister. I could have said ‘miaow. ’” Holy Wood dreams … And now it was now eight hours later. A horribly overhung Ponder Stibbons looked guiltily at the empty desk beside him. It was unlike Victor to miss exams. He always said he enjoyed the challenge. “Get ready to turn over your papers,” said the invigilator at the end of the hall. The sixty chests of sixty prospective wizards tightened with dark, unbearable tension. Ponder fumbled anxiously with his lucky pen. The wizard on the dais turned over the hourglass. “You may begin,” he said. Several of the more smug students turned over their papers by snapping their fingers. Ponder hated them instantly. He reached for his lucky inkwell, missed completely in his nervousness, and then knocked it over. A small black flood rolled over his question paper. Panic and shame washed over him nearly as thoroughly. He mopped the ink up with the hem of his robe, spreading it smoothly over the desk. His lucky dried frog had been washed away. Hot with embarrassment, dripping black ink, he looked up in supplication at the presiding wizard and then cast his eyes imploringly at the empty desk beside him. The wizard nodded. Ponder gratefully sidled across the aisle, waited until his heart had stopped thumping and then, very carefully, turned over the paper on the desk.
After ten seconds, and against all reason, he turned it over again just in case there had been a mistake and the rest of the questions had somehow been on the top side after all. Around him there was the intense silence of fifty-nine minds creaking with sustained effort. Ponder turned the paper over again. Perhaps it was some mistake. No…there was the University seal and the signature of the Archchancellor and everything. So perhaps it was some sort of special test. Perhaps they were watching him now to see what he’d do… He peered around furtively. The other students seemed to be working hard. Perhaps it was a mistake after all. Yes. The more he came to think about it, the more logical it seemed. The Archchancellor had probably signed the papers and then, when the clerks had been copying them out, one of them had got as far as the all-important first question and then maybe had been called away or something, and no one had noticed, and it’d got put on Victor’s desk, but now he wasn’t here and Ponder had got it which meant, he decided, in a sudden rush of piety, that the gods must have wanted him to get it. After all, it wasn’t his fault if some sort of error gave him a paper like this. It was probably sacrilegious or something to ignore the opportunity. They had to accept what you put down. Ponder hadn’t shared the room with the world’s greatest authority on examination procedures without learning a thing or two. He looked again at the question: “What is your name?” He answered it. After a while he underlined it, several times, with his lucky ruler. After a little while longer, to show willing, he wrote above it: “The anser to questione One is:” After a further ten minutes he ventured “Which is what my name is” on the line below, and underlined it. Poor old Victor will be really sorry he missed this, he thought. I wonder where he is? There was no road to Holy Wood yet. Anyone trying to get there would take the highway to Quirm and, at some unmarked point out in the scrubby landscape, would turn off and strike out toward the sand dunes. Wild lavender and rosemary lined the banks. There was no sound but the buzzing of bees and the distant song of a skylark, which only made the silence more obvious. Victor Tugelbend left the road at the point where the bank had been broken down and flattened by the passage of many carts and, by the look of it, an increasing number of feet. There were still many miles to go. He trudged on. Somewhere at the back of his mind a tiny voice was saying things like “Where am I? Why am I doing this?” and another part of him knew that he didn’t really have to do it at all. Like the hypnotist’s victim who knows they’re not really hypnotized and can snap out of it any time they like, but just happened not to feel like it right now, he let his feet be guided. He wasn’t certain why. He just knew that there was something that he had to be part of. Something that might never happen again. Some way behind, but catching up fast, was Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, trying to ride a horse. He was not a natural horseman, and fell off occasionally, which was one reason why he hadn’t overtaken Victor yet. The other was that he had paused, before leaving the city, to sell his sausage-in-a-bun business cheaply to a dwarf who could not believe his luck (after actually trying some of the sausages, would still not be able to believe his luck). Something was calling Dibbler, and it had a golden voice. A long way behind Throat, knuckles dragging in the sand, was Detritus the troll. It’s hard to be certain of what he was thinking, any more than it’s possible to tell what a homing pigeon is thinking. He just knew that where he ought to be was not where he was. And finally, even further down the road, was an eight-horse wagon taking a load of lumber to Holy Wood. Its driver wasn’t thinking about anything very much, although he was slightly puzzled by an incident that occurred just as he was leaving Ankh-Morpork in the darkness before dawn. A voice from the gloom by the road had shouted “Stop in the name of the city guard!” and he had stopped, and when nothing further had transpired he had looked around, and there was no one there. The wagon rumbled past, revealing to the eye of the imaginative beholder the small figure of Gaspode the Wonder Dog, trying to make himself comfortable among the balks of timber at the rear. He was going to Holy Wood too. And he also didn’t know why. But he was determined to find out. No one would have believed, in the final years of the Century of the Fruitbat, that Discworld affairs were being watched keenly and impatiently by intelligences greater than Man’s, or at least much nastier; that their affairs were being scrutinized and studied as a man with a three-day appetite might study the All-You-Can-Gobble-For-A-Dollar menu outside Harga’s House of Ribs … Well, actually…most wizards would have believed it, if anyone had told them. And the Librarian would certainly have believed it. And Mrs. Marietta Cosmopilite of 3 Quirm Street, Ankh-Morpork, would have believed it, too. But she believed the world was round, that a sprig of garlic in her underwear drawer kept away vampires, that it did you good to get out and have a laugh occasionally, that there was niceness in everyone if you only knew where to look, and that three horrible little dwarfs peered in at her undressing every night. 4 Holy Wood!… …was nothing very much, yet. Just a hill by the sea, and on the other side of the hill, a lot of sand dunes. It was that special sort of beautiful area which is only beautiful if you can leave after briefly admiring its beauty and go somewhere else where there are hot tubs and cold drinks. Actually staying there for any length of time is a penance. Nevertheless, there was a town there…just. Wooden shacks had been built wherever someone had dropped a load of timber, and they were crude, as if the builders had resented the time taken from something more important that they’d much rather be doing. They were square plank boxes. Except for the front. If you wanted to understand Holy Wood, Victor said years afterward, you had to understand its buildings. You’d see a box on the sand. It’s have a roughly peaked roof, but that wasn’t important, because it never rained in Holy Wood. There’d be cracks in the walls, stuffed with old rags. The windows would be holes—glass was too fragile to cart all the way from Ankh-Morpork. And, from behind, the front was just like a huge wooden billboard, held up by a network of struts. From the front, it was a fretted, carved, painted, ornate, baroque architectural extravaganza. In Ankh-Morpork, sensible men built their houses plain, so as not to attract attention, and kept the decoration for inside. But Holy Wood wore its houses inside out. Victor walked up what passed for the main street in a daze. He had woken up in the early hours out in the dunes. Why? He’d decided to come to Holy Wood, but why? He couldn’t remember. All he could remember was that, at the time, it was the obvious thing to do. There had been hundreds of good reasons. If only he could remember one of them. Not that his mind had any room to review memories. It was too busy being aware that he was very hungry and acutely thirsty. His pockets had yielded a total of seven pence. That wouldn’t buy a bowl of soup, let alone a good meal. He needed a good meal. Things would look a lot clearer after a good meal. He pushed through the crowds. Most of them seemed to be carpenters, but there were others, carrying carboys or mysterious boxes. And everyone was moving very quickly and resolutely, bent on some powerful purpose of their own. Except him. He trailed up the impromptu street, gawping at the houses, feeling like a stray grasshopper in an ant hill. And there didn’t seem to— “Why don’t you look where you’re going!” He rebounded off a wall. When he got his balance the other party in the collision had already whirred off into the crowd. He stared for a moment and then ran desperately after her.
“Hey!” he said, “Sorry! Excuse me? Miss?” She stopped, and waited impatiently as he caught up. “Well?” she said. She was a foot shorter than him and her shape was doubtful since most of her was covered in a ridiculously frilly dress, although the dress wasn’t as ludicrous as the big blond wig full of ringlets. And her face was white with make-up apart from her eyes, which were heavily ringed in black. The general effect was of a lampshade that hadn’t been getting much sleep lately. “Well?” she repeated, “Hurry up! They’re shooting again in five minutes!” “Er—” She unbent slightly. “No, don’t tell me,” she said. “You’ve just got here. It’s all new to you. You don’t know what to do. You’re hungry. You haven’t got any money. Right?” “Yes! How did you know ?” “Everyone starts like that. And now you want to break into the clicks, right?” “The clicks?” She rolled her eyes, deep within their black circles. “Moving pictures!” “Oh—” I do , he thought. I didn’t know it but I do. Yes. That’s why I came here. Why didn’t I think of that? “Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s what I want to do. I want to, er, break in. And how does one do that?” “ One waits forever and ever. Until one is noticed. ” The girl looked him up and down with unconcealed contempt. “Take up carpentry, why don’t you? Holy Wood always needs good wood butchers. ” And then she spun around and was gone, lost in a crowd of busy people. “Er, thank you,” Victor called after her. “Thank you. ” He raised his voice and added, “I hope your eyes get better!” He jingled the coins in his pocket. Well, carpentry was out. It sounded too much like hard work. He’d tried it once, and wood and him had soon reached an agreement—he wouldn’t touch it, and it wouldn’t split. Waiting forever and ever had its attractions, but you needed money to do it with. His fingers closed around a small, unexpected rectangle. He pulled it out and looked at it. Silverfish’s card. No. 1 Holy Wood turned out to be a couple of shacks inside a high fence. There was a queue at the gate. It was made up of trolls, dwarfs and humans. They looked as though they had been there for some time; in fact, some of them had such a naturally dispirited way of sagging while remaining upright that they might have been specially-evolved descendants of the original prehistoric queuers. At the gate was a large, heavy-set man, who was eyeing the queue with the smug look of minor power-wielders everywhere. “Excuse me—” Victor began. “Mister Silverfish ain’t hiring anymore people this morning,” said the man out of the corner of his mouth. “So scram. ” “But he said that if ever I was in—” “Did I just say scram, friend?” “Yes, but—” The door in the fence opened a fraction. A small pale face poked out. “We need a troll and a coupla humans,” it said. “One day, usual rates. ” The gate shut again. The man straightened up and cupped his scarred hands around his mouth. “Right, you horrible lot!” he shouted. “You heard the man!” He ran his eyes over the line with the practiced gaze of a stock breeder. “You, you and you,” he said, pointing. “Excuse me,” said Victor helpfully, “but I think that man over there was actually first in the—” He was shoved out of the way. The lucky three shuffled in. He thought he saw the glint of coins changing hands. Then the gatekeeper turned an angry red face toward him. “You,” he said, “get to the end of the queue. And stay there!” Victor stared at him. He stared at the gate. He looked at the long line of dispirited people. “Um, no,” he said. “I don’t think so. Thanks all the same. ” “Then beat it!” Victor gave him a friendly smile. He walked to the end of the fence, and followed it. It turned, at the far end, into a narrow alley. Victor searched among the usual alley debris for a while until he found a piece of scrap paper. Then he rolled up his sleeves. And only then did he inspect the fence carefully until he found a couple of loose boards that, with a bit of effort, let him through. This brought him into an area stacked with lumber and piles of cloth. There was no one around. Walking purposefully, in the knowledge that no one with their sleeves rolled up who walks purposefully with a piece of paper held conspicuously in their hand is ever challenged, he set out across the wood and canvas wonderland of Interesting and Instructive Kinematography. There were buildings painted on the back of other buildings. There were trees that were trees, at the front, and just a mass of struts at the back. There was a flurry of activity although, as far as Victor could see, no one was actually producing anything. He watched a man in a long black cloak, a black hat and a mustache like a yard brush tie a girl to one of the trees. No one seemed interested in stopping him, even though she was struggling. A couple of people were in fact watching disinterestedly, and there was a man standing behind a large box on a tripod, turning a handle. She flung out an imploring arm and opened and shut her mouth soundlessly. One of the watchers stood up, sorted through a stack of boards beside him, and held one up in front of the box. It was black. On it, in white, were the words “Noe! Noe!” He walked away. The villain twirled his mustache. The man walked back with a board. This time it said “Ahar! My proude beauty!” Another of the seated watchers picked up a megaphone. “Fine, fine,” he said. “OK, take a five minutes break and then everyone back here for the big fight scene. ” The villain untied the girl. They wandered off. The man stopped turning the handle, lit a cigarette, and then opened the top of the box. “Everyone get that?” he said. There was a chorus of squeaks. Victor walked over and tapped the megaphone man on his shoulder. “Urgent message for Mr. Silverfish?” he said. “He’s in the offices over there,” said the man, jerking his thumb over his shoulder without looking around. “Thank you. ” The first shed he poked his head into contained nothing but rows of small cages stretching away into the gloom. Indistinct things hurled themselves against the bars and chittered at him. He slammed the door hurriedly. The next door revealed Silverfish, standing in front of a desk covered with bits of glassware and drifts of paper. He didn’t turn around. “Just put it over there,” he said absently. “It’s me, Mr. Silverfish,” said Victor. Silverfish turned around and peered vaguely at him, as if it was Victor’s fault that his name meant nothing. “Yes?” “I’ve come because of that job,” said Victor. “You know?” “What job? What should I know?” said Silverfish. “How the hell did you get in here?” “I broke into moving pictures,” said Victor. “But it’s nothing that a hammer and a few nails won’t put right. ” Panic bloomed on Silverfish’s face. Victor pulled out the card and waved it in what he hoped was a reassuring way. “In Ankh-Morpork?” he said. “A couple of nights ago? You were being menaced?” Realization dawned. “Oh, yes,” said Silverfish faintly. “And you were the lad who was of some help. ” “And you said to come and see you if I wanted to move pictures,” said Victor. “I didn’t, then, but I do now. ” He gave Silverfish a bright smile. But he thought: he’s going to try and wriggle out of it. He’s regretting the offer. He’s going to send me back to the queue. “Well, of course,” said Silverfish, “a lot of very talented people want to be in moving pictures. We’re going to have sound any day now. I mean, are you a carpenter? Any alchemical experience? Have you ever trained imps? Any good with your hands at all?” “No,” Victor admitted. “Can you sing?” “A bit. In the bath. But not very well,” Victor conceded. “Can you dance?” “No. ” “Swords? Do you know how to handle a sword?” “A little,” said Victor. He’d used one sometimes in the gym. He’d never in fact fought an opponent, since wizards generally abhor exercise and the only other University resident who ever entered the place was the Librarian, and then only to use the ropes and rings. But Victor had practiced an energetic and idiosyncratic technique in front of the mirror, and the mirror had never beaten him yet.
“I see,” said Silverfish gloomily. “Can’t sing. Can’t dance. Can handle a sword a little. ” “But I have saved your life twice,” said Victor. “Twice?” snapped Silverfish. “Yes,” said Victor. He took a deep breath. This was going to be risky. “Then,” he said, “and now. ” There was a long pause. Then Silverfish said, “I really don’t think there’s any call for that. ” “I’m sorry, Mr. Silverfish,” Victor pleaded. “I’m really not that kind of person but you did say and I’ve walked all this way and I haven’t got any money and I’m hungry and I’ll do anything you’ve got. Anything at all. Please. ” Silverfish looked at him doubtfully. “Even acting?” he said. “Pardon?” “Moving about and pretending to do things,” said Silverfish helpfully. “Yes!” “Seems a shame, a bright, well-educated lad like you,” said Silverfish. “What do you do?” “I’m studying to be a w—,” Victor began. He remembered Silverfish’s antipathy toward wizardry, and corrected himself, “a clerk. ” “A waclerk?” said Silverfish. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at acting, though,” Victor confessed. Silverfish looked surprised. “Oh, you’ll be OK,” he said. “It’s very hard to be bad at acting in moving pictures. ” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a dollar coin. “Here,” he said, “go and get something to eat. ” He looked Victor up and down. “Are you waiting for something?” he said. “Well,” said Victor, “I was hoping you could tell me what’s going on. ” “How do you mean?” “A couple of nights ago I watched your, your click ,” he felt slightly proud of remembering the term, “back in the city and suddenly I wanted to be here more than anything else. I’ve never really wanted anything in my life before!” Silverfish’s face broke into a relieved grin. “Oh, that,” he said. “That’s just the magic of Holy Wood. Not wizard’s magic,” he added hastily, “which is all superstition and mumbo-jumbo. No. This is magic for ordinary people. Your mind is fizzing with all the possibilities. I know mine was,” he added. “Yes,” said Victor uncertainly. “But how does it work?” Silverfish’s face lit up. “You want to know?” he said. “You want to know how things work?” “Yes, I—” “You see, most people are so disappointing,” Silverfish said. “You show them something really wonderful like the picture box, and they just go ‘oh. ’ They never ask how it works. Mr. Bird!” The last word was a shout. After a while a door opened on the far side of the shack and a man appeared. He had a picture box on a strap around his neck. Assorted tools hung from his belt. His hands were stained with chemical and he had no eyebrows, which Victor was later to learn was a sure sign of someone who had been around octo-cellulose for any length of time. He also had his cap on back to front. “This is Gaffer Bird,” beamed Silverfish. “Our head handleman. Gaffer, this is Victor. He’s going to act for us. ” “Oh,” said Gaffer, looking at Victor in the same way that a butcher might look at a carcass. “Is he?” “And he wants to know how things work!” said Silverfish. Gaffer gave Victor another jaundiced look. “String,” he said gloomily. “It all works by string. You’d be amazed how things’d fall to bits around here,” he said, “if it weren’t for me and my ball of string. ” There was a sudden commotion from the box around his neck. He thumped it with the flat of his hand. “You lot can cut that out,” he said. He nodded at Victor. “They gets fractious if their routine is upset,” he said. “What’s in the box?” said Victor. Gaffer winked at Silverfish. “I bet you’d like to know,” he said. Victor remembered the caged things he’d seen in the shed. “They sound like common demons,” he said cautiously. Gaffer gave him an approving look, such as might be given to a stupid dog who had just done a rather clever trick. “Yeah, that’s right,” he conceded. “But how do you stop them escaping?” said Victor. Gaffer leered. “Amazin’ stuff, string,” he said. Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler was one of those rare people with the ability to think in straight lines. Most people think in curves and zig-zags. For example, they start from a thought like: I wonder how I can become very rich, and then proceed along an uncertain course which includes thoughts like: I wonder what’s for supper, and: I wonder who I know who can lend me five dollars? Whereas Throat was one of those people who could identify the thought at the other end of the process, in this case I am now very rich , draw a line between the two, and then think his way along it, slowly and patiently, until he got to the other end. Not that it worked. There was always, he found, some small but vital flaw in the process. It generally involved a strange reluctance on the part of people to buy what he had to sell. But his life savings were now resting in a leather bag inside his jerkin. He’d been in Holy Wood for a day. He’d looked at its ramshackle organization, such as it was, with the eye of a lifelong salesman. There seemed nowhere in it for him, but this wasn’t a problem. There was always room at the top. A day’s enquiries and careful observation had led him to Interesting and Instructive Kinematography. Now he stood on the far side of the street, watching carefully. He watched the queue. He watched the man on the gate. He reached a decision. He strolled along the queue. He had brains. He knew he had brains. What he needed now was muscle. Somewhere here there was bound to— “Aft’noon, Mister Dibbler. ” That flat head, those rangy arms, that curling lower lip, that croaking voice that bespoke an IQ the size of a walnut. It added up to— “It’s me. Detritus,” said Detritus. “Fancy seein’ you here, eh?” He gave Dibbler a grin like a crack appearing in a vital bridge support. “Hallo, Detritus. You working in films?” said Dibbler. “Not exactly working,” said Detritus, bashfully. Dibbler looked quietly at the troll, whose chipped fists were generally the final word in any street fight. “I call that disgusting,” he said. He pulled out his money bag and counted out five dollars. “How would you like to work for me, Detritus?” Detritus touched his jutting brow respectfully. “Right you are, Mr. Dibbler,” he said. “Just step this way. ” Dibbler strolled back up to the head of the queue. The man at the door thrust out an arm to bar his way. “Where d’you think you’re going, pal?” he said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Silverfish,” said Dibbler. “And he knows about this, does he?” said the guard, in tones that suggested that he personally would not believe it even if he saw it written on the sky. “Not yet,” said Dibbler. “Well, my friend, in that case you can just get yourself to—” “Detritus?” “Yes, Mr. Dibbler?” “Hit this man. ” “Right you are, Mr. Dibbler. ” Detritus’s arm whirled around in a 180 degree arc with oblivion on the end of it. The guard was lifted off his feet and smashed through the door, coming to a stop in its wreckage twenty feet away. There was a cheer from the queue. Dibbler looked approvingly at the troll. Detritus was wearing nothing except a ragged loincloth which covered whatever it was that trolls felt it necessary to conceal. “Very good, Detritus. ” “Right you are, Mr. Dibbler. ” “But we shall have to see about getting you a suit,” said Dibbler. “Now, please guard the gate. Don’t let anyone in. ” “Right you are, Mr. Dibbler. ” Two minutes later a small gray dog trotted through the troll’s short and bandy legs and hopped over the remains of the gate, but Detritus didn’t do anything about this because everyone knew dogs weren’t anyone. “Mr. Silverfish?” said Dibbler. Silverfish, who had been cautiously crossing the studio with a box of fresh film stock, hesitated at the sight of a skinny figure bearing down on him like a long-lost weasel. Dibbler’s expression was the expression worn by something long and sleek and white as it swims over the reef and into the warm shallow waters of the kiddies’ paddling area. “Yes?” said Silverfish. “Who’re you? How did you get—” “Dibbler’s the name,” said Dibbler. “But I’d like you to call me Throat.
” He clasped Silverfish’s unresisting hand and then placed his other hand on the man’s shoulder and stepped forward, pumping the first hand vigorously. The effect was of acute affability, and it meant that if Silverfish backed away he would dislocate his own elbow. “And I’d just like you to know,” Dibbler went on, “that we’re all incredibly impressed at what you boys are doing here. ” Silverfish watched his own hand being strenuously made friends with, and grinned uncertainly. “You are?” he ventured. “All this—,” Dibbler released Silverfish’s shoulder just long enough to expansively indicate the energetic chaos around them. “Fantastic!” he said. “Marvellous! And that last thing of yours, what was it called now—?” “High Jinks at the Store,” said Silverfish. “That’s the one where the thief steals the sausages and the shop-keeper chases him?” “Yeah,” said Dibbler, his fixed smile glazing for only a second or two before becoming truly sincere again. “Yeah. That was it. Amazing! True genius! A beautifully sustained metaphor!” “That cost us nearly twenty dollars, you know,” said Silverfish, with shy pride. “And another forty pence for the sausages, of course. ” “Amazing!” said Dibbler. “And it must have been seen by hundreds of people, yes?” “Thousands,” said Silverfish. There was no analogy for Dibbler’s grin now. If it had managed to be any wider, the top of his head would have fallen off. “Thousands?” he said. “Really? That many? And of course they all pay you, oh, how much—?” “Oh, we just take up a collection at the moment,” said Silverfish. “Just to cover costs while we’re still in the experimental stage, you understand. ” He looked down. “I wonder,” he added, “could you stop shaking my hand now?” Dibbler followed his gaze. “Of course!” he said, and let go. Silverfish’s hand carried on going up and down for a while of its own accord, out of sheer muscular spasm. Dibbler was silent for a moment, his expression that of a man in deep communion with some inner god. Then he said, “You know, Thomas—may I call you Thomas?—when I saw that masterpiece I thought, Dibbler, behind all this is a creative artist—” “—how did you know my name was—” “—a creative artist, I thought, who should be free to pursue his muse instead of being burdened with all the fussy details of management, am I right?” “Well…it’s true that all this paperwork is a bit—” “My thoughts exactly,” said Dibbler, “and I said, Dibbler, you should go there right now and offer him your services. You know. Administrate. Take the load off his shoulders. Let him get on with what he does best, am I right? Tom?” “I, I, I, yes, of course, it’s true that my forte is really more in—” “Right! Right!” said Dibbler. “Tom, I accept!” Silverfish’s eyes were glassy. “Er,” he said. Dibbler punched him playfully on the shoulder. “Just you show me the paperwork,” he said, “and then you can get right out there and do whatever it is you do so well. ” “Er. Yes,” said Silverfish. Dibbler grasped him by both arms and gave him a thousand watts of integrity. “This is a proud moment for me,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I can honestly say this is the happiest day of my life. I want you to know that. Tommy. Sincerely. ” The reverential silence was broken by a faint sniggering. Dibbler looked around slowly. There was no one behind them apart from a small gray mongrel dog sitting in the shade of a heap of lumber. It noticed his expression and put its head on one side. “Woof?” it said. Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler looked around momentarily for something to throw, realized that this would be out of character, and turned back to the imprisoned Silverfish. “You know,” he said sincerely, “it’s really lucky for me that I met you. ” Lunch in a tavern had cost Victor the dollar plus a couple of pence. It was a bowl of soup. Everything cost a lot, said the soup-seller, because it all had to be brought a long way. There weren’t any farms around Holy Wood. Anyway, who’d grow things when they could be making movies? Then he reported to Gaffer for his screen test. This consisted of standing still for a minute while the handleman watched him owlishly over the top of a picture box. After the minute had passed Gaffer said, “Right. You’re a natural, kid. ” “But I didn’t do anything,” said Victor. “You just told me not to move. ” “Yeah. Quite right. That’s what we need. People who know how to stand still,” said Gaffer. “None of this fancy acting like in the theater. ” “But you haven’t told me what the demons do in the box,” said Victor. “They do this ,” said Gaffer, unclicking a couple of latches. A row of tiny malevolent eyes glared out at Victor. “These six demons here,” he said, pointing cautiously to avoid the claws, “look out through the little hole in the front of the box and paint pictures of what they see. There has to be six of them, OK? Two to paint and four to blow on it to get it dry. On account of the next picture coming down, see. That’s because every time this handle here is turned, the strip of transparent membrane is wound down one notch for the next picture. ” He turned the handle. It went clickaclicka , and the imps gibbered. “What did they do that for?” said Victor. “Ah,” said Gaffer, “ that’s because the handle also drives this little wheel with whips on. It’s the only way to get them to work fast enough. He’s a lazy little devil, your average imp. It’s all feedback, anyway. The faster you turn the handle, the faster the film goes by, the faster they have to paint. You got to get the speed just right. Very important job, handlemanning. ” “But isn’t it all rather, well, cruel ?” Gaffer looked surprised. “Oh, no. Not really. I gets a rest every half an hour. Guild of Handlemen regulations. ” He walked further along the bench, where another box stood with its back panel open. This time a cageful of sluggish-looking lizards blinked mournfully at Victor. “We ain’t very happy with this,” said Gaffer, “but it’s the best we can do. Your basic salamander, see, will lie in the desert all day, absorbing light, and when it’s frightened it excretes the light again. Self-defense mechanism, it’s called. So as the film goes past and the shutter here clicks backward and forward, their light goes out through the film and these lenses here and onto the screen. Basically very simple. ” “How do you make them frightened?” said Victor. “You see this handle?” “Oh. ” Victor prodded the picture box thoughtfully. “Well, all right,” he said. “So you get lots of little pictures. And you wind them fast. So we ought to see a blur, but we don’t. ” “Ah,” said Gaffer, tapping the side of his nose. “Handlemen’s Guild secret, that is. Handed down from initiate to initiate,” he added importantly. Victor gave him a sharp look. “I thought people’d only been making movies for a few months,” he said. Gaffer had the decency to look shifty. “Well, OK, at the moment we’re more sort of handing it round ,” he admitted. “But give us a few years and we’ll soon be handing it down don’t touch that! ” Victor jerked his hand back guiltily from the pile of cans on the bench. “That’s actual film in there,” said Gaffer, pushing them gently to one side. “You got to be very careful with it. You mustn’t get it too hot because it’s made of octo-cellulose, and it don’t like sharp knocks either. ” “What happens to it, then?” said Victor, staring at the cans. “Who knows? No one’s ever lived long enough to tell us. ” Gaffer looked at Victor’s expression and grinned. “Don’t worry about that ,” he said. “You’ll be in front of the moving-picture box. ” “Except that I don’t know how to act,” said Victor. “Do you know how to do what you’re told?” said Gaffer. “What? Well. Yes. I suppose so. ” “That’s all you need, lad. That’s all you need. That and big muscles. ” They stepped out into the searing sunlight and headed for Silverfish’s shed. Which was occupied. Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler was meeting the movies. “What I thought,” said Dibbler, “is that, well, look. Something like this. ” He held up a card.
On it was written, in shaky handwriting: After thys perfromans, Why Notte Visit Harga’s Hous of Ribs, For the Best inne Hawt Cuisyne “What’s hawt cuisyne?” said Victor. “It’s foreign,” said Dibbler. He scowled at Victor. Someone like Victor under the same roof wasn’t part of the plan. He’d been hoping to get Silverfish alone. “Means food,” he added. Silverfish stared at the card. “What about it?” he said. “Why don’t you,” said Dibbler, speaking very carefully, “hold this card up at the end of the performance?” “Why should we do that?” “Because someone like Sham Harga will pay you a lo—quite a lot of money,” said Dibbler. They stared at the card. “I’ve eaten at Harga’s House of Ribs,” said Victor. “I wouldn’t say it’s the best. Not the best. A long way from being the best. ” He thought for a bit. “About as far away from being the best as you can get, in fact. ” “That doesn’t matter,” said Dibbler sharply. “That’s not important. ” “But,” Silverfish said, “if we went around saying Harga’s House of Ribs was the best place in the city, what would all the other restaurants think?” Dibbler leaned across the table. “They’d think,” he said, “‘Why didn’t we think of it first?’” He sat back. Silverfish flashed him a look of bright incomprehension. “Just run that past me one more time, will you?” he said. “They’ll want to do exactly the same thing!” said Dibbler. “I know,” said Victor. “They’ll want us to hold up cards with things on like ‘Harga’s Isn’t the Best Place in Town, Actually, Ours Is. ’” “Something like that, something like that,” snapped Dibbler, glaring at him. “Maybe we can work on the words, but something like that. ” “But, but,” Silverfish fought to keep ahead of the conversation, “Harga won’t like it, will he? If he pays us money to say his place is best, and then we take money from other people to say that their place is best, then he’s bound to—” “Pay us more money,” said Dibbler, “to say it again, only in larger letters. ” They stared at him. “You really think that will work?” said Silverfish. “Yes,” said Dibbler flatly. “You listen to the street traders any morning. They don’t shout, ‘Nearly-fresh oranges, only slightly squashy, reasonable value,’ do they? No, they shout, ‘Git chore orinjes, they’re luvverly. ’ Good business sense. ” He leaned across the desk again. “Seems to me,” he said, “that you could do with some of that around here. ” “So it appears,” said Silverfish weakly. “And with the money,” said Dibbler, his voice a crowbar inserted in the cracks in reality, “you could really get on with perfecting your art. ” Silverfish brightened a bit. “That’s true,” he said. “For example, some way of getting sound on—” Dibbler wasn’t listening. He pointed to a stack of boards leaning against the wall. “What are those?” he said. “Ah,” said Silverfish. “That was my idea. We thought it would be, er, good business sense,” he savored the words as if they were some rare new sweet, “to tell people about the other moving pictures we were making. ” Dibbler picked up one of the boards and held it critically at arm’s length. It said: Nexte weke wee will be Shewing Pelias and Melisande , A Romantick Tragedie in Two Reels. Thank you. “Oh,” he said, flatly. “Isn’t that all right?” said Silverfish, now thoroughly beaten. “I mean, it tells them everything they should know, doesn’t it?” “May I?” said Dibbler, taking a piece of chalk from Silverfish’s desk. He scribbled intently on the back of the card for a while, and then turned it around. Now it read: Goddes and Men Saide It Was Notte To Bee, But They Would Notte Listen! Pelias and Melisande , A Storie of Forbiden Love! A searing Sarger of Passion that Bridged Spaes and Tyme! Thys wille shok you! With a 1,000 elephants! Victor and Silverfish read it carefully, as one reads a dinner menu in an alien language. This was an alien language, and to make it worse it was also their own. “Well, well,” said Silverfish. “My word…I don’t know if there was anything actually forbidden. Er. It was just very historical. I thought it would help, you know, children and so on. Learn about history. They never actually met, you know, which was what was so tragic. It was all very, er, sad. ” He stared at the card. “Though I must say, you’ve certainly got something there. Er. ” He looked uncomfortable about something. “I don’t actually remember any elephants,” he said, as if it was his own fault. “I was there the whole afternoon we made it, and I don’t recall a thousand elephants at any point. I’m sure I would have noticed. ” Dibbler stared. He didn’t know where they were coming from, but now he was putting his mind to it he was getting some very clear ideas about what you needed to put in movies. A thousand elephants was a good start. “No elephants?” he said. “I don’t think so. ” “Well, are there any dancing girls?” “Um, no. ” “Well, are there any wild chases and people hanging by their fingertips from the edge of a cliff?” Silverfish brightened up slightly. “I think there’s a balcony at one point,” he said. “Yes? Does anyone hang on it by their fingertips?” “I don’t think so,” said Silverfish. “I believe Melisande leans over it. ” “Yes, but will the audience hold their breath in case she falls off?” “I hope they’d be watching Pelias’ speech,” said Silverfish testily. “We had to put it on five cards. In small writing. ” Dibbler sighed. “I think I know what people want,” he said, “and they don’t want to read lots of small writing. They want spectacles!” “Because of the small writing?” said Victor, sarcastically. “They want dancing girls! They want thrills! They want elephants! They want people falling off roofs! They want dreams! The world is full of little people with big dreams!” “What, you mean like dwarfs and gnomes and so on?” said Victor. “No!” “Tell me, Mr. Dibbler,” said Silverfish, “what exactly is your profession?” “I sell merchandise,” said Dibbler. “Mostly sausages,” Victor volunteered. “ And merchandise,” said Dibbler, sharply. “I only sells sausages when the merchandising trade is a bit slow. ” “And the sale of sausages leads you to believe you can make better moving pictures?” said Silverfish. “Anyone can sell sausages! Isn’t that so, Victor?” “Well…” said Victor, reluctantly. No one except Dibbler could possibly sell Dibbler’s sausages. “There you are, then,” said Silverfish. “The thing is,” said Victor, “that Mr. Dibbler can even sell sausages to people that have bought them off him before. ” “That’s right!” said Dibbler. He beamed at Victor. “And a man who could sell Mr. Dibbler’s sausages twice could sell anything,” said Victor. The next morning was bright and clear, like all Holy Wood days, and they made a start on The Interestinge and Curious Adventures of Cohen the Barbarian. Dibbler had worked on it all evening, he said. The title, however, was Silverfish’s. Although Dibbler had assured him that Cohen the Barbarian was practically historical and certainly educational, Silverfish had held out against Valley of Blud! Victor was handed what looked like a leather purse but which turned out to be his costume. He changed behind a couple of rocks. He was also given a large, blunt sword. “Now,” said Dibbler, who was sitting in a canvas chair, “what you do is, you fight the trolls, rush up and untie the girl from the stake, fight the other trolls, and then run off behind that other rock over there. That’s the way I see it. What do you say, Tommy?” “Well, I—” Silverfish began. “That’s great,” said Dibbler. “OK. Yes, Victor?” “You mentioned trolls. What trolls?” said Victor. The two rocks unfolded themselves. “Don’t you worry about a fing, mister,” said the nearest one. “Me and ole Galena over there have got this down pat. ” “Trolls!” said Victor, backing away. “That’s right,” said Galena. He flourished a club with a nail in it. “But, but,” Victor began. “Yeah?” said the other troll.
What Victor would like to have said was: but you’re trolls , fierce animated rocks that live in the mountains and bash travelers with huge clubs very similar to the ones you’re holding now, and I thought when they said trolls they meant ordinary men dressed up in, oh, I don’t know, sacking painted gray or something. “Oh, good,” he said weakly. “Er. ” “And don’t you go listening to them stories about us eatin’ people,” said Galena. “That’s a slander, that is. I mean, we’re made of rock, what’d we want to eat people—” “Swaller,” said the other troll. “You mean swaller. ” “Yeah. What’s we want to swaller people for? We always spit out the bits. And anyway we’re retired from all that now,” he added quickly. “Not that we ever did it. ” He nudged Victor in a friendly fashion, nearly breaking one of his ribs. “It’s good here,” he said conspiratorially. “We get three dollars a day plus a dollar barrier cream allowance for daylight working. ” “On account of turning to stone until nightfall otherwise, what is a pain,” said his companion. “Yeah, an’ it holds up shooting and people strike matches on you. ” “Plus our contract says we get five pence extra for use of own club,” said the other troll. “If we could just get started—” Silverfish began. “Why’s there only two trolls?” complained Dibbler. “What’s heroic about fighting two trolls? I asked for twenty, didn’t I?” “Two’s fine by me,” Victor called out. “Listen, Mr. Dibbler,” said Silverfish, “I know you’re trying to help, but the basic economics—” Silverfish and Dibbler started to argue. Gaffer the handleman sighed and took the back off the moving-picture-box to feed and water the demons, who were complaining. Victor leaned on his sword. “Do a lot of this sort of thing, do you?” he said to the trolls. “Yeah,” said Galena. “All the time. Like, in A King’s Ransom , I play a troll who rushed out an’ hit people. An’ in The Dark Forest , I play a troll who rushed out an’ hit people. An’, an’, in Mystery Mountain I play a troll who rushed out, an’ jumped up an’ down on people. It doesn’t pay to get type-cast. ” “And do you do the same thing?” said Victor, to the other troll. “Oh, Morraine’s a character actor, ain’t you?” said Galena. “Best in the business. ” “What does he play?” “Rocks. ” Victor stared. “On account of his craggy features,” Galena went on. “Not just rocks. You should see him do an ancient monolith. You’d be amazed. Go on, Morry, show ’im yer inscription. ” “Nah,” said Morraine, grinning sheepishly. “I’m thinking of changing my name for movin’ pictures,” Galena went on. “Somethin’ with a bit o’ class. I thought ‘Flint. ’” He gave Victor a worried look, insofar as Victor was any judge of the range of expressions available to a face that looked as though it had been kicked out of granite with a pair of steel-toed boots. “What you fink?” he said. “Er. Very nice. ” “More dynamic , I fought,” said the prospective Flint. Victor heard himself say: “Or Rock. Rock’s a nice name. ” The troll stared at him, its lips moving soundlessly as it tried out the alias. “Cor,” he said. “Never fought of that. Rock. I like that. I reckon I’d be due more’n three dollars a day, with a name like Rock. ” “Can we make a start?” said Dibbler sternly. “Maybe we’ll be able to afford more trolls if this is a successful click, but it won’t be if we go over budget, which means we ought to wrap it up by lunchtime. Now, Morry and Galena—” “Rock,” corrected Rock. “Really? Anyway, you two rush out and attack Victor, OK. Right… turn it …” The handleman turned the handle of the picture box. There was a faint clicking noise and a chorus of small yelps from the demons. Victor stood looking helpful and alert. “That means you start,” said Silverfish patiently. “The trolls rush out from behind the rocks, and you valiantly defend yourself. ” “But I don’t know how to fight trolls!” Victor wailed. “Tell you what,” said the newly-christened Rock. “You parry first, and we’ll sort of arrange not to hit you. ” Light dawned. “You mean it’s all pretending ?” said Victor. The trolls exchanged a brief glance, which nevertheless contrived to say: amazing, isn’t it, that things like this apparently rule the world? “Yeah,” said Rock. “That’s it. Nuffin’s real. ” “We ain’t allowed to kill you,” said Morraine reassuringly. “That’s right,” said Rock. “We wouldn’t go round killin’ you. ” “They stops our money if we does things like that,” said Morraine, morosely. Outside the fault in reality They clustered, peering in with something approaching eyes at the light and warmth. There was a crowd of them by now. There had been a way through, once. To say that they remembered it would be wrong, because they had nothing as sophisticated as memory. They barely had anything as sophisticated as heads. But they did have instincts and emotions. They needed a way in. They found it. It worked quite well, the sixth time. The main problem was the trolls’ enthusiasm for hitting each other, the ground, the air and, quite often, themselves. In the end, Victor just concentrated on trying to hit the clubs as they whirred past him. Dibbler seemed quite happy with this. Gaffer wasn’t. “They moved around too much,” he said. “They were out of the picture half the time. ” “It was a battle ,” said Silverfish. “Yeah, but I can’t move the picture box around,” said the handleman. “The imps fall over. ” “Couldn’t you strap them in or something?” said Dibbler. Gaffer scratched his chin. “I suppose I could nail their feet to the floor,” he said. “Anyway, it’ll do for now,” said Silverfish. “We’ll do the scene where you rescue the girl. Where’s the girl? I distinctly instructed her to be here. Why isn’t she here? Why doesn’t anyone ever do what I tell them?” The handleman took his cigarette stub out of his mouth. “She’s filmin’ A Bolde Adventurer over the other side of the hill,” he volunteered. “But that ought to have been finished yesterday!” wailed Silverfish. “Film exploded,” said the handleman. “Blast! Well, I suppose we can do the next fight. She doesn’t have to be in it,” said Silverfish grumpily. “All right, everybody. We’ll do the bit where Victor fights the dreaded Balgrog. ” “What’s a Balgrog?” said Victor. A friendly but heavy hand tapped him on the shoulder. “It’s a traditional evil monster what is basically Morry painted green with wings stuck on,” said Rock. “I’ll jus’ go an’ help him with the paintin’. ” He lumbered off. No one seemed to want Victor at the moment. He stuck the ridiculous sword into the sand, wandered away and found a bit of shade under some scrubby olive trees. There were rocks here. He tapped them gently. They didn’t appear to be anyone. The ground formed a cool little hollow that was almost pleasant by the seared standards of Holy Wood hill. There was even a draft blowing from somewhere. As he leaned back against the stones he felt a cool breeze coming from them. Must be full of caves under here, he thought. — far away in Unseen University, in a drafty, many pillar’d corridor, a little device that no one had paid much attention to for years started to make a noise — So this was Holy Wood. It hadn’t looked like this on the silver screen. It seemed that moving pictures involved a lot of waiting around and, if he was hearing things right, a mixing-up of time. Things happened before the things they happened after. The monsters were just Morry painted green with wings stuck on. Nothing was really real. Funnily enough, that was exciting. “I’ve just about had enough of this,” said a voice beside him. He looked up. A girl had come down the other path. Her face was red with exertion under the pale make-up, her hair hung over her eyes in ridiculous ringlets, and she wore a dress which, while clearly made for her size, was designed for someone who was ten years younger and keen on lace edging. She was quite attractive, although this fact was not immediately apparent. “And you know what they say when you complain?” she demanded. This was not really addressed to Victor. He was just a convenient pair of ears. “I can’t imagine,” said Victor politely.
“They say, ‘There’s plenty of other people out there just waiting for a chance to get into moving pictures. ’ That’s what they say. ” She leaned against a gnarled tree and fanned herself with her straw hat. “And it’s too hot,” she complained. “And now I’ve got to do a ridiculous one-reeler for Silverfish, who hasn’t got the faintest idea. And some kid probably with bad breath and hay in his hair and a forehead you could lay a table on. ” “And trolls,” said Victor mildly. “Oh gods. Not Morry and Galena?” “Yes. Only Galena’s calling himself Rock now. ” “I thought it was going to be Flint. ” “He likes Rock. ” From behind the rocks came the plaintive bleat of Silverfish wondering where everyone had got to just when he needed them. The girl rolled her eyes. “Oh gods. For this I’m missing lunch?” “You could always eat it off my forehead,” said Victor, standing up. He had the satisfaction of feeling her thoughtful gaze on the back of his neck as he retrieved his sword and gave it a few experimental swishes, with rather more force than was necessary. “You’re the boy in the street, aren’t you?” she said. “That’s right. You’re the girl who was going to be shot,” said Victor. “I see they missed. ” She looked at him curiously. “How did you get a job so quickly? Most people have to wait weeks for a chance. ” “Chances are where you find them, I’ve always said,” said Victor. “But how —” Victor had already strolled away with gleeful nonchalance. She trailed after him, her face locked in a petulant pout. “Ah,” said Silverfish sarcastically, looking up. “My word. Everyone where they should be. Very well. We’ll go from the bit where he finds her tied to the stake. What you do,” he said to Victor, “is untie her, then drag her off and fight the Balgrog, and you ,” he pointed to the girl, “you, you, you just follow him and look as, as rescued as you possibly can, OK?” “I’m good at that,” she said, resignedly. “No, no, no,” said Dibbler, putting his head in his hands. “Not that again!” “Isn’t that what you wanted?” said Silverfish. “Fights and rescues?” “There’s got to be more to it than that!” said Dibbler. “Like what?” Silverfish demanded. “Oh, I don’t know. Razzmatazz. Oomph. The old zonkaroonie. ” “Funny noises? We haven’t got sound. ” “ Everyone makes clicks about people running around and fighting and falling over,” said Dibbler. “There should be something more. I’ve been looking at the things you make here, and they all look the same to me. ” “Well, all sausages look the same to me,” snapped Silverfish. “ They’re meant to! That’s what people expect!” “And I’m giving them what they expect, too,” said Silverfish. “People like to see more of what they expect. Fights and chases, that sort of thing—” “’Scuse me, Mister Silverfish,” said the handleman, above the angry chattering of the demons. “Yes?” snapped Dibbler. “’Scuse me, Mister Dibbler, but I got to feed ’em ina quarter of a hour. ” Dibbler groaned. In retrospect, Victor was always a little unclear about those next few minutes. That’s the way it goes. The moments that change your life are the ones that happen suddenly, like the one where you die. There had been another stylized battle, he knew that much, with Morry and what would have been a fearsome whip if the troll hadn’t kept tangling it around his own legs. And, when the dreadful Balgrog had been beaten and had slid out of shot mugging terribly and trying to hold its wings on with one hand, he’d turned and cut the ropes holding the girl to the stake and should have dragged her sharply to the right when— —the whispering started. There were no words but there was something that was the heart of words, that went straight through his ears and down his spinal column without bothering to make a stopover in his brain. He stared into the girl’s eyes and wondered if she was hearing it too. A long way off, there were words. There was Silverfish saying, “Come on, get on with it, what are you looking at her like that for?” and the handleman saying, “They gets really fractious if they misses a meal,” and Dibbler saying, in a voice hissing like a thrown knife, “Don’t stop turning the handle. ” The edges of his vision went cloudy, and there were shapes in the cloud that changed and faded before he had a chance to examine them. Helpless as a fly in an amber flow, as much in control of his destiny as a soap bubble in a hurricane, he leaned down and kissed her. There were more words beyond the ringing in his ears. “Why’s he doing that? Did I tell him to do that? No one told him to do that!” “—and then I have to muck ’em out afterward, and let me tell you, it’s no—” “Turn that handle! Turn that handle!” screamed Dibbler. “Now why’s he looking like that ?” “Cor!” “If you stop turning that handle you’ll never work in this town again!” “Listen, mister, I happen to belong to the Handlemen’s Guild—” “Don’t stop! Don’t stop !” Victor surfaced. The whispering faded, to be replaced by the distant boom of the breakers. The real world was back, hot and sharp, the sun pinned to the sky like a medal awarded for being a great day. The girl took a deep breath. “I’m, gosh, I’m terribly sorry,” babbled Victor, backing away. “I really don’t know what happened—” Dibbler jumped up and down. “That’s it, that’s it !” he yelled. “How soon can you have it ready?” “Well, like I said, I got to feed the imps and muck ’em out—” “Right, right—it’ll give me time to get some posters drawn,” said Dibbler. “I’ve already had some done,” said Silverfish coldly. “I bet you have, I bet you have,” said Dibbler, excitedly. “I bet you have. I bet they say things like ‘You mighte like to see a Quite Interestinge Moving Picture’!” “What’s wrong with it?” Silverfish demanded. “It’s a bloody sight better than hot sausage!” “I told you, when you sell sausages you don’t just hang around waiting for people to want sausage, you go out there and make them hungry. And you put mustard on ’em. And that’s what your lad there has done. ” He clapped one hand on Silverfish’s shoulder, and waved the other expansively. “Can’t you see it?” he said. He hesitated. Strange ideas were pouring into his head faster than he could think them. He felt dizzy with excitement and possibilities. “Sword of Passione,” he said. “That’s what we’ll call it. Not name it after some daft old bugger who’s probably not even alive anymore. Sword of Passione. Yeah. A Tumultuous Saga of—of Desire an’ Raw, Raw, Raw wossname in the Primal Heat of a Tortured Continent! Romance! Glamour! In three Searing Reels! Thrill to the Death Fight with Ravening Monsters! Scream as a thousand elephants—” “It’s only one reel,” muttered Silverfish testily. “Shoot some more this afternoon!” crowed Dibbler, his eyes revolving. “You just need more fights and monsters!” “And there’s certainly no elephants,” snapped Silverfish. Rock put up a craggy arm. “Yes?” demanded Silverfish. “If you’ve got some gray paint an’ stuff to make the ears out of, I’m sure me an’ Morry could—” “ No one’s ever done a three-reeler,” said Gaffer reflectively. “Could be really tricky. I mean, it’d be nearly ten minutes long. ” He looked thoughtful. “I suppose if I was to make the spools bigger—” Silverfish knew he was cornered. “Now look here ,” he began. Victor stared down at the girl. Everyone else was ignoring them. “Er,” he said, “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced?” “You didn’t seem to let that stop you,” she said. “I wouldn’t normally do something like that. I must have been…ill. Or something. ” “Oh, good. And that makes me feel a lot better, does it?” “Shall we sit in the shade? It’s very hot out here. ” “Your eyes went all…smouldery. ” “Did they?” “They looked really odd. ” “I felt really odd. ” “I know. It’s this place. It gets to you. D’you know,” she said, sitting down on the sand, “there’s all kind of rules for the imps and things, they mustn’t be worn out, what kind of food they get, stuff like that. No one cares about us, though. Even the trolls get better treatment.
” “It’s the way they go around being seven foot tall and weighing 1,000 pounds all the time, I expect,” said Victor. “My name’s Theda Withel, but my friends call me Ginger,” she said. “My name’s Victor Tugelbend. Er. But my friends call me Victor,” said Victor. “This is your first click, is it?” “How can you tell?” “You looked as though you were enjoying it. ” “Well, it’s better than working, isn’t it?” “You wait until you’ve been in it as long as I have,” she said bitterly. “How long’s that?” “Nearly since the start. Five weeks. ” “Gosh. It’s all happened so fast. ” “It’s the best thing that’s ever happened,” said Ginger flatly. “I suppose so…er, are we allowed to go and eat?” said Victor. “No. They’ll be shouting for us again any minute,” said Ginger. Victor nodded. He had, on the whole, got through life quite happily by doing what he pleased in a firm yet easygoing sort of way, and he didn’t see why he should stop that even in Holy Wood. “Then they’ll have to shout,” he said. “I want something to eat and a cool drink. Maybe I’ve just caught a bit too much sun. ” Ginger looked uncertain. “Well, there’s the commissary, but—” “Good. You can show me the way. ” “They fire people just like that—” “What, before the third reel?” “They say ‘There’s plenty more people who’re dying to break into moving pictures,’ you see—” “Good. That means they’ll have all afternoon to find two of them who look just like us. ” He strolled past Morry, who was also trying to keep in the shade of a rock. “If anyone wants us,” he said, “we’ll be having some lunch. ” “What, right now?” said the troll. “Yes,” said Victor firmly, and strode on. Behind him he could see Dibbler and Silverfish locked in heated discussion, with occasional interruptions from the handleman, who spoke in the leisurely tones of one who knows he’s going to get paid six dollars today regardless. “—we’ll call it an epic. People will talk about it for ages. ” “Yes, they’ll say we went bankrupt!” “Look, I know where I can get some colored woodcuts done at practically cost—” “—I was finking, maybe if I got some string and tied the moving picture box onto wheels, so it can be moved around—” “People’ll say, that Silverfish, there’s a moving-picture-smith with the guts to give the people what they want, they’ll say. A man to roll back the wossname of the medium—” “—maybe if I was to make a sort of pole and swivel arrangement, we could bring the picture box right up close to—” “What? You think they’ll say that?” “Trust me, Tommy. ” “Well…all right. All right. But no elephants. I want to make that absolutely clear. No elephants. ” “Looks weird to me,” said the Archchancellor. “Looks like a bunch of pottery elephants. Thought you said it was a machine?” “More…more of a device ,” said the Bursar uncertainly. He gave it a prod. Several of the pottery elephants wobbled. “Riktor the Tinkerer built it, I think. It was before my time. ” It looked like a large, ornate pot, almost as high as a man of large pot height. Around its rim eight pottery elephants hung from little bronze chains; one of them swung backward and forward at the Bursar’s touch. The Archchancellor peered down inside. “It’s all levers and bellows,” he said, distastefully. The Bursar turned to the University housekeeper. “Well, now, Mrs. Whitlow,” he said, “what exactly happened?” Mrs. Whitlow, huge, pink and becorseted, patted her ginger wig and nudged the tiny maid who was hovering beside her like a tugboat. “Tell his lordship, Ksandra,” she ordered. Ksandra looked as though she was regretting the whole thing. “Well, sir, please, sir, I was dusting, you see—” “She hwas dusting,” said Mrs. Whitlow, helpfully. When Mrs. Whitlow was in the grip of acute class consciousness she could create aitches where nature never intended them to be. “—and then it started me’king a noise—” “Hit made hay hnoise,” said Mrs. Whitlow. “So she come and told me, your lordship, h’as hper my instructions. ” “What kind of noise, Ksandra?” said the Bursar, as kindly as he could. “Please, sir, sort of—” she screwed up her eyes, “‘whumm…whumm…whumm…whumm…whummwhumm whumm WHUMM WHUMM —plib,’ sir. ” “Plib,” said the Bursar, solemnly. “Yes, sir. ” “Hplib,” echoed Mrs. Whitlow. “That was when it spat at me, sir,” said Ksandra. “Hexpectorated,” corrected Mrs. Whitlow. “Apparently one of the elephants spat out a little lead pellet, Master,” said the Bursar. “That was the, er, the ‘plib. ’” “Did it, bigods,” said the Archchancellor. “Can’t have pots going around gobbin’ all over people. ” Mrs. Whitlow twitched. “What’d it go and do that for?” Ridcully added. “I really couldn’t say, Master. I thought perhaps you’d know. I believe Riktor was a lecturer here when you were a student. Mrs. Whitlow is very concerned,” he added, in tones that made it clear that when Mrs. Whitlow was concerned about something it would be an unwise Archchancellor who ignored her, “about staff being magically interfered with. ” The Archchancellor tapped the pot with his knuckles. “What, old ‘Numbers’ Riktor? Same fella?” “Apparently, Archchancellor. ” “Total madman. Thought you could measure everythin’. Not just lengths and weights and that kind of stuff, but everythin’. ‘If it exists,’ he said, ‘you ought to be able to measure it. ’” Ridcully’s eyes misted with memory. “Made all kinds of weird widgets. Reckoned you could measure truth and beauty and dreams and stuff. So this is one of old Riktor’s toys, is it? Wonder what it measured?” “Ay think,” said Mrs. Whitlow, “that it should be put haway somewhere out of ’arm’s way, if it’s hall the hsame to you. ” “Yes, yes, yes, of course,” said the Bursar hurriedly. Staff were hard to keep at Unseen University. “Get rid of it,” said the Archchancellor. The Bursar was horrified. “Oh, no, sir,” he said. “We never throw things out. Besides, it is probably quite valuable. ” “Hmm,” said Ridcully. “Valuable?” “Possibly an important historical artifact, Master. ” “Shove it in my study, then. I said the place needs bright’nin’ up. It’ll be one of them conversation pieces, right? Got to go now. Got to see a man about trainin’ a gryphon. Good day, ladies—” “Er, Archchancellor, I wonder if you could just sign—” the Bursar began, but to a closing door. No one asked Ksandra which of the pottery elephants had spat the ball, and the direction wouldn’t have meant anything to them anyway. That afternoon a couple of porters moved the universe’s only working resograph 5 into the Archchancellor’s study. No one had found a way to add sound to moving pictures, but there was a sound that was particularly associated with Holy Wood. It was the sound of nails being hammered. Holy Wood had gone critical. New houses, new streets, new neighborhoods , appeared overnight. And, in those areas where the hastily-educated alchemical apprentices were not yet fully alongside the trickier stages of making octo-cellulose, disappeared even faster. Not that it made a lot of difference. Barely would the smoke have cleared before someone was hammering again. And Holy Wood grew by fission. All you needed was a steady-handed, non-smoking lad who could read alchemical signs, a handleman, a sackful of demons and lots of sunshine. Oh, and some people. But there were plenty of those. If you couldn’t breed demons or mix chemicals or turn a handle rhythmically, you could always hold horses or wait on tables and look interesting while you hoped. Or, if all else failed, hammer nails. Building after rickety building skirted the ancient hill, their thin planks already curling and bleaching in the pitiless sun, but there was already a pressing need for more. Because Holy Wood was calling. More people arrived every day. They didn’t come to be ostlers, or tavern wenches, or short-order carpenters. They came to make movies. And they didn’t know why. As Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler knew in his heart, wherever two or more people are gathered together, someone will be trying to sell them a suspicious sausage in a bun. Now that Dibbler was in fact engaged elsewhere, others had arisen to fulfil that function.
One such was Nodar Borgle the Klatchian, whose huge echoing shed wasn’t so much a restaurant as a feeding factory. Great steaming tureens occupied one end. The rest of it was tables, and around the tables were— Victor was astonished. —there were trolls, humans and dwarfs. And a few gnomes. And perhaps even a few elves, the most elusive of Discworld races. And lots of other things, which Victor had to hope were trolls dressed up, because if they weren’t, everyone was going to be in a lot of trouble. And they were all eating, and the amazing thing was that they were not eating one another. “You take a plate and you queue up and then you pay for it,” said Ginger. “It’s called self-serf. ” “You pay for it before you eat it? What happens if it’s dreadful?” Ginger nodded grimly. “That’s why. ” Victor shrugged, and leaned down to the dwarf behind the lunch counter. “I’d like—” “It’s stoo,” said the dwarf. “What kind of stew?” “There ain’t more’n one kind. That’s why it’s stoo,” the dwarf snapped. “Stoo’s stoo. ” “What I meant was, what’s in it?” said Victor. “If you need to ask, you’re not hungry enough,” said Ginger. “Two stews, Fruntkin. ” Victor stared at the gray-brown stuff that was dribbled onto his plate. Strange lumps, carried to the surface by mysterious convection currents, bobbed for a moment, and then sank back down, hopefully forever. Borgle belonged to the Dibbler school of cuisine. “It’s stoo or nuffin, boy. ” The cook leered. “Half a dollar. Cheap at half the price. ” Victor handed over the money with reluctance, and looked around for Ginger. “Over here,” said Ginger, sitting down at one of the long tables. “Hi, Thunderfoot. Hi, Breccia, how’s it goin’? This is Vic. New boy. Hi, Sniddin, didn’t see you there. ” Victor found himself wedged between Ginger and a mountain troll in what looked like chain mail, but it turned out to be just Holy Wood chain mail, which was inexpertly knitted string painted silver. Ginger started talking animatedly to a four-inch-high gnome and a dwarf in one half of a bear outfit, leaving Victor feeling a little isolated. The troll nodded at him, and then grimaced at its plate. “Dey call dis pumice,” he said. “Dey never even bother to cut der lava off. And you can’t even taste der sand. ” Victor stared at the troll’s plate. “I didn’t know trolls ate rock,” he said, before he could stop himself. “Why not?” “Aren’t you made of it?” “Yeah. But you’re made a meat, an’ what do you eat?” Victor looked at his own plate. “Good question,” he said. “Vic’s doing a click for Silverfish,” said Ginger, turning around. “It looks like they’re going to make it a three-reeler. ” There was a general murmur of interest. Victor carefully laid something yellow and wobbly on the side of his plate. “Tell me,” he said thoughtfully, “while you’ve been filming, have any of you had a…heard a sort of…felt that you were…” He hesitated. They were all looking at him. “I mean, did you ever feel something was acting through you? I can’t think of any other way to put it. ” His fellow diners relaxed. “Dat’s just Holy Wood,” said the troll. “It gets to you. It’s all dis creativity sloshin’ about. ” “That was a pretty bad attack you had, though,” said Ginger. “Happens all the time,” said the dwarf reflectively. “It’s just Holy Wood. Last week, me and the lads were working on Tales of the Dwarfes and suddenly we all started singing. Just like that. Just like this song came into our heads, all at once. What d’you think of that?” “What song?” said Ginger. “Search me. We just call it the ‘Hiho’ song. That’s all it was. Hihohiho. Hihohiho. ” “Sound like every other dwarf song I ever did hear,” rumbled the troll. It was past two o’clock when they got back to the moving-picture-making place. The handleman had the back off the picture box and was scraping at its floor with a small shovel. Dibbler was asleep in his canvas chair with a handkerchief over his face. But Silverfish was wide awake. “Where have you two been?” he shouted. “I was hungry,” said Victor. “And you’ll jolly well stay hungry, my lad, because—” Dibbler lifted the corner of his handkerchief. “Let’s get started,” he muttered. “But we can’t have performers telling us—” “Finish the click, and then sack him,” said Dibbler. “Right!” Silverfish waved a threatening finger at Victor and Ginger. “You’ll never work in this town again!” They got through the afternoon somehow. Dibbler made them bring a horse in, and cursed the handleman because the picture box still couldn’t be moved around. The demons complained. So they put the horse head-on in front of the box and Victor bounced up and down in the saddle. As Dibbler said, it was good enough for moving pictures. Afterward, Silverfish very grudgingly paid them two dollars each and dismissed them. “He’ll tell all the other alchemists,” said Ginger dispiritedly. “They stick together like glue. ” “I notice we only get two dollars a day but the trolls get three,” said Victor. “Why’s that?” “Because there aren’t so many trolls wanting to make moving pictures,” said Ginger. “And a good handleman can get six or seven dollars a day. Performers aren’t important. ” She turned and glared at him. “I was doing OK,” she said. “Nothing special, but OK. I was getting quite a lot of work. People thought I was reliable. I was building a career—” “You can’t build a career on Holy Wood,” said Victor. “That’s like building a house on a swamp. Nothing’s real. ” “I liked it! And now you’ve spoilt it all! And I’ll probably have to go back to a horrible little village you’ve probably never even heard of! Back to bloody milkmaiding! Thanks very much! Every time I see a cow’s arse, I’ll think of you!” She stormed off in the direction of the town leaving Victor with the trolls. After a while Rock cleared his throat. “You got anywhere to stay?” he said. “I don’t think so,” said Victor, weakly. “There’s never enough places to stay,” said Morry. “I thought I might sleep on the beach,” said Victor. “It’s warm enough, after all. I think I really could do with a good rest. Good night. ” He tottered off in that direction. The sun was setting, and a wind off the sea had cooled things a little. Around the darkening bulk of the hill the lights of Holy Wood were being lit. Holy Wood only relaxed in the darkness. When your raw material is daylight, you don’t waste it. It was pleasant enough on the beach. No one much went there. The driftwood, cracked and salt-crusted, was no good for building. It was stacked in a long white row on the tide line. Victor pulled together enough to make a fire, and lay back and watched the surf. From the top of the next dune, hidden behind a dry clump of grass, Gaspode the Wonder Dog watched him thoughtfully. It was two hours after midnight. It had them now, and poured joyfully out of the hill, poured its glitter into the world. Holy Wood dreams… It dreams for everyone. In the hot breathless darkness of a clapboard shack, Ginger Withel dreamed of red carpets and cheering crowds. And a grating. She kept coming back to a grating, in the dream, where a rush of warm air blew up her skirts… In the not much cooler darkness of a marginally more expensive shack, Silverfish the moving picturesmith dreamed of cheering crowds, and someone giving him a prize for the best moving picture ever made. It was a great big statue. Out in the sand dunes Rock and Morry dozed fitfully, because trolls are night creatures by nature and sleeping in darkness bruised the instincts of eons. They dreamed of mountains. Down on the beach, under the stars, Victor dreamed of pounding hooves, flowing robes, pirate ships, sword fights, chandeliers… On the next dune, Gaspode the Wonder Dog slept with one eye open and dreamed of wolves. But Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler was not dreaming, because he was not asleep. It had been a long ride to Ankh-Morpork and he preferred selling horses to riding them, but he was there now. The storms that so carefully avoided Holy Wood didn’t worry about Ankh-Morpork, and it was pouring with rain. That didn’t stop the city’s night life, though—it just made it damper.
There was nothing you couldn’t buy in Ankh-Morpork, even in the middle of the night. Dibbler had a lot of things to buy. He needed posters painted. He needed all sorts of things. Many of them involved ideas he’d had to invent in his head on the long ride, and now had to explain very carefully to other people. And he had to explain it fast. The rain was a solid curtain when he finally staggered out into the gray light of dawn. The gutters overflowed. Along the rooftops, repulsive gargoyles threw up expertly over passers-by although, since it was now five a. m. , the crowds had thinned out a bit. Throat took a deep breath of the thick city air. Real air. You would have to go a long way to find air that was realer than Ankh-Morpork air. You could tell just by breathing it that other people had been doing the same thing for thousands of years. For the first time in days he felt that he was thinking clearly. That was the strange thing about Holy Wood. When you were there it all seemed natural, it all seemed just what life was all about, but when you got away from it and looked back, it was like looking at a brilliant soap bubble. It was as though, when you were in Holy Wood, you weren’t quite the same person. Well, Holy Wood was Holy Wood, and Ankh was Ankh, and Ankh was solid and proof, in Throat’s opinion, against any Holy Wood weirdness. He splashed through the puddles, listening to the rain. After a while he noticed, for the first time in his life, that it had a rhythm. Funny. You could live in a city all your life, and you had to go away and come back again before you noticed the way the rain dripping off the gutters had a rhythm all its own: DUMdi-dum-dum, dumdi-dumdi-DUM-DUM… A few minutes later Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs of the Night Watch were sharing a friendly roll-up in the shelter of a doorway and doing what the Night Watch was best at, which was keeping warm and dry and staying out of trouble. They were the only witnesses to the manic figure which splashed down the dripping street, pirouetted through the puddles, grabbed a drainpipe to swing around the corner and, clicking its heels together merrily, disappeared from view. Sgt. Colon handed the soggy dog-end back to his companion. “Was that old Throat Dibbler?” he said after a while. “Yeah,” said Nobby. “He looked happy, didn’t he?” “Must be off ’is nut, if you ask me,” said Nobby. “Singing in the rain like that. ” Whumm…whumm… The Archchancellor, who had been updating his dragon stud book and enjoying a late night drink in front of the fire, looked up. …whumm…whumm…whumm… “Bigods!” he muttered, and wandered over to the big pot. It was actually wobbling from side to side, as if the building was shaking. The Archchancellor watched, fascinated. …whumm…whummwhumm whummWHUMM. It wobbled to a standstill, and went silent. “Odd,” said the Archchancellor. “Damned odd. ” Plib. On the other side of the room, his brandy decanter shattered. Ridcully the Brown took a deep breath. “Bur saar !” Victor was woken up by sandflies. The air was already warm. It was going to be another fine day. He waded out into the shallows to wash and clear his head. Let’s see…he still had his two dollars from yesterday, plus a handful of pennies. He could afford to stay a while, especially if he slept on the beach. And Borgle’s stoo, while only food in the technical sense, was cheap enough—although, come to think of it, eating there might involve embarrassing encounters with Ginger. He took another step, and sank. Victor hadn’t swum in the sea before. He surfaced, half-drowned, treading water furiously. The beach was only a few yards away. He relaxed, gave himself time to get his breath back, and swam a leisurely crawl out beyond the breakers. The water was crystal clear. He could see the bottom shelving away sharply to—he surfaced for a quick breath—a dim blueness in which it was just possible, through the teeming shoals of fish, to see the outline of pale, rectangular rocks scattered on the sand. He tried a dive, fighting his way down until his ears clanged. The largest lobster he had ever seen waved its feelers at him from a rocky spire and snapped away into the depths. Victor bobbed up again, gasping, and struck out for the shore. Well, if you couldn’t make it in moving pictures there was an opening here for a fisherman, that was certain. A beachcomber would do all right, as well. There was enough wind-dried firewood piled up on the edge of the dunes to keep Ankh-Morpork’s fires supplied for years. No one in Holy Wood would dream of lighting a fire except for cooking or company. And someone had been doing just that. As he waded ashore Victor realized that the wood further along the beach had been stacked not haphazardly but apparently by design, in neat piles. Further along, stones had been stacked into a crude fireplace. It was clogged with sand. Maybe someone else had been living on the beach, waiting for their big chance in moving pictures. Come to think of it, the timber behind the half-buried stones had a dragged-together look. You could imagine, looking at it from the sea, that several balks of timber had been set up to form an arched doorway. Perhaps they were still there. Perhaps they might have something to drink. They were, indeed, still there. But they hadn’t needed a drink for months. It was eight in the morning. A thunderous knocking awoke Bezam Planter, owner of the Odium , one of Ankh-Morpork’s mushrooming crop of moving-picture pits. He’d had a bad night. The people of Ankh-Morpork liked novelty. The trouble was that they didn’t like novelty for long. The Odium had done great business for a week, had broken even for the next week, and was now dying. The late showing last night had been patronized by one deaf dwarf and an orangutan, who’d brought along its own peanuts. Bezam relied on the sale of peanuts and banged grains for his profit, and wasn’t in a good mood. He opened the door and stared out blearily. “We’re shut ’til two o’clock,” he said. “Mat’nee. Come back then. Seats in all parts. ” He slammed the door. It rebounded off Throat Dibbler’s boot and hit Bezam on the nose. “I’ve come about the special showing of Sword of Passione ,” said Throat. “Special showing? What special showing?” “The special showing I’m about to tell you about,” said Throat. “We ain’t showing nothin’ about any special passionate swords. We’re showin’ The Exciting —” “Mister Dibbler says yore showing Sword of Passione ,” rumbled a voice. Throat leaned against the doorway. Behind him was a slab of rock. It looked as though someone had been throwing steel balls at it for thirty years. It creased in the middle and leaned down toward Bezam. He recognized Detritus. Everyone recognized Detritus. He wasn’t a troll you forgot. “But I haven’t even heard of—” Bezam began. Throat pulled a large tin from under his coat, and grinned. “And here are some posters,” he added, producing a fat white roll. “Mister Dibbler let me stick some up on walls,” said Detritus proudly. Bezam unrolled the poster. It was in eye-watering colors. It showed a picture of what might just possibly be Ginger pouting in a blouse too small for her, and Victor in the act of throwing her over one shoulder while fighting an assortment of monsters with the other hand. In the background, volcanoes were erupting, dragons were zooming through the sky, and cities were burning down. “‘The Motione-Picture They Coud Not Banne!’,” read Bezam hesitantly. “‘A Scorching Adventure In the White-Hotte Dawne of A New Continont! A Mann and a Womann Throne Together in the Wherlpool of a World Gone Madde!! STARING Delores De Syn as The Woman and Victor Maraschino as Cohen the Barbarian!!! THRILS! ADVENTURE!! ELEPHANTS!!! Cominge Soone to A Pit nr. You!!!!’” He read it again. “Who’s Staring Delores De Syn?” he said, suspiciously. “That’s starring ,” said Throat. “That’s why we’ve put stars against their names, see. ” He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a piercing whisper.
“They do say,” he said, “that she’s the daughter of a Klatchian pirate and his wild, headstrong captive, and he’s the son of…the son of…a rogue wizard and a reckless gypsy flamenco dancer. ” “Cor!” said Bezam, impressed despite himself. Dibbler permitted himself a mental slap on the back. He’d been quite taken with it himself. “I reckon you should start showing it in about an hour,” he said. “At this time in the morning?” said Bezam. The click he had obtained for the day was An Exciting Study of Pottery Making , which had been worrying him. This seemed a much better proposition. “Yes,” said Dibbler. “Because a lot of people are going to want to watch it. ” “I dunno about that,” said Bezam. “Houses have been falling off lately. ” “They’ll want to watch this one,” said Throat. “Trust me. Have I ever lied to you?” Bezam scratched his head. “Well, one night last month you sold me a sausage in a bun and you said—” “I was speaking rhetorically,” snapped Throat. “Yeah,” said Detritus. Bezam sagged. “Oh. Well. I dunno about rhetorically,” he said. “Right,” said Throat, grinning like a predatory pumpkin. “Just you open up, and you can sit back and rake in the money. ” “Oh. Good,” said Bezam weakly. Throat put a friendly arm around the man’s shoulders. “And now,” he said, “let’s talk about percentages. ” “What’re percentages?” “Have a cigar,” said Throat. Victor walked slowly up Holy Wood’s nameless main street. There was packed sand under his fingernails. He wasn’t sure that he had done the right thing. Probably the man had just been some old beachcomber who’d just gone to sleep one day and hadn’t woken up, although the stained red and gold coat was unusual beach-combing wear. It was hard to tell how long he’d been dead. The dryness and salt air had been a preservative; they’d preserved him just the way he must have looked when he was alive, which was like someone who was dead. By the look of his hut, he’d beachcombed some odd stuff. It had occurred to Victor that someone ought to be told, but there was probably no one in Holy Wood who would be interested. Probably only one person in the world had been interested in whether the old man lived or died, and he’d been the first to know. Victor buried the body in the sand, landward of the driftwood hut. He saw Borgle’s ahead of him. He’d risk breakfast there, he decided. Besides, he needed somewhere to sit down and read the book. It wasn’t the sort of thing you expected to find on a beach, in a driftwood hut, clutched in the hand of a dead man. On the cover were the words The Boke of the Film. On the first page, in the neat around hand of someone to whom writing doesn’t come easily, were the further words: This is the Chroncal of the Keeprs of the ParaMountain coppied out by me Deccan Beacuase Of the old onne it being fallin Apart. He turned the stiff pages carefully. They seemed to be crammed with almost identical entries. They were all undated, but that wasn’t very important, since one day had been pretty much like the other. Gott up. Went to lavatry. Made up fire, announused the Matinee Performanse. Broke fast. Colected woode. Made up fire. Foraged on the hille. Chanted the Evening Performansee. Supper. Sed the Late-Nite Performanse chant. Wnet to lavatry. Bed. Gott up. Went to lavatry. Made up fire, sed the Matinee Performanse. Broke fast. Crullet the fisherman from Jowser Cove have left 2 fyne see bass. Clected woode. Heralded the Evewning Performanse, made up fire. Howskeepeing. Supper. Chanted the Late Night performanse. Bed. Gott up at Midnigte, went to lavaotry, checked fire, but it was not Needful of Woode. He saw the waitress out of the tail of his eye. “I’d like a boiled egg,” he said. “It’s stew. Fish stew. ” He looked up into Ginger’s blazing eyes. “I didn’t know you were a waitress,” he said. She made a show of dusting the salt bowl. “Nor did I until yesterday,” she said. “Lucky for me Borgle’s regular morning girl got a chance in the new moving picture that Untied Alchemists are making, isn’t it?” She shrugged. “If I’m really lucky, who knows? I might get to do the afternoon shift too. ” “Look, I didn’t mean—” “It’s stew. Take it or leave it. Three customers this morning have done both. ” “I’ll take it. Look, you won’t believe it, but I found this book in the hands of—” “I’m not allowed to dally with customers. This isn’t the best job in town, but you’re not losing it for me,” snapped Ginger. “Fish stew, right?” “Oh. Right. Sorry. ” He flicked backward through the pages. Before Deccan there was Tento, who also chanted three times a day and also sometimes received gifts of fish and also went to the lavatory, although either he wasn’t so assiduous about it as Deccan or hadn’t thought it always worth writing down. Before that, someone called Meggelin had been the chanter. A whole string of people had lived on the beach, and then if you went back further there was a group of them, and further still the entries had a more official feel. It was hard to tell. They seemed to be written in code, line after line of little complex pictures… A bowl of primal soup was plonked down in front of him. “Look,” he said. “What time do you get off—” “Never,” said Ginger. “I just wondered if you might know where—” “No. ” Victor stared at the murky surface of the broth. Borgle worked on the principle that if you find it in water, it’s a fish. There was something purple in there and it had at least ten legs. He ate it anyway. It was costing him thirty pence. Then, with Ginger resolutely busying herself at the counter with her back to him lighthouse-fashion, so that however he tried to attract her attention her back was still facing him without her apparently moving, he went to look for another job. Victor had never worked for anything in his life. In his experience, jobs were things that happened to other people. Bezam Planter adjusted the tray around his wife’s neck. “All right,” he said. “Got everything?” “The banged grains have gone soft,” she said. “And there’s no way to keep the sausages hot. ” “It’ll be dark, love. No one’ll notice. ” He tweaked the strap and stood back. “There,” he said. “Now, you know what to do. Halfway through I’ll stop showing the film and put up the card that says ‘Why not Try a Cool Refreshinge Drinke and Some Banged Grains?’ and then you come out of the door over there and walk up the aisle. ” “You might as well mention cool refreshing sausages as well,” said Mrs. Planter. “And I reckon you should stop using a torch to show people to their seats,” said Bezam. “You’re starting too many fires. ” “It’s the only way I can see in the dark,” she said. “Yes, but I had to let that dwarf have his money back last night. You know how sensitive they are about their beards. Tell you what, love, I’ll give you a salamander in a cage. They’ve been on the roof since dawn, they should be nice and ready. ” They were. The creatures lay dozing in the bottom of their cages, their bodies vibrating gently as they absorbed the light. Bezam selected six of the ripest, climbed heavily back down to the projection room, and tipped them into the showing-box. He wound Throat Dibbler’s film onto a spool, and then peered out into the darkness. Oh, well. Might as well see if there was anyone outside. He shuffled to the front door, yawning. He reached up, and slid the bolt. He reached down, and slid the other bolt. He pulled open the doors. “All right, all right,” he grumbled. “Let’s be having you…” He woke up in the projection room, with Mrs. Planter fanning him desperately with her apron. “What happened?” he whispered, trying to put out of his mind the memories of trampling feet. “It’s a full house!” she said. “And they’re still queueing up outside! They’re all down the street! It’s them disgusting posters!” Bezam got up unsteadily but with determination. “Woman, shut up and get down to the kitchen and bang some more grains!” he shouted. “And then come and help me repaint the signs! If they’re queueing for the fivepenny seats, they’ll queue for tenpence!” He rolled up his sleeves and grasped the handle.
In the front row the Librarian sat with a bag of peanuts in his lap. After a few minutes he stopped chewing and sat with his mouth open, staring and staring and staring at the flickering images. “Hold your horse, sir? Ma’am?” “No!” By mid-day Victor had earned tuppence. It wasn’t that people didn’t have horses that needed holding, it was just that they didn’t seem to want him to hold them. Eventually a gnarled little man from further along the street sidled up to him, dragging four horses. Victor had been watching him for hours, in frank astonishment that anyone should give the wizened homunculus a kindly smile, let alone a horse. But he’d been doing a brisk trade, while Victor’s broad shoulders, handsome profile and honest, open smile were definitely a drawback in the horse-holding business. “You’re new to this, right?” said the little man. “Yes,” said Victor. “Ah. I could tell. Waitin’ for yer big break in the clicks, right?” He grinned encouragingly. “No. I’ve had my big break, in fact,” said Victor. “Why you here then?” Victor shrugged. “I broke it. ” “Ah, is that so? Yessir, thank’ee sir, godsblessyousir, rightchewaresir,” said the man, accepting another set of reins. “I suppose you don’t need an assistant?” said Victor wistfully. Bezam Planter stared at the pile of coins in front of him. Throat Dibbler moved his hands and it was a smaller pile of coins, but it was still a bigger pile of coins than Bezam had ever seen while in a waking state. “And we’re still showing it every quarter of an hour!” breathed Bezam. “I’ve had to hire a boy to turn the handle! I don’t know, what should I do with all this money?” Throat patted him on the shoulder. “Buy bigger premises,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Bezam. “Yeah. Something with fancy pillars out in front. And my daughter Calliope plays the organ really nice, it’d make a good accompaniment. And there should be lots of gold paint and curly bits—” His eyes glazed. It had found another mind. Holy Wood dreams. —and make it a palace, like the fabulous Rhoxie in Klatch, or the richest temple there ever was, with slave girls to sell the banged grains and peanuts, and Bezam Planter walking about proprietorially in a red velvet jacket with gold string on it— “Hmm?” he whispered, as the sweat beaded on his forehead. “I said, I’m off,” said Throat. “Got to keep moving in the moving-picture business, you know. ” “Mrs. Planter says you’ve got to make more pictures with that young man,” said Bezam. “The whole city’s talking about him. She said several ladies swooned when he gave them that smouldery look. She watched it five times,” he added, his voice rimed with sudden suspicion. “And that girl! Wow!” “Don’t you worry about a thing,” said Throat loftily. “I’ve got them under contr—” Sudden doubt drifted across his face. “See you,” he said shortly, and scurried out of the building. Bezam stood alone and looked around at the cobwebbed interior of the Odium , his overheated imagination peopling its dark corners with potted palms, gold leaf and fat cherubs. Peanut shells and banged grain bags crunched under his feet. Have to get it cleaned up for the next house, he thought. I expect that monkey’ll be first in the queue again. Then his eye fell on the poster for Sword of Passione. Amazing, really. There hadn’t been much in the way of elephants and volcanoes, and the monsters had been trolls with bits stuck on them, but in that close up…well…all the men had sighed, and then all the women had sighed…It was like magic. He grinned at the images of Victor and Ginger. Wonder what those two’re doing now? he thought. Prob’ly eating caviar off of gold plates and lounging around up to their knees in velvet cushions, you bet. “You look up to your knees in it, lad,” said the horse-holder. “I’m afraid I’m not getting the hang of this horse-holding,” said Victor. “Ah, ’tis a hard trade, horse-holding,” said the man. “It’s learning the proper grovelin’ and the irreverent-but-not-too-impudent cheery ’oss-’older’s banter. People don’t just want you to look after the ’oss, see. They want a ’oss-’olding hexperience. ” “They do?” “They want an amusin’ encounter and a soup-son of repartee,” said the little man. “It’s not just a matter of ’oldin’ reins. ” Realization began to dawn on Victor. “It’s a performance,” he said. The ’oss-’older tapped the side of his strawberry-shaped nose. “That’s right!” he said. Torches flared in Holy Wood. Victor struggled through the crowds in the main street. Every bar, every tavern, every shop had its doors thrown open. A sea of people ebbed and flowed between them. Victor tried jumping up and down to search the mob of faces. He was lonely and lost and hungry. He needed someone to talk to, and she wasn’t there. “Victor!” He spun around. Rock bore down on him like an avalanche. “Victor! My friend!” A fist the size and hardness of a foundation stone pounded him playfully on the shoulder. “Oh, hi,” said Victor weakly. “Er. How’s it going, Rock?” “Great! Great! Tomorrow we shoot Bad Menace of Troll Valley !” “I’m very happy for you,” said Victor. “You my lucky human!” Rock boomed. “Rock! What a name! Come and have a drink!” Victor accepted. He really didn’t have much of a choice, because Rock gripped his arm and, plowing through the crowds like an icebreaker, half-led, half-dragged him toward the nearest door. A blue light illuminated a sign. Most Morporkians could read Troll, it was hardly a difficult language. The sharp runes spelled out The Blue Lias. It was a troll bar. The smoky glow from the furnaces beyond the slab counter was the only light. It illuminated three trolls playing—well, something percussive, but Victor couldn’t quite make out what because the decibel level was in realms where the sound was a solid force, and it made his eyeballs vibrate. The furnace smoke hid the ceiling. “What you havin’?” roared Rock. “I don’t have to drink molten metal, do I?” Victor quavered. He had to quaver at the top of his voice in order to be heard. “We got all typer human drink!” shouted the female troll behind the bar. It had to be a female. There was no doubt about it. She looked slightly like the statues cavemen used to carve of fertility goddesses thousands of years ago, but mostly like a foothill. “We very cosmopolitan. ” “I’ll have a beer, then!” “Ana flowers-of-sulfur onna rocks, Ruby!” added Rock. Victor took the opportunity to look around the bar, now that he was getting accustomed to the gloom and his eardrums had mercifully gone numb. He was aware of masses of trolls seated at long tables, with here and there a dwarf, which was astonishing. Dwarfs and trolls normally fought like, well, dwarfs and trolls. In their native mountains there was a state of unremitting vendetta. Holy Wood certainly changed things. “Can I have a quiet word?” Victor shouted in Rock’s pointed ear. “Sure!” Rock put down his drink. It contained a purple paper umbrella, which was charring in the heat. “Have you seen Ginger? You know? Ginger?” “She working at Borgle’s!” “Only in the mornings! I’ve just been there! Where does she go when she’s not working?” “Who know where anyone go?” There was a sudden silence from the combo in the smoke. One of the trolls picked up a small rock and started to pound it gently, producing a slow, sticky rhythm that clung to the walls like smoke. And from the smoke, Ruby emerged like a galleon out of the fog, with a ridiculous feather boa around her neck. It was continental drift with curves. She began to sing. The trolls stood in respectful silence. After a while Victor heard a sob. Tears were rolling down Rock’s face. “What’s the song about?” he whispered. Rock leaned down. “Is ancient folklorique troll song,” he said. “Is about Amber and Jasper. They were—” he hesitated, and waved his hands about vaguely. “Friends. Good friends?” “I think I know what you mean,” said Victor. “And one day Amber takes her troll’s dinner down to the cave and finds him—” Rock waved his hands in vague yet thoroughly descriptive motions “—with another lady troll.
So she go home and get her club and come back and beat him to death, thump, thump, thump. ’Cos he was her troll and he done her wrong. Is very romantic song. ” Victor stared. Ruby undulated down from the tiny stage and glided among the customers, a small mountain in a four-wheel skid. She must weigh two tons, he thought. If she sits on my knee they’ll have to roll me off the floor like a carpet. “What did she just say to that troll?” he said, as a deep wave of laughter rolled across the room. Rock scratched his nose. “Is play on words,” he said. “Very hard to translate. But basically, she say ‘Is that the legendary Sceptre of Magma who was King of the Mountain, Smiter of Thousands, Yea, Even Tens of Thousands, Ruler of the Golden River, Master of the Bridges, Delver in Dark Places, Crusher of Many Enemies,’” he took a deep breath, “‘in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?’” Victor’s forehead creased. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Perhaps I not translate properly,” said Rock. He took a pull of molten sulfur. “I hear Untied Alchemists is casting for—” “Rock, there’s something very odd about this place,” said Victor urgently. “Can’t you feel it?” “What odd?” “Everything seems to, well, fizz. No one acts like they should. Did you know there was a great city here once? Where the sea is. A great city. And it’s just gone!” Rock rubbed his nose thoughtfully. It looked like a Neanderthal Man’s first attempt at an axe. “And there’s the way everyone acts!” said Victor. “As if who they are and what they want are the most important things in the world!” “I’m wondering—” Rock began. “Yes?” said Victor. “I’m wondering, would it be worth takin’ half a inch off my nose? My cousin Breccia knows this stonemason, fixed his ears a treat. What do you fink?” Victor stared dully at him. “I mean, on the one hand, it’s too big, but on the other hand, it’s definit’ly your stereotyped troll nose, right? I mean, maybe I’ll look better, but in this business maybe it best to look just as troll as you can. Like, Morry’s had his touched up with cement, now he got a face you wouldn’t want to meet on a dark night. What you fink? I value your opinion, because you a human with ideas. ” He gave Victor a bright silicon smile. Eventually Victor said: “It’s a great nose, Rock. With you behind it, it could go a long way. ” Rock gave a big grin, and took another pull of sulfur. He extracted a small steel swizzle stick and sucked the amethyst off it. “You really fink—” he began, and was then aware of the small area of empty space. Victor had gone. “I don’t know nuffin about no one,” said the horse-holder, looking shiftily at the looming presence of Detritus. Dibbler chewed on his cigar. It had been a bumpy journey from Ankh, even in his new coach, and he’d missed lunch. “Tall lad, bit dopey, thin mustache,” he said. “He was working for you, right?” The horse-holder gave in. “He’ll never make a good ’oss-’older, anyway,” he said. “Lets his work get on top of him. I think he went to get something to eat. ” Victor sat in the dark alley, his back pressed against the wall, and tried to think. He remembered staying out in the sun too long, once, when he was a boy. The feeling he’d got afterward was something like this. There was a soft flopping noise in the packed sand by his feet. Someone had dropped a hat in front of him. He stared at it. Then someone started playing the harmonica. They weren’t very good at it. Most of the notes were wrong, and those that were right were cracked. There was a tune in there somewhere, in the same way that there’s a bit of beef in a hamburger grinder. Victor sighed and fumbled in his pocket for a couple of pennies. He tossed them into the hat. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Very good. Now go away. ” He was aware of a strange smell. It was hard to place, but could perhaps have been a very old and slightly damp nursery rug. He looked up. “Woof bloody woof,” said Gaspode the Wonder Dog. Borgle’s commissary had decided to experiment with salads tonight. The nearest salad growing district was thirty slow miles away. “What dis?” demanded a troll, holding up something limp and brown. Fruntkin the short-order chef hazarded a guess. “Celery?” he said. He peered closer. “Yeah, celery. ” “It brown. ” “’S’right. ’S’right! Ripe celery ort to be brown,” said Fruntkin, quickly. “Shows it’s ripe,” he added. “It should be green. ” “Nah. Yore finking about the tomatoes,” said Fruntkin. “Yeah, and what’s this runny stuff?” said a man in the queue. Fruntkin drew himself up to his full height. “That,” he said, “is the mayonnaisey. Made it myself. Out of a book ,” he added proudly. “Yeah, I expect you did,” said the man, prodding it. “Clearly oil, eggs and vinegar were not involved, right?” “Specialitay de lar mayson,” said Fruntkin. “Right, right,” said the man. “Only it’s attacking my lettuce. ” Fruntkin grasped his ladle angrily. “Look—” he began. “No, it’s all right,” said the prospective diner. “The slugs have formed a defensive ring. ” There was a commotion by the door. Detritus the troll waded through the diners, with Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler strutting along behind him. The troll shouldered the queue aside and glared at Fruntkin. “Mr. Dibbler want a word,” he said, and reached across the counter, lifted the dwarf up by his food-encrusted shirt, and dangled him in front of Throat. “Anyone seen Victor Tugelbend?” said Throat. “Or that girl Ginger?” Fruntkin opened his mouth to swear, and thought better of it. “The boy was in here half an hour ago,” he squeaked. “Ginger works here mornings. Don’t know where she goes. ” “Where’d Victor go?” said Throat. He pulled a bag out of his pocket. It jingled. Fruntkin’s eyes swiveled toward it as though they were ball bearings and it was a powerful magnet. “Dunno, Mr. Throat,” he said. “He just went out again when she wasn’t here. ” “Right,” said Throat. “Well, if you see him again, tell him I’m looking for him and I’m going to make him a star, right?” “Star. Right,” said the dwarf. Throat reached into his moneybag and produced a ten-dollar piece. “And I want to order dinner for later on,” he added. “Dinner. Right,” quavered Fruntkin. “Steak and prawns, I think,” said Throat. “With a choice of sunkissed vegetables in season, and then strawberries and cream. ” Fruntkin stared at him. “Er—,” he began. Detritus poked the dwarf so that he swung backward and forward. “An’ I,” he said, “will ’ave…er…a well-weathered basalt with a aggregate of fresh-hewn sandstone conglomerates. Right?” “Er. Yes,” said Fruntkin. “Put him down, Detritus. He doesn’t want to be hanging around,” said Throat. “And gently. ” He looked around at the fascinated faces. “Remember,” he said, “I’m looking for Victor Tugelbend and I’m going to make him a star. If anyone sees him, you must tell him. Oh, and I’ll have the steak rare, Fruntkin. ” He strode back to the door. After he had gone the chattering flowed back like a tide. “Make him a star? What’d he want a star for?” “I didn’t know you could make stars…I thought they were like, you know, stuck to the sky…” “I think he meant make him a star. You know, him himself. Turn him into a star. ” “ How can you make anyone into a star ?” “I dunno. I suppose you compress them right up small and they burst into this mass of flaming hydrogen?” “Good grief” “Yeah! Is that troll mean , or what?” Victor looked at the dog carefully. It couldn’t have spoken to him. It must have been his imagination. But he’d said that last time, hadn’t he? “I wonder what your name is?” said Victor, patting it on the head. “Gaspode,” said Gaspode. Victor’s hand froze in mid-tousle. “Tuppence,” said the dog, wearily. “World’s only bloody harmonica-playing dog. Tuppence. ” It is the sun, Victor thought. I haven’t been wearing a hat. In a minute I’ll wake up and there’ll be cool sheets. “Well, you didn’t play very well. I couldn’t recognize the tune,” he said, stretching his mouth into a terrible grin. “You’re not supposed to recognize the bloody tune,” said Gaspode, sitting down heavily and industriously scratching one ear with his hind leg. “I’m a dog.
You’re supposed to be bloody amazed I can bloody well get a squeak out of the bloody thing. ” How shall I put it? Victor thought. Do I just say: excuse me, you appear to be tal…No, probably not. “Er,” he said. Hey, you’re quite chatty for…no. “Fleas,” said Gaspode, changing ears and legs. “Giving me gyp. ” “Oh dear. ” “And all these trolls. Can’t stand ’em. They smell all wrong. Bloody walking stones. You try and bite ’em, next minute you’re spittin’ teef. It’s not natural. ” Talking of natural, I can’t help noticing that — “Bloody desert, this place,” said Gaspode. You’re a talking dog. “I expect you’re wondering,” said Gaspode, turning his penetrating stare on Victor once again, “how come I’m talking. ” “Hadn’t given it a thought,” said Victor. “Me neither,” said Gaspode. “Until a couple of weeks ago. All my life, never said a bloody word. Worked for a bloke back in the big city. Tricks and that. Balancing a ball on my nose. Walkin’ on me ’ind legs. Jumpin’ through a ’oop. Carried the hat around in my mouf afterward. You know. Show business. Then this woman pats me on me ’ead, says ‘Eow, wot a dear little doggy, he looks like he understands every word we say,’ and I thinks, ‘Ho, ho, I don’t even bother to make the effort anymore, missus,’ and then I realizes I can hear the words, and they’re coming out of me own mouf. So I grabbed the ’at and had it away on my paws pretty damn quick, while they were still starin’. ” “Why?” said Victor. Gaspode rolled his eyes. “Exactly wot life do you fink a genuine talking dog is going to have?” he said. “Shouldn’t have opened my stupid mouth. ” “But you’re talking to me ,” said Victor. Gaspode gave him a sly look. “Yeah, but jus’ you try tellin’ anyone,” he said. “Anyway, you’re all right. You’ve got the look. I could tell it a mile orf. ” “What on earth do you mean?” said Victor. “You don’t fink you really belong to yourself, right?” said the dog. “You’ve ’ad the feeling that something else is doin’ your thinking for you?” “Good grief. ” “Give you a kind of hunted look,” said Gaspode. He picked up the cap in his mouth. “Tuppence,” he said indistinctly. “I mean, it’s not as if I’ve got any way of spending it, but…tuppence. ” He gave a canine shrug. “What do you mean by a hunted look?” said Victor. “You’ve all got the look. Many are called and few are chosen, style of fing. ” “What look?” “Like you’ve been called here and you don’t know why. ” Gaspode tried to scratch his ear again. “Saw you acting Cohen the Barbarian,” he said. “Er…what did you think of it?” said Victor. “I reckon, so long as ole Cohen never gets to hear about it, you should be OK. ” “I said , how long ago was he in here?” shouted Dibbler. On the tiny stage, Ruby was crooning something in a voice like a ship in thick fog and bad trouble. “GrooOOowwonnogghrhhooOOo—” 6 “He only just went out!” bellowed Rock. “I’m trying to listen to this song, all right?” “—OowoowgrhhffrghooOOo—” 7 Cut-me-own-Throat nudged Detritus, who was taking the weight off his knuckles and watching the floor show with his mouth open. The old troll’s life had, up to now, been very straightforward; people paid you money, and you hit other people. Now it was beginning to get complicated. Ruby had winked at him. Strange and unfamiliar emotions were rampaging through Detritus’ battered heart. “—groooOOOooohoofooOOoo—” 8 “Come on ,” snapped Throat. Detritus lumbered to his feet and took one last longing look at the stage. “—ooOOOgooOOmoo. OOhhhooo. ” 9 Ruby blew him a kiss. Detritus blushed the color of fresh-cut garnet. Gaspode led the way out of the alley and through the dark hinterland of scrubby bushes and sandgrass behind the town. “There’s definitely something wrong with this place,” he muttered. “It’s different ,” said Victor. “What do you mean, wrong?” Gaspode looked as though he was going to spit. “Now, take me,” he said, ignoring the interruption. “A dog. Never dreamed in my life except about chasing fings. And sex, of course. Suddenly I’m dreaming these dreams. In color. Frightened the bloody life out of me. Never seen color before, right? Dogs see in black-an’-white, as I expect you knows, you bein’ a great reader. Red comes as a nasty shock, I can tell you. You fink your dinner is just this white bone with shades of gray on it, suddenly it turns out for years you bin eatin’ this gharsteley red and purple stuff. ” “What kind of dreams?” said Victor. “It’s bloody embarrassing,” said Gaspode. “Like, in one there’s this bridge that’s been washed away and I have to run and bark a warning, right? And there’s another where this house is on fire and I drag these kids out. And there’s one where some kids are lost in these caves and I find ’em and go and lead the search party to them…and I hates kids. Seems I can’t get me ’ead down these days without rescuin’ people or savin’ people or foilin’ robbers or sunnink. I mean, I’m seven years old, I got hardpad, I got scurf, I got fleas somethin’ dreadful, I don’t need to be a ’ero every time I go to sleep. ” “Gosh. Isn’t life interesting,” said Victor, “when you see it from someone else’s perspective…?” Gaspode rolled a crusted yellow eye skyward. “Er. Where are we going?” said Victor. “We’re goin’ to see a few Holy Wood folk,” said Gaspode. “’Cos there’s something weird goin’ on. ” “Up on the hill? I didn’t know there were any people on the hill. ” “They ain’t people,” said Gaspode. A little twig fire burned on the slope of Holy Wood Hill. Victor had lit it because—well, because it was reassuring. Because it was the sort of thing humans did. He found it necessary to remember he was human, and probably not crazy. It wasn’t that he’d been talking to a dog. People often talked to dogs. The same applied to the cat. And maybe even the rabbit. It was the conversation with the mouse and the duck that might be considered odd. “You think we wanted to talk?” snapped the rabbit. “One minute I’m just another rabbit and happy about it, next minute whazaam , I’m thinking. That’s a major drawback if you’re looking for happiness as a rabbit, let me tell you. You want grass and sex, not thoughts like ‘What’s it all about, when you get right down to it?’” “Yeah, but at least you eats grass,” Gaspode pointed out. “At least grass don’t talk back at you. The last thing you needs when you’re hungry is a bloody ethical conundrum on your plate. ” “You think you’ve got problems,” said the cat, apparently reading his mind. “ I’m reduched to eating fish. You put a paw on your dinner, it shoutsh ‘Help!’, you got a major predicament. ” There was silence. They looked at Victor. So did the mouse. And the duck. The duck was looking particularly belligerent. It had probably heard about orange sauce. “Yeah. Take us,” said the mouse. “There’s me, being chased by this ,” it indicated the cat looming over it, “around the kitchen. Scrabble, scrabble, squeak, panic. Then there’s this sizzling noise in my head, I see a frying pan—you understand? A second ago I never knew what frying was, now I’m holding the handle, he comes around the corner, clang. Now he’s staggering around saying ‘What hit me?’ I say ‘Me. ’ That’s when we both realize. We’re talking. ” “Concheptualishing,” said the cat. It was a black cat, with white paws, ears like shotgun targets, and the scarred face of a cat that has already lived eight lives to the full. “You tell him, kid,” said the mouse. “Tell him what you did next,” said Gaspode. “We came here,” said the cat. “From Ankh-Morpork?” said Victor. “Yeah. ” “That’s nearly thirty miles!” “Yeah, and take it from me,” said the cat, “it’s hard to hitch-hike when you’s a cat. ” “See?” said Gaspode. “It’s happening all the time. All sorts are turnin’ up in Holy Wood. They don’t know why they’ve come, only that it’s important to be here. An’ they don’t act like they do anywhere else in the world. I bin watchin’. Somethin’ weird’s goin’ on. ” The duck quacked. There were words in there somewhere, but so mangled by the incompatibility of beak and larynx that Victor couldn’t understand a word. The animals gave it a sympathetic audience.
“What’s up, Duck?” said the rabbit. “The duck says,” translated Gaspode, “that it’s like a migratory thing. Just the same feelin’ as a migration, he says. ” “Yeah? I didn’t have far to come,” the rabbit volunteered. “We lived on the dunes anyway. ” It sighed. “For three happy years and four miserable days,” it added. A thought struck Victor. “So you’d know about the old man on the beach?” he said. “Oh, him. Yeah. Him. He was always coming up here. ” “What sort of person was he?” said Victor. “Listen, buster, up to four days ago I had a vocabulary consisting of two verbs and one noun. What do you think I thought he was? All I know is, he didn’t bother us. We probably thought he was a rock on legs, or something. ” Victor thought about the book in his pocket. Chanting and lighting fires. What sort of person did that? “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said. “I’d like to find out. Look, haven’t you got names? I feel awkward, talking to people without names. ” “Only me,” said Gaspode. “Bein’ a dog. I’m named after the famous Gaspode, you know. ” “A kid called me Puss once,” said the cat doubtfully. “I thought you had names in your own language,” said Victor. “You know, like ‘Mighty Paws’ or—or ‘Speedy Hunter. ’ Or something. ” He smiled encouragingly. The others gave him a long blank stare. “He reads books,” explained Gaspode. “See, the thing is,” he added, scratching himself vigorously, “animals don’t normally bother with names. I mean, we know who we are. ” “Mind you, I like ‘Speedy Hunter,’” said the mouse. “I was thinking that’s more a cat’s name,” said Victor, starting to sweat. “Mice have friendly little names, like—like Squeak. ” “Squeak?” said the mouse, coldly. The rabbit grinned. “And, and I always thought rabbits were called Flopsy. Or Mr. Thumpy,” Victor gabbled. The rabbit stopped grinning and twitched its ears. “Now look , pal—” it began. “Y’know,” said Gaspode cheerfully, in an attempt to revive the conversation, “I heard there’s this legend where the first two people in the world named all the animals. Makes you fink, don’t it. ” Victor pulled out the book to cover his embarrassment. Chanting and lighting fires. Three times a day. “This old man—” he began. “What’s so important about him?” said the rabbit. “He just used to come up onto the hill and make noises a couple of times every day. You could set your…your,” it hesitated. “It was always the same times. Many times a day. ” “Three times. Three performances. Like a sort of theater?” said Victor, running his finger down the page. “We can’t count up to three,” said the rabbit sourly. “It goes one…many. Many times. ” He glared at Victor. “Mr. Thumpy,” it said, in withering tones. “And people from other places brought him fish,” said Victor. “There’s no one else living near here. They must have come from miles away. People sailed miles just to bring him fish. It’s as though he didn’t want to eat fish out of the bay here. And it’s teeming with them. When I went swimming I saw lobsters you wouldn’t believe. ” “What did you name them?” said Mr. Thumpy, who wasn’t the kind of rabbit that forgot a grudge. “Mr. Snappy?” “Yeah, I want this cleared up right now,” squeaked the mouse. “Back home I was top mouse. I could lick any other mouse in the house. I want a proper name, kid. Anyone calls me Squeaky Boots,” he looked up at Victor, “is asking for a head shaped like a frying pan, do I make myself clear?” The duck quacked at length. “Hold it,” said Gaspode. “The thing is, the duck says,” said Gaspode, “that all this is part of the same thing. Humans and trolls and everything coming here. Animals suddenly talking. The duck says he thinks it’s caused by something here. ” “How does a duck know that?” said Victor. “Look, friend,” said the rabbit, “when you can fly all the way across the sea and even end up finding the same bloody continent , you can start badmouthing ducks. ” “Oh,” said Victor. “You mean mysterious animal senses, yes?” They glared at him. “Anyway, it’s got to stop,” said Gaspode. “All this cogitatin’ and talkin’ is all right for you humans. You’re used to it. Fing is, see, someone’s got to find out what’s causin’ all this…” They carried on glaring at him. “Well,” he said, vaguely, “maybe the book can help? The early bits are in some sort of ancient language. I can’t—,” he paused. Wizards weren’t welcomed in Holy Wood. It probably wasn’t a good idea to mention the University, or his small part in it. “That is,” he continued, choosing his words with care, “I think I know someone in Ankh-Morpork who might be able to read it. He’s an animal, too. An ape. ” “How’s he in the mysterious senses department?” said Gaspode. “He’s red hot on mysterious senses,” said Victor. “In that case—” said the rabbit. “Hold it,” said Gaspode. “Someone’s coming. ” A moving torch was visible coming up the hill. The duck rocketed clumsily into the air and glided away. The others disappeared into the shadows. Only the dog didn’t move. “Aren’t you going to make yourself scarce?” Victor hissed. Gaspode raised an eyebrow. “Woof?” he said. The torch zig-zagged erratically among the scrub, like a firefly. Sometimes it would stop for a moment, and then wander away in some totally new direction. It was very bright. “What is it?” said Victor. Gaspode sniffed. “Human,” he said. “Female. Wearin’ cheap scent. ” His nose twitched again. “It’s called Passion’s Plaything. ” He sniffed again. “Fresh laundry, no starch. Old shoes. Lot of studio make-up. She’s been in Borgle’s and had—” his nose twitched “—stoo. Not a big plate. ” “I suppose you can tell how tall she is, can you?” said Victor. “She smells about five foot two, two and a half,” hazarded Gaspode. “Oh, come on !” “Walk a mile on these paws and call me a liar. ” Victor kicked sand over his little fire and strolled down the slope. The light stopped moving as he approached it. For a moment he got a glimpse of a female figure clasping a shawl around her with one hand holding the torch high above her head. Then the light vanished so quickly it left blue and purple after-images dancing across his vision. Behind them, a small figure made a blacker shadow against the dusk. It said, “What are you doing in my…what am I…why are you in…where…,” and then, as if it had finally got to grips with the situation, changed gear and in a much more familiar voice demanded, “What are you doing here?” “Ginger?” said Victor. “Yes?” Victor paused. What were you supposed to say in circumstances like this? “Er…” he said. “It’s nice up here in the evenings, don’t you think?” She glared at Gaspode. “That’s that horrible dog who’s been hanging around the studio, isn’t it?” she said. “I can’t stand small dogs. ” “Bark, bark,” said Gaspode. Ginger stared at him. Victor could almost read her thoughts: he said Bark, bark. And he’s a dog, and that’s the kind of noise dogs make , isn’t it? “I’m a cat person, myself,” she said, vaguely. A low-level voice said: “Yeah? Yeah? Wash in your own spit, do you?” “ What was that?” Victor backed away, waving his hands frantically. “Don’t look at me!” he said. “I didn’t say it!” “Oh? I suppose it was the dog, was it?” she demanded. “Who, me?” said Gaspode. Ginger froze. Her eyes swiveled around and down, to where Gaspode was idly scratching an ear. “Woof?” he said. “That dog spoke—” Ginger began, pointing a shaking finger at him. “I know,” said Victor. “That means he likes you. ” He looked past her. Another light was coming up the hill. “Did you bring someone with you?” he said. “Me?” Ginger turned around. Now the light was accompanied by the cracking of dry twigs, and Dibbler stepped out of the dusk with Detritus trailing behind like a particularly scary shadow. “Ah- ha !” he said. “The lovebirds surprised, eh?” Victor gaped at him. “The what?” he said. “The what ?” said Ginger. “Been looking all over for you two,” said Dibbler. “Someone said he’d seen you come up here. Very romantic. Could do something with that. Look good on the posters. Right. ” He draped his arms around them. “Come on,” he said. “What for?” said Victor.
“We’re shooting first thing in the morning,” said Dibbler. “But Mr. Silverfish said I wasn’t going to work in this town again—” Victor began. Dibbler opened his mouth, and hesitated just for a moment. “Ah. Yes. But I’m going to give you another chance,” he said, speaking quite slowly for once. “Yeah. A chance. Like, you’re young people. Headstrong. Young once myself. Dibbler, I thought, even if it means cutting your own throat, give ’em a chance. Lower wages, of course. A dollar a day, how about that?” Victor saw the look of sudden hope on Ginger’s face. He opened his mouth. “Fifteen dollars,” said a voice. It wasn’t his. He shut his mouth. “What?” said Dibbler. Victor opened his mouth. “Fifteen dollars. Renegot’ble after a week. Fifteen dollars or nuffin’. ” Victor shut his mouth, his eyes rolling. Dibbler waved a finger under his nose, and then hesitated. “I like it!” he said eventually. “Tough bargainer! OK. Three dollars. ” “Fifteen. ” “Five’s my last offer, kid. There’s thousands of people down there who’d jump at it, right?” “Name two, Mr. Dibbler. ” Dibbler glanced at Detritus, who was lost in a reverie concerning Ruby, and then stared at Ginger. “OK,” he said. “Ten. Because I like you. But it’s cutting my own throat. ” “Done. ” Throat held out a hand. Victor stared at his own as if he was seeing it for the first time, and then shook. “And now let’s get back down,” said Dibbler. “Lot to organize. ” He strode off through the trees. Victor and Ginger followed meekly behind him, in a state of shock. “Are you crazy?” Ginger hissed. “Holding out like that! We could have lost our chance!” “I didn’t say anything! I thought it was you!” said Victor. “It was you!” said Ginger. Their eyes met. They looked down. “Bark, bark,” said Gaspode the Wonder Dog. Dibbler turned round. “What’s that noise?” he said. “Oh, it’s—it’s just this dog we found,” said Victor hurriedly. “He’s called Gaspode. After the famous Gaspode, you know. ” “He does tricks,” said Ginger, malevolently. “A performing dog?” Dibbler reached down and patted Gaspode’s bullet head. “Growl, growl. ” “You’d be amazed, the things he can do,” said Victor. “Amazed,” echoed Ginger. “Ugly devil, though,” said Dibbler. He gave Gaspode a long, slow stare, which was like challenging a centipede to an arse-kicking contest. Gaspode could outstare a mirror. Dibbler seemed to be turning an idea over in his mind. “Mind you…bring him along in the morning. People like a good laugh,” said Dibbler. “Oh, he’s a laugh all right,” said Victor. “A scream. ” As they walked off Victor heard a quiet voice behind him say, “I’ll get you for that. Anyway, you owe me a dollar. ” “What for?” “Agent’s fee,” said Gaspode the Wonder Dog. Over Holy Wood, the stars were out. They were huge balls of hydrogen heated to millions of degrees, so hot they could not even burn. Many of them would swell enormously before they died, and then shrink to tiny, resentful dwarfs remembered only by sentimental astronomers. In the meantime, they glowed because of metamorphoses beyond the reach of alchemists, and turned mere boring elements into pure light. Over Ankh-Morpork, it just rained. The senior wizards crowded around the elephant vase. It had been put back in the corridor on Ridcully’s strict orders. “I remember Riktor,” said the Dean. “Skinny man. Bit of a one-track mind. But clever. ” “Heh, heh. I remember his mouse counter,” said Windle Poons, from his ancient wheelchair. “Used to count mice. ” “The pot itself is quite—” the Bursar began, and then said, “What d’you mean, count mice? They were fed into it on a little belt or something?” “Oh, no. You just wound it up, y’see, and it sat there whirring away, counting all the mice in the building, mm, and these little wheels with numbers on them came up. ” “Why?” “Mm? I s’pose he just wanted to count mice. ” The Bursar shrugged. “This pot,” he said, peering closely, “is actually quite an old Ming vase. ” He waited expectantly. “Why’s it called Ming?” said the Archchancellor, on cue. The Bursar tapped the pot. It went ming. “And they spit lead balls at people, do they?” said Ridcully. “No, Master. He just used it to put the…the machinery in. Whatever it is. Whatever it’s doing. ” …whumm… “Hold on. It wobbled,” said the Dean. …whumm…whumm… The wizards stared at one another in sudden panic… “What’s happening? What’s happening?” said Windle Poons. “Why won’t anyone, mm, tell me what’s happening?” …whumm…whumm… “Run!” suggested the Dean. “Which way?” quavered the Bursar. … whumm WHUMM… “I’m an old man and I demand someone tell me what’s—” Silence. “Duck!” shouted the Archchancellor. Plib. A splinter of stone was knocked off the pillar behind him. He raised his head. “Bigods, that was a damn lucky es—” Plib. The second pellet knocked the tip off his hat. The wizards lay trembling on the flagstones for several minutes. After a while the Dean’s muffled voice, “Was that all, do you think?” The Archchancellor raised his head. His face, always red, was now incandescent. “Bur saar !” “Master?” “That’s what I call shootin’ !” Victor turned over. “Wzstf,” he said. “It’s six aye-emm, rise and shine, Mr. Dibbler says,” said Detritus, grasping the bedclothes in one hand and dragging them onto the floor. “Six o’clock? That’s night-time !” groaned Victor. “It’s going to be a long day, Mr. Dibbler says,” said the troll. “Mr. Dibbler says you got to be on set by half past six. This is goin’ to happen. ” Victor pulled on his trousers. “I suppose I get to eat breakfast?” he said sarcastically. “Mr. Dibbler is havin’ food laid on, Mr. Dibbler says,” said Detritus. There was a wheezing noise from under the bed. Gaspode emerged, in a cloud of old-rugness, and had an early morning scratch. “Wha—” he began, and then saw the troll. “Bark, bark,” he corrected himself. “Oh. A little dog. I like little dogs,” said Detritus. “Woof. ” “Raw,” the troll added. But he couldn’t get the right amount of statutory nastiness into his voice. Visions of Ruby in her feather boa and three acres of red velvet kept undulating across his mind. Gaspode scratched his ear vigorously. “Woof,” he said quietly. “In tones of low menace,” he added, after Detritus had gone. The slope of the hill was already alive with people when Victor arrived. A couple of tents had been erected. Someone was holding a camel. Several cages of demons gibbered in the shade of a thorn tree. In the middle of all this were Dibbler and Silverfish, arguing. Dibbler had his arm around Silverfish’s shoulder. “A dead giveaway, is that,” said a voice from the level of Victor’s knees. “It means some poor bugger is about to be taken to the cleaners. ” “It’ll be a step up for you, Tom!” Dibbler was saying. “I mean, how many people in Holy Wood can call themselves Vice-President in Charge of Executive Affairs?” “Yes, but it’s my company!” Silverfish wailed. “Right! Right!” said Dibbler. “That’s what a name like Vice-President of Executive Affairs means. ” “It does?” “Have I ever lied to you?” Silverfish’s brow furrowed. “Well,” he said, “yesterday you said—” “I mean metaphorically ,” said Dibbler quickly. “Oh. Well. Metaphorically? I suppose not—” “There you are, then. Now, where’s that artist?” Dibbler spun around, giving the impression that Silverfish had just been switched off. A man scurried up with a folder under his arm. “Yessir, Mr. Dibbler?” Throat pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket. “I want the posters ready by tonight, understand?” he warned. “Here. This is the name of the click. ” “Shadowe of the Dessert,” the artist read. His brow furrowed. He had been educated beyond the needs of Holy Wood. “It’s about food?” he said. But Dibbler wasn’t listening. He was advancing on Victor. “Victor!” he said. “Baby!” “It’s got him,” said Gaspode quietly. “Got him worse than anyone, I reckon. ” “What has? How can you tell?” Victor hissed. “Partly a’cos of subtle signs what you don’t seem to be abler recognize,” said Gaspode, “and partly because he’s actin’ like a complete twerp, really. ” “Great to see you!” Dibbler enthused, his eyes glowing manically.
He put his arm around Victor’s shoulder and half walked, half dragged him toward the tents. “This is going to be a great picture!” he said. “Oh, good,” said Victor weakly. “You play this bandit chieftain,” said Dibbler, “only a nice guy, too, kind to women and so forth, and you raid this village and you carry off this slave girl only when you look into her eyes, see, you fall for her, and then there’s this raid and hundreds of men on elephants come charging—” “Camels,” said a skinny youth behind Dibbler. “It’s camels. ” “I ordered elephants!” “You got camels. ” “Camels, elephants,” said Dibbler dismissively. “We’re talking exotic here, OK? And—” “And we’ve only got one,” said the youth. “One what?” “Camel. We could only find one camel,” said the youth. “But I’ve got dozens of guys with bedsheets on their heads waiting for camels!” shouted Dibbler, waving his hands in the air. “Lots of camels, right?” “We only got one camel ’cos there’s only one camel in Holy Wood and that’s only ’cos a guy from Klatch rode all the way here on it,” said the youth. “You should have sent away for more!” snapped Dibbler. “Mr. Silverfish said I wasn’t to. ” Dibbler growled. “Maybe if it moves around a lot it’ll look like more than one camel,” said the youth optimistically. “Why not ride the camel past the picture box, and then get the handleman to stop the demons, and lead it back and put a different rider on it, then start up the box again and ride it past again?” said Victor. “Would that work?” Dibbler looked at him open-mouthed. “What did I tell you?” he said, to the sky in general. “The lad is a genius! That way we can get a hundred camels for the price of one, right?” “It means the desert bandits ride in single file, though,” said the youth. “It’s not like, you know, a massed attack. ” “Sure, sure,” said Dibbler dismissively. “Makes sense. We just put a card up where the leader says, he says—” He thought for a second. “He says, ‘Follow me in single file, bwanas, to fool the hated enemy,’ OK?” He nodded at Victor. “Have you met my nephew Soll?” he said. “Keen lad. Been nearly to school and everything. Brought him out here yesterday. He’s Vice-President in Charge of Making Pictures. ” Soll and Victor exchanged nods. “I don’t think ‘bwanas’ is the right word, Uncle,” said Soll. “It’s Klatchian, isn’t it?” said Dibbler. “Well, technically, but I think it’s the wrong part of Klatch and maybe ‘effendies’ or something—” “Just so long as it’s foreign,” said Dibbler with an air that suggested the matter was settled. He patted Victor on the back again. “OK, kid, get into costume. ” He chuckled. “A hundred camels! What a mind!” “Excuse me, Mr. Dibbler,” said the poster artist, who had been hovering uneasily, “I don’t understand this bit here…” Dibbler snatched the paper from him. “Which bit?” he snapped. “Where you’re describing Miss De Syn—” “It’s obvious,” said Dibbler. “What we want here is to conjure up the exotic, alluring yet distant romance of pyramid-studded Klatch, right, so nat’r’ly we gotta use the symbol of a mysterious and unscrutable continent, see? Do I have to explain everything to everyone all the time?” “It’s just that I thought—” the artist began. “Just do it!” The artist looked down at the paper. “‘She has the face,’” he read, “‘of a Spink. ’” “Right,” said Dibbler. “Right!” “I thought maybe Sphinx—” “Will you listen to the man?” said Dibbler, talking to the sky again. He glared at the artist. “She doesn’t look like two of them, does she? One Spink, two Spinks. Now get on with it. I want those posters all around the city first thing tomorrow. ” The artist gave Victor an agonized look he was coming to recognize. Everyone around Dibbler wore them after a while. “Right you are, Mr. Dibbler,” he said. “Right. ” Dibbler turned to Victor. “Why aren’t you changed?” he said. Victor ducked quickly into a tent. A little old lady 10 shaped like a cottage loaf helped him into a costume apparently made of sheets inexpertly dyed black, although given the current state of accommodation in Holy Wood they were probably just sheets taken off a bed at random. Then she handed him a curved sword. “Why’s it bent?” he asked. “I think it’s meant to be, dear,” she said doubtfully. “I thought swords had to be straight,” said Victor. Outside, he could hear Dibbler asking the sky why everyone was so stupid. “Perhaps they start out straight and go bendy with use,” said the old lady, patting him on the hand. “A lot of things do. ” She gave him a bright smile. “If you’re all right, dear, I’d better go and help the young lady, in case any little dwarfs is peering in at her. ” She waddled out of the tent. From the tent next door came a metallic chinking noise and the sound of Ginger’s voice raised in complaint. Victor made a few experimental slashes with the sword. Gaspode watched him with his head on one side. “What’re you supposed to be?” he said at last. “A leader of a pack of desert bandits, apparently,” said Victor. “Romantic and dashing. ” “Dashing where?” “Just dashing generally, I guess. Gaspode, what did you mean when you said it’s got Dibbler?” The dog gnawed at a paw. “Look at his eyes,” he said. “They’re even worse than yours. ” “Mine? What’s wrong with mine?” Detritus the troll stuck his head through the tent flaps. “Mr. Dibbler says he wants you now,” he said. “Eyes?” said Victor. “Something about my eyes?” “Woof. ” “Mr. Dibbler says—” Detritus began. “All right, all right! I’m coming!” Victor stepped out of his tent at the same time as Ginger stepped out of hers. He shut his eyes. “Gosh, I’m sorry,” he babbled. “I’ll go back and wait for you to get dressed…” “I am dressed. ” “Mr. Dibbler says—” said Detritus, behind them. “Come on,” said Ginger, grabbing his arm. “We mustn’t keep everyone waiting. ” “But you’re…your…” Victor looked down, which wasn’t a help. “You’ve got a navel in your diamond,” he hazarded. “I’ve come to terms with that,” said Ginger, flexing her shoulders in an effort to make everything settle. “It’s these two saucepan lids that are giving me problems. Makes you realize what those poor girls in the harems must suffer. ” “And you don’t mind people seeing you like that?” said Victor, amazed. “Why should I? This is moving pictures. It’s not as if it’s real. Anyway, you’d be amazed at what girls have to do for a lot less than ten dollars a day. ” “Nine,” said Gaspode, who was still trailing at Victor’s heels. “Right, gather round, people,” shouted Dibbler through a megaphone. “Sons of the Desert over there, please. The slave girls—where are the slave girls? Right. Handlemen?—” “I’ve never seen so many people in a click,” Ginger whispered. “It must be costing more than a hundred dollars!” Victor eyed the Sons of the Desert. It looked as though Dibbler had dropped in at Borgle’s and hired the twenty people nearest the door, irrespective of their appropriateness, and had given them each Dibbler’s idea of a desert bandit headdress. There were trollish Sons of the Desert—Rock recognized him, and gave him a little wave—dwarf Sons of the Desert and, shuffling into the end of the line, a small, hairy and furiously-scratching Son in a headdress that reached down to his paws. “…grab her, become entranced by her beauty, and then throw her over your pommel. ” Dibbler’s voice intruded into his consciousness. Victor desperately re-ran the half-heard instructions past his mind. “My what?” he said. “It’s part of your saddle,” Ginger hissed. “Oh. ” “And then you ride into the night, with all the Sons following you and singing rousing desert bandit songs—” “No one’ll hear them,” said Soll helpfully. “But if they open and shut their mouths it’ll help create a, you know, amby-ance. ” “But it isn’t night,” said Ginger. “It’s broad daylight. ” Dibbler stared at her. His mouth opened once or twice. “Soll!” he shouted. “We can’t film at night, Uncle,” said the nephew hurriedly. “The demons wouldn’t be able to see. I don’t see why we can’t put up a card saying ‘Night-time’ at the start of the scene, so that—” “That’s not the magic of moving pictures!” snapped Dibbler.
“That’s just messing about!” “Excuse me,” said Victor. “Excuse me, but surely it doesn’t matter, because surely the demons can paint the sky black with stars on it?” There was a moment’s silence. Then Dibbler looked at Gaffer. “Can they?” he said. “Nah,” said the handleman. “It’s bloody hard enough to make sure they paint what they do see, never mind what they don’t. ” Dibbler rubbed his nose. “I might be prepared to negotiate,” he said. The handleman shrugged. “You don’t understand, Mr. Dibbler. What’d they want money for? They’d only eat it. We start telling them to paint what isn’t there, we’re into all sorts of—” “Perhaps it’s just a very bright full moon?” said Ginger. “That’s good thinking,” said Dibbler. “We’ll do a card where Victor says to Ginger something like: ‘How bright the moon is tonight, bwana. ’” “Something like that,” said Soll diplomatically. It was noon. Holy Wood Hill glistened under the sun, like a champagne-flavored wine gum that had been half-sucked. The handlemen turned their handles, the extras charged enthusiastically backward and forward, Dibbler raged at everyone, and cinematographic history was made with a shot of three dwarfs, four men, two trolls and a dog all riding one camel and screaming in terror for it to stop. Victor was introduced to the camel. It blinked its long eyelashes at him and appeared to chew soap. It was kneeling down and it looked like a camel that had had a long morning and wasn’t about to take any shit from anyone. So far it had kicked three people. “What’s it called?” he said cautiously. “We call it Evil-Minded Son of a Bitch,” said the newly-appointed Vice-President in Charge of Camels. “That doesn’t sound like a name. ” “’S a good name for this camel,” said the handler fervently. “There’s nothin’ wrong with bein’ a son of a bitch,” said a voice behind him. “I’m a son of a bitch. My father was a son of a bitch, you greasy nightshirt-wearin’ bastard. ” The handler grinned nervously at Victor and turned around. There was no one behind him. He looked down. “Woof,” said Gaspode, and wagged what was almost a tail. “Did you just hear someone say something?” said the handler carefully. “No,” said Victor. He leaned close to one of the camel’s ears and whispered, in case it was a special Holy Wood camel: “Look, I’m a friend, OK?” Evil-Minded Son of a Bitch flicked a carpet-thick ear. 11 “How do you ride it?” he said. “When you want to go forward you swear at it and hit it with a stick, and when you want to stop you swear at it and really hit it with a stick. ” “What happens if you want it to turn?” “Ah, well, you’re on to the Advanced Manual there. Best thing to do is get off and do it round by hand. ” “When you’re ready!” Dibbler bellowed through his megaphone. “Now, you ride up to the tent, leap off the camel, fight the huge eunuchs, burst into the tent, drag the girl out, get back on the camel and away. Got it? Think you can do that?” “What huge eunuchs?” said Victor, as the camel unfolded itself upward. One of the huge eunuchs shyly raised a hand. “It’s me. Morry,” it said. “Oh. Hi, Morry. ” “Hi, Vic. ” “And me, Rock,” said a second huge eunuch. “Hi, Rock. ” “Hi, Vic. ” “Places, everyone,” said Dibbler. “We’ll—what is it, Rock?” “Er, I was just wondering, Mr. Dibbler…what is my motivation for this scene?” “Motivation?” “Yes. Er. I got to know, see,” said Rock. “How about: I’ll fire you if you don’t do it properly?” Rock grinned. “Right you are, Mr. Dibbler,” he said. “OK,” said Dibbler. “Everyone ready… turn ’em! ” Evil-minded Son of a Bitch turned awkwardly, legs flailing at odd camel angles, and then lumbered into a complicated trot. The handle turned… The air glittered. And Victor awoke. It was like rising slowly out of a pink cloud, or a magnificent dream which, try as you might, drains out of your mind as the daylight shuffles in, leaving a terrible sense of loss; nothing, you know instinctively, nothing you’re going to experience for the rest of the day is going to be one half as good as that dream. He blinked. The images faded away. He was aware of an ache in his muscles, as if he’d recently been really exerting himself. “What happened?” he mumbled. He looked down. “Wow,” he said. An expanse of barely-clad buttock occupied a view recently occupied by the camel’s neck. It was an improvement. “Why,” said Ginger icily, “am I lying on a camel?” “Search me. Didn’t you want to?” She slid down onto the sand and tried to adjust her costume. At this point they both became aware of the audience. There was Dibbler. There was Dibbler’s nephew. There was the handleman. There were the extras. There were the assorted vice-presidents and other people who are apparently called into existence by the mere presence of moving-picture creation. 12 There was Gaspode the Wonder Dog. And every one, except for the dog, who was sniggering, had his mouth open. The handleman’s hand was still turning the handle. He looked down at it as if its presence was new to him, and stopped. Dibbler seemed to come out of whatever trance he was in. “Whoo- hoo ,” he said. “Blimey. ” “Magic,” breathed Soll. “Real magic. ” Dibbler nudged the handleman. “Did you get all that?” he said. “Get what?” said Ginger and Victor together. Then Victor noticed Morry sitting on the sand. There was a sizeable chip out of his arm; Rock was trowelling something into it. The troll noticed Victor’s expression and gave him a sickly grin. “Fink you’re Cohen the Barbarian, do you?” he said. “Yeah,” said Rock. “There was no call to go callin’ him wot you called him. An’ if you’re going to go doin’ fancy swordwork, we’re applyin’ for an extra dollar a day Havin’-Bits-Chopped-Off allowance. ” Victor’s sword had several nicks on the blade. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine how they had got there. “Look,” he said desperately. “I don’t understand. I didn’t call anyone anything. Have we started filming yet?” “One minute I’m sitting in a tent, next minute I’m breathing camel,” said Ginger petulantly. “Is it too much to ask what is going on?” But no one seemed to be listening to them. “ Why can’t we find a way of getting sound?” said Dibbler. “That was damn good dialogue there. Didn’t understand a word of it, but I know good dialogue when I hear it. ” “Parrots,” said the handleman flatly. “Your common Howondaland Green. Amazing bird. Memory like an elephant. Get a couple of dozen in different sizes and you’ve got a full vocal—” That launched a detailed technical discussion. Victor let himself slide off the camel’s back and ducked under its neck to reach Ginger. “Listen,” he said urgently. “It was just like last time. Only stronger. Like a sort of dream. The handleman started to take pictures and it was just like a dream. ” “Yes, but what did we actually do ?” she said. “What you did,” said Rock, “was gallop the camel up to the tent, leap off, come at us like a windmill—” “—leapin’ on rocks and laughin’—” said Morry. “Yeah, you said to Morry, ‘Have at you, you Foul Black Guard,’” said Rock. “And then you caught him a right ding on the arm, cut a hole in the tent—” “Good sword work, though,” said Morry appraisingly. “A bit showy, but pretty good. ” “But I don’t know how to—” Victor began. “—and she was lying there all longgrass,” said Rock. “An’ you swept her up, and she said—” “Long grass?” said Ginger weakly. “Languorous,” said Victor. “I think he means languorous. ” “—she said, ‘Why, it is the Thief of…the Thief of…’” Rock hesitated. “Dad’s Bag, I think you said. ” “Bagged Dad,” said Morry, rubbing his arm. “Yeah, an’ then she said, ‘You are in great danger, for my father has sworn to kill you,’ and Victor said, ‘But now, o fairest rose, I can reveal that I am really the Shadow of the Dessert—’” “What’s languorous mean ?” said Ginger suspiciously. “An’ he said, ‘Fly with me now to the casbah,’ or something like that, an’ then he gave her this, this, thing humans do with their lips—” “Whistle?” said Victor, with hopeless hope. “Nah, the other thing. Sounds like a cork coming out of a bottle,” said Rock. “Kiss,” said Ginger, coldly. “Yeah.
Not that I’m any judge,” said Rock, “but it seemed to go on for a while. Definitely very, you know, kissy. ” “I thought it was going to be bucket-of-water time myself,” said a quiet canine voice behind Victor. He kicked out backward, but failed to connect. “And then he was back on the camel and dragged her up and Mr. Dibbler shouted ‘Stop, stop, what the hell’s going on, why won’t anyone tell me what the hell’s going on,’” said Rock. “And then you said ‘What happened?’” “Don’t know when I last saw swordplay like that,” said Morry. “Oh,” said Victor. “Well. Thank you. ” “All that shouting ‘Ha!’ and ‘Have at you, you dog. ’ Very professional,” said Morry. “I see,” said Victor. He reached sideways and grabbed Ginger’s arm. “We’ve got to talk,” he hissed. “Somewhere quiet. Behind the tent. ” “If you think I’m going anywhere alone with you—” she began. “Listen, this is no time to start acting like—” A heavy hand settled on Victor’s shoulder. He turned, and saw the shape of Detritus eclipsing the world. “Mr. Dibbler doesn’t want anyone running off,” he said. “Everyone has to stay until Mr. Dibbler says. ” “You’re a real pain, you know,” said Victor. Detritus gave him a big, gem-studded grin. 13 “Mr. Dibbler says I can be a vice-president ,” he said proudly. “In charge of what?” said Victor. “Vice-presidents,” said Detritus. Gaspode the Wonder Dog made a little growling sound at the back of his throat. The camel, which had been idly staring at the sky, sidled around a bit and suddenly lashed out with a kick that caught the troll in the small of the back. Detritus yelped. Gaspode gave the world a look of satisfied innocence. “Come on,” said Victor grimly. “While he’s trying to find something to hit the camel with. ” They sat down in the shade behind the tent. “I just want you to know,” said Ginger coldly, “that I have never attempted to look languorous in my life. ” “Could be worth a try,” said Victor, absently. “What?” “Sorry. Look, something made us act like that. I don’t know how to use a sword. I’ve always just waved it around. What did you feel like?” “You know how you feel when you hear someone say something and you realize you’ve been daydreaming?” “It was like your own life fading away and something else filling up the space. ” They considered this in silence. “Do you think it’s something to do with Holy Wood?” she said. Victor nodded. Then he threw himself sideways and landed on Gaspode, who had been watching them intently. “Yelp,” said Gaspode. “Now listen ,” Victor hissed into his ear, “No more of these hints. What is it that you noticed about us? Otherwise it’s Detritus for you. With mustard. ” The dog squirmed in his grip. “Or we could make you wear a muzzle,” said Ginger. “I ain’t dangerous!” wailed Gaspode, scrabbling with his paws in the sand. “A talking dog sounds pretty dangerous to me,” said Victor. “Dreadfully,” said Ginger. “You never know what it might say. ” “See? See?” said Gaspode mournfully. “I knew it’d be nothing but trouble, showin’ I can talk. It shouldn’t happen to a dog. ” “But it’s going to,” said Victor. “Oh, all right. All right. For what good it’ll do,” muttered Gaspode. Victor relaxed. The dog sat up and shook sand off himself. “You won’t understand it, anyway,” he grumbled. “Another dog would understand, but you won’t. It’s down to species experience, see. Like kissing. You know what it’s like, but I don’t. It’s not a canine experience. ” He noticed the warning look in Victor’s eyes, and plunged on, “It’s the way you look as if you belong here. ” He watched them for a moment. “See? See?” he said. “I tole you you wouldn’t understand. It’s—it’s territory , see? You got all the signs of bein’ right where you should be. Nearly everyone else here is a stranger, but you aren’t. Er. Like, you mus’ have noticed where some dogs bark at you when you’re new to a place? It’s not jus’ smell, we got this amazin’ sense of displacement. Like, some humans get uncomfortable when they see a picture hung crooked? It’s like that, only worse. It’s kind of like the only place you ought to be now is here. ” He looked at them again, and then industriously scratched an ear. “What the hell,” he said. “The trouble is, I can explain it in Dog but you only listen in Human. ” “It sounds a bit mystical to me,” said Ginger. “You said something about my eyes,” said Victor. “Yeah, well. Have you looked at your own eyes?” Gaspode nodded at Ginger. “You too, miss. ” “Don’t be daft,” said Victor. “How can we look at our own eyes?” Gaspode shrugged. “You could look at each other’s,” he suggested. They automatically turned to face each other. There was a long drawn-out moment. Gaspode employed it to urinate noisily against a tent peg. Eventually Victor said, “Wow. ” Ginger said, “Mine, too?” “Yes. Doesn’t it hurt?” “You should know. ” “There you are, then,” said Gaspode. “And you look at Dibbler next time you see him. Really look , I mean. ” Victor rubbed his eyes, which were beginning to water. “It’s as though Holy Wood has called us here, is doing something to us and has, has—” “— branded us,” said Ginger bitterly. “That’s what it’s done. ” “It, er, it does look quite attractive, actually,” said Victor gallantly. “Gives them a sort of sparkle. ” A shadow fell across the sand. “Ah, there you are,” said Dibbler. He put his arms around their shoulders as they stood up, and gave them a sort of hug. “You young people, always going off alone together,” he said archly. “Great business. Great business. Very romantic. But we’ve got a click to make, and I’ve got lets of people standing around waiting for you, so let’s do it. ” “See what I mean?” muttered Gaspode, very quietly. When you knew what you were looking for, you couldn’t miss it. In the center of both of Dibbler’s eyes was a tiny golden star. In the heartlands of the great dark continent of Klatch the air was heavy and pregnant with the promise of the coming monsoon. Bullfrogs croaked in the rushes 14 by the slow brown river. Crocodiles dozed on the mudflats. Nature was holding its breath. A cooing broke out in the pigeon loft of Azhural N’choate, stock dealer. He stopped dozing on the veranda, and went over to see what had caused the excitement. In the vast pens behind the shack a few threadbare bewilderbeests, marked down for a quick sale, yawning and cudding in the heat, looked up in alarm as N’choate leapt the veranda steps in one bound and tore toward them. He rounded the zebra pens and homed in on his assistant M’Bu, who was peacefully mucking out the ostriches. “How many—” he stopped, and began to wheeze. M’Bu, who was twelve years old, dropped his shovel and patted him heavily on the back. “How many—” he tried again. “You been overdoing it again, boss?” said M’Bu in a concerned voice. “How many elephants we got?” “I just done them,” said M’Bu. “We got three. ” “Are you sure?” “Yes, boss,” said M’Bu, evenly. “It’s easy to be sure, with elephants. ” Azhural crouched in the red dust and hurriedly began to scrawl figures with a stick. “Old Muluccai’s bound to have half a dozen,” he muttered. “And Tazikel’s usually got twenty or so, and then the people on the delta generally have—” “Someone want elephants, boss?” “—got fifteen head, he was telling me, plus also there’s a load at the logging camp probably going cheap, call it two dozen—” “Someone want a lot of elephants, boss?” “—was saying there’s a herd over T’etse way, shouldn’t be a problem, then there’s all the valleys over toward—” M’Bu leaned on the fence and waited. “Maybe two hundred, give or take ten,” said Azhural, throwing down the stick. “Nowhere near enough. ” “You can’t give or take ten elephants, boss,” said M’Bu firmly. He knew that counting elephants was a precision job. A man might be uncertain about how many wives he had, but never about elephants. Either you had one, or you didn’t. “Our agent in Klatch has an order for,” Azhural swallowed, “a thousand elephants. A thousand! Immediately! Cash on delivery!” Azhural let the paper drop to the ground. “To a place called Ankh-Morpork,” he said despondently. He sighed.
“It would have been nice,” he said. M’Bu scratched his head and stared at the hammerhead clouds massing over Mt F’twangi. Soon the dry veldt would boom to the thunder of the rains. Then he reached down and picked up the stick. “What’re you doing?” said Azhural. “Drawing a map, boss,” said M’Bu. Azhural shook his head. “Not worth it, boy. Three thousand miles to Ankh, I reckon. I let myself get carried away. Too many miles, not enough elephants. ” “We could go across the plains, boss,” said M’Bu. “Lot of elephants on the plains. Send messengers ahead. We could pick up plenty more elephants on the way, no problem. That whole plain just about covered in damn elephants. ” “No, we’d have to go around on the coast,” said the dealer, drawing a long curving line in the sand. “The reason being, there’s the jungle just here ,” he tapped on the parched ground, “and here ,” he tapped again, slightly concussing an emerging locust that had optimistically mistaken the first tap for the onset of the rains. “No roads in the jungle. ” M’Bu took the stick and drew a straight line through the jungle. “Where a thousand elephants want to go, boss, they don’t need no roads. ” Azhural considered this. Then he took the stick and drew a jagged line by the jungle. “But here’s the Mountains of the Sun,” he said. “Very high. Lots of deep ravines. And no bridges. ” M’Bu took the stick, indicated the jungle, and grinned. “I know where there’s a lot of prime timber just been uprooted, boss,” he said. “Yeah? OK, boy, but we’ve still got to get it into the mountains. ” “It just so happen that a t’ousand real strong elephants’ll be goin’ that way, boss. ” M’Bu grinned again. His tribe went in for sharpening their teeth to points. 15 He handed back the stick. Azhural’s mouth opened slowly. “By the seven moons of Nasreem,” he breathed. “We could do it, you know. It’s only, oh, thirteen or fourteen hundred miles that way. Maybe less, even. Yeah. We could really do it. ” “Yes, boss. ” “Y’know, I’ve always wanted to do something big with my life. Something real ,” said Azhural. “I mean, an ostrich here, a giraffe there…it’s not the sort of thing you get remembered for…” He stared at the purple-gray horizon. “We could do it, couldn’t we?” he said. “Sure, boss. ” “Right over the mountains!” “Sure, boss. ” If you looked really hard, you could just see that the purple-gray was topped with white. “They’re pretty high mountains,” said Azhural, his voice now edged with doubt. “Slope go up, slope go down,” said M’Bu gnomically. “That’s true,” said Azhural. “Like, on average , it’s flat all the way. ” He gazed at the mountains again. “A thousand elephants,” he muttered. “D’you know, boy, when they built the Tomb of King Leonid of Ephebe they used a hundred elephants to cart the stone? And two hundred elephants, history tells us, were employed in the building of the palace of the Rhoxie in Klatch city. ” Thunder rumbled in the distance. “A thousand elephants,” Azhural repeated. “A thousand elephants. I wonder what they want them for?” The rest of the day passed in a trance for Victor. There was more galloping and fighting, and more rearranging of time. Victor still found that hard to understand. Apparently the film could be cut up and then stuck together again later, so that things happened in the right order. And some things didn’t have to happen at all. He saw the artist draw one card which said “In thee Kinges’ Palace, One Houre Latre. ” One hour of Time had been vanished, just like that. Of course, he knew that it hadn’t really been surgically removed from his life. It was the sort of thing that happened all the time in books. And on the stage, too. He’d seen a group of strolling players once, and the performance had leapt magically from “A Battlefield in Tsort” to “The Ephebian Fortresse, That Nighte” with no more than a brief descent of the sackcloth curtain and a lot of muffled bumping and cursing as the scenery was changed. But this was different. Ten minutes after doing a scene, you’d do another scene that was taking place the day before, somewhere else, because Dibbler had rented the tents for both scenes and didn’t want to have to pay anymore rent than necessary. You just had to try and forget about everything but Now, and that was hard when you were also waiting every moment for that fading sensation… It didn’t come. Just after another half-hearted fight scene Dibbler announced that it was all finished. “Aren’t we going to do the ending?” said Ginger. “You did that this morning,” said Soll. “Oh. ” There was a chattering noise as the demons were let out of their box and sat swinging their little legs on the edge of the lid and passing a tiny cigarette from hand to hand. The extras queued up for their wages. The camel kicked the Vice-President in Charge of Camels. The handlemen wound the great reels of film out of the boxes and went away to whatever arcane cutting and gluing the handlemen got up to in the hours of darkness. Mrs. Cosmopilite, Vice-President in Charge of Wardrobe, gathered up the costumes and toddled off, possibly to put them back on the beds. A few acres of scrubby backlot stopped being the rolling dunes of the Great Nef and went back to being scrubby backlot again. Victor felt that much the same thing was happening to him. In ones and twos, the makers of moving-picture magic departed, laughing and joking and arranging to meet at Borgle’s later on. Ginger and Victor were left alone in a widening circle of emptiness. “I felt like this the first time the circus went away,” said Ginger. “Mr. Dibbler said we were going to do another one tomorrow,” said Victor. “I’m sure he just makes them up as he goes along. Still, we got ten dollars each. Minus what we owe Gaspode,” he added conscientiously. He grinned foolishly at her. “Cheer up,” he said. “You’re doing what you’ve always wanted to do. ” “Don’t be stupid. I didn’t even know about moving pictures a couple of months ago. There weren’t any. ” They strolled aimlessly toward the town. “What did you want to be?” he ventured. She shrugged. “I didn’t know. I just knew I didn’t want to be a milkmaid. ” There had been milkmaids at home. Victor tried to recollect anything about them. “It always looked quite an interesting job to me, milkmaiding,” he said vaguely. “Buttercups, you know. And fresh air. ” “It’s cold and wet and just as you’ve finished the bloody cow kicks the bucket over. Don’t tell me about milking. Or being a shepherdess. Or a goosegirl. I really hated our farm. ” “Oh. ” “And they expected me to marry my cousin when I was fifteen. ” “Is that allowed?” “Oh, yes. Everyone marries their cousins where I come from. ” “Why?” said Victor. “I suppose it saves having to worry about what to do on Saturday nights. ” “Oh. ” “Didn’t you want to be anything?” said Ginger, putting a whole sentence-worth of disdain in a mere three letters. “Not really,” said Victor. “Everything looks interesting until you do it. Then you find it’s just another job. I bet even people like Cohen the Barbarian get up in the morning thinking, ‘Oh, no , not another day of crushing the jeweled thrones of the world beneath my sandalled feet. ’” “Is that what he does?” said Ginger, interested despite herself. “According to the stories, yes. ” “Why?” “Search me. It’s just a job, I guess. ” Ginger picked up a handful of sand. There were tiny white shells in it, which stayed behind as it trickled away between her fingers. “I remember when the circus came to our village,” she said. “I was ten. There was this girl with spangled tights. She walked a tightrope. She could even do somersaults on it. Everybody cheered and clapped. They wouldn’t let me climb a tree, but they cheered her. That’s when I decided. ” “Ah,” said Victor, trying to keep up with the psychology of this. “You decided you wanted to be someone?” “Don’t be silly. That’s when I decided I was going to be a lot more than just someone. ” She threw the shells toward the sunset and laughed.
“I’m going to be the most famous person in the world, everyone will fall in love with me, and I shall live forever. ” “It’s always best to know your own mind,” said Victor diplomatically. “You know what the greatest tragedy is in the whole world?” said Ginger, not paying him the least attention. “It’s all the people who never find out what it is they really want to do or what it is they’re really good at. It’s all the sons who become blacksmiths because their fathers were blacksmiths. It’s all the people who could be really fantastic flute players who grow old and die without ever seeing a musical instrument, so they become bad plowmen instead. It’s all the people with talents who never even find out. Maybe they are never even born in a time when it’s even possible to find out. ” She took a deep breath. “It’s all the people who never get to know what it is they can really be. It’s all the wasted chances. Well, Holy Wood is my chance, do you understand? This is my time for getting!” Victor nodded. “Yes,” he said. Magic for ordinary people, Silverfish had called it. A man turned a handle, and your life got changed. “And not just for me,” Ginger went on. “It’s a chance for all of us. The people who aren’t wizards and kings and heroes. Holy Wood’s like a big bubbling stew but this time different ingredients float to the top. Suddenly there’s all these new things for people to do. Do you know the theaters don’t allow women to act? But Holy Wood does. And in Holy Wood there’s jobs for trolls that don’t just involve hitting people. And what did the handlemen do before they had handles to turn?” She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of Ankh-Morpork’s distant glow. “Now they’re trying to find ways of adding sound to moving pictures,” she said, “and out there are people who’ll turn out to be amazingly good at making, making…making soundies. They don’t even know it yet—but they’re out there. I can feel them. They’re out there. ” Her eyes were glowing gold. It might just be the sunset, Victor thought, but… “Because of Holy Wood, hundreds of people are finding out what it is they really want to be,” said Ginger. “And thousands and thousands are getting a chance to forget themselves for an hour or so. This whole damn world is being given a shake!” “That’s it,” said Victor. “That’s what worries me. It’s as though we’re being slotted in. You think we’re using Holy Wood, but Holy Wood is using us. All of us. ” “How? Why?” “I don’t know, but—” “Look at wizards,” Ginger went on, vibrating with indignation. “What good has their magic ever done anyone?” “I think it sort of holds the world together—” Victor began. “They’re pretty good at magic flames and things, but can they make a loaf of bread?” Ginger wasn’t in the mood for listening to anyone. “Not for very long,” said Victor helplessly. “What does that mean?” “Something real like a loaf of bread contains a lot of…well…I suppose you’d call it energy,” said Victor. “It takes a massive amount of power to create that amount of energy. You’d have to be a pretty good wizard to make a loaf that’d last in this world for more than a tiny part of a second. But that’s not what magic is really about, you see,” he added quickly, “because this world is—” “Who cares?” said Ginger. “Holy Wood’s really doing things for ordinary people. Silver screen magic. ” “What’s come over you? Last night—” “That was then,” said Ginger impatiently. “Don’t you see? We could be going somewhere. We could be becoming someone. Because of Holy Wood. The world is our—” “Lobster,” said Victor. She waved a hand irritably. “Any shellfish you like,” she said. “I was thinking of oysters, actually. ” “Were you? I was thinking of lobsters. ” “Bur saar !” I shouldn’t have to run around like this at my age, thought the Bursar, scurrying down the corridor in answer to the Archchancellor’s bellow. Why’s he so interested in the damn thing, anyway? Wretched pot! “Coming, Master,” he trilled. The Archchancellor’s desk was covered with ancient documents. When a wizard died, all his papers were stored in one of the outlying reaches of the Library. Shelf after shelf of quietly moldering documents, the haunt of mysterious beetles and dry rot, stretched away into an unguessable distance. Everyone kept telling everyone that there was a wealth of material here for researchers, if only someone could find the time to do it. The Bursar was annoyed. He couldn’t find the Librarian anywhere. The ape never seemed to be around these days. He’d had to scrabble among the stuff himself. “I think this is the last, Archchancellor,” he said, tipping an avalanche of dusty paperwork onto the desk. Ridcully flailed at a cloud of moths. “Paper, paper, paper,” he muttered. “How many damn bits of paper in his stuff, eh?” “Er…23,813, Archchancellor,” said the Bursar. “He kept a record. ” “Look at this,” said the Archchancellor. “‘Star Enumerator’…‘Rev Counter for Use in Ecclesiastical Areas’…‘Swamp Meter’…Swamp meter! The man was mad!” “He had a very tidy mind,” said the Bursar. “Same thing. ” “Is it, er, really important, Archchancellor?” the Bursar ventured. “Damn thing shot pellets at me,” said Ridcully. “Twice!” “I’m sure it wasn’t, er, intended—” “I want to see how it was made, man! Just think of the sportin’ possibilities!” The Bursar tried to think of the possibilities. “I’m sure Riktor didn’t intend to make any kind of offensive device,” he ventured, hopelessly. “Who gives a damn what he intended? Where is the thing now?” “I had a couple of servants put sandbags around it. ” “Good idea. It’s—” …whumm…whumm… It was a muffled sound from the corridor. The two wizards exchanged a meaningful glance. …whumm… whumm WHUMM. The Bursar held his breath. Plib Plib. Plib. The Archchancellor peered at the hourglass on the mantelpiece. “It’s doin’ it every five minutes now,” he said. “And it’s up to three shots,” said the Bursar. “I’ll have to order some more sandbags. ” He flicked through a heap of paper. A word caught his eye. Reality. He glanced at the handwriting that flowed across the page. It had a very small, cramped, deliberate look. Someone had told him that this was because Numbers Riktor had been an anal retentive. The Bursar didn’t know what that meant, and hoped never to find out. Another word was: Measurement. His gaze drifted upward, and took in the underlined title: Some Notes on the Objective Measurement of Reality. Over the page was a diagram. The Bursar stared at it. “Found anything?” said the Archchancellor, without looking up. The Bursar shoved the paper up the sleeve of his robe. “Nothing important,” he said. Down below, the surf boomed on the beach. (…and below the surface, the lobsters walked backward along the deep, drowned streets…) Victor threw another piece of driftwood onto the fire. It burned blue with salt. “I don’t understand her,” he said. “Yesterday she was quite normal, today it’s all gone to her head. ” “Bitches!” said Gaspode, sympathetically. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” said Victor. “She’s just aloof. ” “Loofs!” said Gaspode. “That’s what intelligence does for your sex life,” said Don’t-call-me-Mr-Thumpy. “Rabbits never have that sort of trouble. Go, Sow, Thank You Doe. ” “You could try offering her a moushe,” said the cat. “Preshent company exchepted, of course,” it added guiltily, trying to avoid Definitely-Not-Squeak’s glare. “Being intelligent hasn’t done my social life any favors, either,” said Mr. Thumpy bitterly. “A week ago, no problems. Now suddenly I want to make conversation, and all they do is sit there wrinklin’ their noses at you. You feel a right idiot. ” There was a strangulated quacking. “The duck says, have you done anything about the book?” said Gaspode. “I had a look at it when we broke for lunch,” said Victor. There was another irritable quack. “The duck says, yes, but what have you done about it?” said Gaspode. “Look, I can’t go all the way to Ankh-Morpork just like that,” snapped Victor. “It takes hours! We film all day as it is!” “Ask for a day off,” said Mr. Thumpy. “No one asks for a day off in Holy Wood!” said Victor.
“I’ve been fired once, thank you. ” “And he took you on again at more money,” said Gaspode. “Funny, that. ” He scratched an ear. “Tell him your contract says you can have a day off. ” “I haven’t got a contract. You know that. You work, you get paid. It’s simple. ” “Yeah,” said Gaspode. “Yeah. Yeah? A verbal contract. It’s simple. I like it. ” Toward the end of the night Detritus the troll lurked awkwardly in the shadows by the back door of the Blue Lias. Strange passions had wracked his body all day. Every time he’d shut his eyes he kept seeing a figure shaped like a small hillock. He had to face up to it. Detritus was in love. Yes, he’d spent many years in Ankh-Morpork hitting people for money. Yes, it had been a friendless, brutalizing life. And a lonely one, too. He’d been resigned to an old-age of bitter bachelorhood and suddenly, now, Holy Wood was handing him a chance he’d never dreamed of. He’d been strictly brought up and he could dimly remember the lecture he’d been given by his father when he was a young troll. If you saw a girl you liked, you didn’t just rush at her. There were proper ways to go about things. He’d gone down to the beach and found a rock. But not any old rock. He’d searched carefully, and found a large sea-smoothed one with veins of pink and white quartz. Girls liked that sort of thing. Now he waited, shyly, for her to finish work. He tried to think of what he would say. No one had ever told him what to say. It wasn’t as if he was a smart troll like Rock or Morry, who had a way with words. Basically, he’d never needed much of what you might call a vocabulary. He kicked despondently at the sand. What chance did he have with a smart lady like her? There was a thump of heavy feet, and the door opened. The object of desire stepped out into the night and took a deep breath, which had the same effect on Detritus as an ice cube down the neck. He gave his rock a panicky look. It didn’t seem anything like big enough now, when you saw the size of her. But maybe it was what you did with it that mattered. Well, this was it. They said you never forgot your first time… He wound up his arm with the rock in it and hit her squarely between the eyes. That’s when it all started to go wrong. Tradition said that the girl, when she was able to focus again, and if the rock was of an acceptable standard, should immediately be amenable to whatever the troll suggested, i. e. , a candle-lit human for two, although of course that sort of thing wasn’t done anymore now, at least if there was any chance of being caught. She shouldn’t narrow her eyes and catch him a ding across the ear that made his eyeballs rattle. “You stupid troll!” she shouted, as Detritus staggered around in a circle. “What you do that for? You think I unsophisticated girl just off mountain? Why you not do it right?” “But, but,” Detritus began, in terror at her rage, “I not able to ask father permission to hit you, not know where he living—” Ruby drew herself up haughtily. “All that old-fashioned stuff very uncultured now,” she sniffed. “It’s not the modern way. I not interested in any troll,” she added, “that not up-to-date. A rock on the head may be quite sentimental,” she went on, the certainty draining out of her voice as she surveyed the sentence ahead of her, “but diamonds are a girl’s best friend. ” She hesitated. That didn’t sound right, even to her. It certainly puzzled Detritus. “What? You want I should knock my teeth out?” he said. “Well, all right, not diamonds,” Ruby conceded. “But there proper modern ways now. You got to court a girl. ” Detritus brightened. “Ah, but I—” he began. “That’s court, not caught,” said Ruby wearily. “You got to, to, to—” She paused. She wasn’t all that sure what you had to do. But Ruby had spent some weeks in Holy Wood, and if Holy Wood did anything, it changed things; in Holy Wood she’d plugged into a vast cross-species female freemasonry she hadn’t suspected existed, and she was learning fast. She’d talked at length to sympathetic human girls. And dwarfs. Even dwarfs had better courtship rituals, for gods’ sake. 16 And what humans got up to was amazing. Whereas all a female troll had to look forward to was a quick thump on the head and the rest of her life subduing and cooking anything the male dragged back to the cave. Well, there were going to be changes. Next time Ruby went home the troll mountains were going to receive their biggest shake-up since the last continental collision. In the meantime, she was going to start with her own life. She waved a massive hand in a vague way. “You got to, to sing outside a girl’s window,” she said, “and, and you got to give her oograah. ” “Oograah?” “Yeah. Pretty oograah. ” 17 Detritus scratched his head. “Why?” he said. Ruby looked panicky for a moment. She also couldn’t for the life of her imagine why the handing over of inedible vegetation was so important, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “Fancy you not knowing that,” she said scathingly. The sarcasm was lost on Detritus. Most things were. “Right,” he said. “I not so uncultured as you think,” he added. “I bang up to date. You wait and see. ” Hammering filled the air. Buildings were spreading backward from the nameless main street into the dunes. No one owned any land in Holy Wood; if it was empty, you built on it. Dibbler had two offices now. There was one where he shouted at people, and a bigger one just outside it where people shouted at each other. Soll shouted at handlemen. Handlemen shouted at alchemists. Demons wandered over every flat surface and drowned in the coffee cups and shouted at one another. A couple of experimental green parrots shouted at themselves. People wearing odd bits of costume wandered in and just shouted. Silverfish shouted because he couldn’t quite work out why he now had a desk in the outer office even though he owned the studio. Gaspode sat stolidly by the door to the inner office. In the past five minutes he had attracted one half-hearted kick, a soggy biscuit and a pat on the head. He reckoned he was ahead of the game, dogwise. He was trying to listen to all the conversation at once. It was extremely instructive. For one thing, some of the people coming in and shouting were carrying bags of money… “You what?” The shout had come from the inner office. Gaspode cocked the other ear. “I, er, want a day off, Mr Dibbler,” said Victor. “A day off ? You don’t want to work?” “Just for the day, Mr Dibbler. ” “But you don’t think I’m going to go around paying people to have days off, do you? I’m not made of money, you know. It’s not as if we make a profit, even. Hold a crossbow to my head, why don’t you. ” Gaspode looked at the bags in front of Soll, who was furiously adding up piles of coins. He raised a cynical eyebrow. There was a pause. Oh, no, thought Gaspode. The young idiot’s forgetting his lines. “I don’t want paying, Mr Dibbler. ” Gaspode relaxed. “You don’t want paying?” “No, Mr. Dibbler. ” “But you want a job when you get back, I suppose?” said Dibbler sarcastically. Gaspode tensed. Victor had taken a lot of coaching. “Well, I hope so, Mr. Dibbler. But I was thinking of going to see what Untied Alchemists had to offer. ” There was a sound exactly like the sound of a chairback striking the wall. Gaspode grinned evilly. Another bag of money was dropped in front of Soll. “Untied Alchemists!” “They really look as if they’re making progress with soundies, Mr. Dibbler,” said Victor meekly. “But they’re amateurs! And crooks!” Gaspode frowned. He hadn’t been able to coach Victor past this stage. “Well, that’s a relief, Mr. Dibbler. ” “Why’s that?” “Well, it’d be dreadful if they were crooks and professional. ” Gaspode nodded. Nice one. Nice one. There was the sound of footsteps hurrying around a desk. When Dibbler spoke next, you could have sunk a well in his voice and sold it at ten dollars a barrel. “Victor! Vic! Haven’t I been like an uncle to you?” Well, yes, thought Gaspode. He’s like an uncle to most people here. That’s because they’re his nephews.
He stopped listening, partly because Victor was going to get his day off and was very likely going to get paid for it as well, but mainly because another dog had been led into the room. It was huge and glossy. Its coat shone like honey. Gaspode recognized it as pure-bred Ramtop hunting dog. When it sat down beside him, it was as if a beautifully sleek racing yacht had slipped into a berth alongside a coal barge. He heard Soll say, “So that is Uncle’s latest idea, is it? What’s it called?” “Laddie,” said the handler. “How much was it?” “Sixty dollars. ” “For a dog ? We’re in the wrong business. ” “It can do all kinds of tricks, the breeder said. Bright as a button, he said. Just what Mr. Dibbler is looking for. ” “Well, tie it up there. And if that other mutt starts a fight, kick it out. ” Gaspode gave Soll a long, thoughtful scrutiny. Then, when the attention was no longer on them, he sidled closer to the newcomer, looked it up and down, and spoke quietly out of the corner of his mouth. “What you here for?” he said. The dog gave him a look of handsome incomprehension. “I mean, do you b’long to someone or what?” said Gaspode. The dog whined softly. Gaspode tried Basic Canine, which is a combination of whines and sniffs. “Hallo?” he ventured. “Anyone in there?” The dog’s tail thumped uncertainly. “The grub here’s ruddy awful,” said Gaspode. The dog raised its highly-bred muzzle. “What dis place?” it said. “This is Holy Wood,” said Gaspode conversationally. “I’m Gaspode. Named after the famous Gaspode, you know. Anythin’ you want to know, you just—” “All dese two-legs here. Dur…What dis place?” Gaspode stared. At that moment Dibbler’s door opened. Victor emerged, coughing, at one end of a cigar. “Great, great,” said Dibbler, following him out. “Knew we could sort it out. Don’t waste it, boy, don’t waste it. They cost a dollar a box. Oh, I see you brought your little doggie. ” “Woof,” said Gaspode, irritably. The other dog gave a short sharp bark and sat up with obedient alertness radiating from every hair. “Ah,” said Dibbler, “and I see we’ve got our wonder dog. ” Gaspode’s apology for a tail twitched once or twice. Then the truth dawned. He glared at the larger dog, opened his mouth to speak, caught himself just in time, and managed to turn it into a “Bark?” “I got the idea the other night, when I saw your dog,” said Dibbler. “I thought, people like animals. Me, I like dogs. Good image, the dog. Saving lives, Man’s best friend, that kind of stuff. ” Victor looked at Gaspode’s furious expression. “Gaspode’s quite bright,” he said. “Oh, I expect you think he is,” said Dibbler. “But you’ve just got to look at the two of them. On the one hand there’s this bright, alert, handsome animal, and on the other there’s this dust ball with a hangover. I mean, no contest, am I right?” The wonder dog gave a brisk yap. “What dis place? Good boy Laddie!” Gaspode rolled his eyes. “See what I mean?” said Dibbler. “Give him the right name, a bit a training, and a star is born. ” He slapped Victor on the back again. “Nice to see you, nice to see you, drop in again any time, only not too frequently, let’s have lunch sometime, now get out, Soll!” “Coming, Uncle. ” Victor was suddenly alone, apart from the dogs and the room full of people. He took the cigar out of his mouth, spat on the glowing end, and carefully hid it behind a potted plant. “A star is whelped,” said a small, withering voice from below. “What he say? Where dis place?” “Don’t look at me,” said Victor. “Nothing to do with me. ” “Will you just look at it? I mean, are we talking Thicko City here or what?” sneered Gaspode. “Good boy Laddie!” “Come on,” said Victor. “I’m supposed to be on set in five minutes. ” Gaspode trailed after him, muttering under his horrible breath. Victor caught the occasional “old rug” and “Man’s best friend” and “bloody wonder bloody dog. ” Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer. “You’re just jealous,” he said. “What, of an overgrown puppy with a single-figure IQ?” sneered Gaspode. “ And a glossy coat, cold nose and probably a pedigree as long as your ar—as my arm,” said Victor. “Pedigree? Pedigree? What’s a pedigree? It’s just breedin’. I had a father too, you know. And two grandads. And four great grandads. And many of ’em were the same dog, even. So don’t you tell me from no pedigree,” said Gaspode. He paused to cock a leg against one of the supports of the new “Home of Century of the Fruitbat Moving Pictures’ sign. That was something else that had puzzled Thomas Silverfish. He’d come in this morning, and the hand-painted sign saying “Interesting and Instructive Films” had gone and had been replaced by this huge billboard. He was sitting back in the office with his head in his hands, trying to convince himself that it had been his idea. “ I’m the one Holy Wood called,” Gaspode muttered, in a self-pitying voice. “I came all the way here, and then they chose that great hairy thing. Probably it’ll work for a plate of meat a day, too. ” “Well, look, maybe you weren’t called to Holy Wood to be a wonder dog,” said Victor. “Maybe it’s got something else in mind for you. ” This is ridiculous, he thought. Why are we talking about it like this? A place hasn’t got a mind. It can’t call people to it…well, unless you count things like homesickness. But you can’t be homesick for a place you’ve never been to before, it stands to reason. The last time people were here must have been thousands of years ago. Gaspode sniffed at a wall. “Did you tell Dibbler everything I told you?” he said. “Yes. He was very upset when I mentioned about going to Untied Alchemists. ” Gaspode sniggered. “An’ you told him what I said about a verbal contract not being worth the paper it’s printed on?” “Yes. He said he didn’t understand what I meant. But he gave me a cigar. And he said he’d pay for me and Ginger to go to Ankh-Morpork soon. He said he’s got a really big picture planned. ” “What is it?” said Gaspode suspiciously. “He didn’t say. ” “Listen, lad,” said Gaspode, “Dibbler’s making a fortune. I counted it. There were five thousand, two hundred and seventy-three dollars and fifty-two pence on Soll’s desk. And you earned it. Well, you and Ginger did. ” “Gosh!” “Now, there’s some new words I want you to learn,” said Gaspode. “Think you can?” “I hope so. ” “‘Per-cent-age of the gross,’” said Gaspode. “There. Think you can remember it?” “‘Per-cent-age of the gross,’” said Victor. “Good lad. ” “What does it mean?” “Don’t you worry about that,” said Gaspode. “You just have to say it’s what you want, OK. When the time’s right. ” “When will the time be right, then?” said Victor. Gaspode grinned nastily. “Oh, I reckon when Dibbler’s just got a mouthful of food’d be favorite. ” Holy Wood Hill bustled like an ant heap. On the seaward side Fir Wood Studios were making The Third Gnome. Microlithic Pictures, which was run almost entirely by the dwarfs, was hard at work on Golde Diggers of 1457 , which was going to be followed by The Golde Rushe. Floating Bladder Pictures was hard at work with Turkey Legs. And Borgle’s was packed out. “I don’t know what it’s called, but we’re doing one about going to see a wizard. Something about following a yellow sick toad,” a man in one half of a lion suit explained to a companion in the queue. “No wizards in Holy Wood, I thought. ” “Oh, this one’s all right. He’s not very good at the wizarding. ” “So what’s new?” Sound! That was the problem. Alchemists toiled in sheds all over Holy Wood, screaming at parrots, pleading with mynah birds, constructing intricate bottles to trap sound and bounce it around harmlessly until it was time for it to be let out. To the sporadic boom of octo-cellulose exploding was added the occasional sob of exhaustion or scream of agony as an enraged parrot mistook a careless thumb for a nut. The parrots weren’t the success they’d hoped for.
It was true that they could remember what they heard and repeat it after a fashion, but there was no way to turn them off and they were in the habit of ad-libbing other sounds they’d heard or, Dibbler suspected, had been taught by mischievous handlemen. Thus, brief snatches of romantic dialogue would be punctuated with cries of “Waaaarrrk! Showusyerknickers!” and Dibbler said he had no intention of making that kind of picture, at least at the moment. Sound! Whoever got sound first would rule Holy Wood, they said. People were flocking to the clicks now, but people were fickle. Color was different. Color was just a matter of breeding demons who could paint fast enough. It was sound that meant something new. In the meantime, there were stop-gap measures. The dwarfs’ studio had shunned the general practice of putting the dialogue on cards between scenes and had invented subtitles, which worked fine provided the performers remembered not to step too far forward and knock over the letters. But if sound was missing, then the screen had to be filled from side to side with a feast for the eyes. The sound of hammering was always Holy Wood’s background noise, but it redoubled now… The cities of the world were being built in Holy Wood. Untied Alchemists started it, with a one-tenth-size wood and canvas replica of the Great Pyramid of Tsort. Soon the backlots sprouted whole streets in Ankh-Morpork, palaces from Pseudopolis, castles from the Hublands. In some cases, the streets were painted on the back of the palaces, so that princes and peasants were separated by one thickness of painted sacking. Victor spent the rest of the morning working on a one-reeler. Ginger hardly said a word to him, even after the obligatory kiss when he rescued her from whatever it was Morry was supposed to be today. Whatever magic Holy Wood worked on them it wasn’t doing it today. He was glad to get away. Afterward he wandered across the backlot to watch them putting Laddie the Wonder Dog through his paces. There was no doubt, as the graceful shape streaked like an arrow over obstacles and grabbed a trainer by a well-padded arm, that here was a dog almost designed by Nature for moving pictures. He even barked photogenically. “An’ do you know what he’s sayin’?” said a disgruntled voice beside Victor. It was Gaspode, a picture of bow-legged misery. “No. What?” said Victor. “‘Me Laddie. Me good boy. Good boy Laddie,’” said Gaspode. “Makes you want to throw up, doesn’t it?” “Yes, but could you leap a six-foot hurdle?” said Victor. “That’s intelligent, is it?” said Gaspode. “I always walk around —what’s that they’re doing now?” “Giving him his lunch, I think. ” “They call that lunch, do they?” Victor watched Gaspode stroll over and peer into the dog’s bowl. Laddie gave him a sideways look. Gaspode barked quietly. Laddie whined. Gaspode barked again. There was a lengthy exchange of yaps. Then Gaspode strolled back, and sat down beside Victor. “Watch this,” he said. Laddie took the food bowl in his mouth, and turned it upside down. “Disgustin’ stuff,” said Gaspode. “All tubes and innards. I wouldn’t give it to a dog, and I am one. ” “You made him tip out his own dinner?” said Victor, horrified. “Very obedient lad, I thought,” said Gaspode smugly. “What a nasty thing to do!” “Oh, no. I give ’im some advice, too. ” Laddie barked peremptorily at the people clustering around him. Victor heard them muttering. “Dog don’t eat his dinner,” came Detritus’ voice, “dog go hungry. ” “Don’t be daft. Mr. Dibbler says he’s worth more than we are!” “Perhaps it’s not what he’s used to. I mean, a posh dog like him an’ all. It’s a bit yukky, isn’t it?” “It dog food! That what dogs are supposed to eat!” “Yeah, but is it wonder dog food? What’re wonder dogs fed on?” “Mr Dibbler’ll feed you to him if there’s any trouble. ” “All right, all right. Detritus, go around to Borgle’s. See what he’s got. Not the stuff he gives to the usual customers, mind. ” “That IS the stuff he give to usual customers. ” “That’s what I mean. ” Five minutes later Detritus trailed back carrying about nine pounds of raw steak. It was dumped in the dog bowl. The trainers looked at Laddie. Laddie cocked an eye toward Gaspode, who nodded almost imperceptibly. The big dog put one foot on one end of the steak, took the other end in his mouth, and tore off a lump. Then he padded over the compound and dropped it respectfully in front of Gaspode, who gave it a long, calculating stare. “Well, I dunno,” he said at last. “Does that look like ten percent to you, Victor?” “You negotiated his dinner ?” Gaspode’s voice was muffled by meat. “I reckon ten percent is ver’ fair. Very fair, in the circumstances. ” “You know, you really are a son of a bitch,” said Victor. “Proud of it,” said Gaspode, indistinctly. He bolted the last of the steak. “What shall we do now?” “I’m supposed to get an early night. We’re starting for Ankh very early tomorrow,” said Victor doubtfully. “Still not made any progress with the book?” “No. ” “Let me have a look, then. ” “Can you read?” “Dunno. Never tried. ” Victor looked around them. No one was paying him any attention. They never did. Once the handles stopped turning, no one bothered about performers; it was like being temporarily invisible. He sat down on a pile of lumber, opened the book randomly at an early page, and held it out in front of Gaspode’s critical stare. Eventually the dog said, “It’s got all marks on it. ” Victor sighed. “That’s writing,” he said. Gaspode squinted. “What, all them little pictures?” “Early writing was like that. People drew little pictures to represent ideas. ” “So…if there’s a lot of one picture, it means it’s an important idea?” “What? Well, yes. I suppose so. ” “Like the dead man. ” Victor was lost. “The dead man on the beach?” “No. The dead man on the pages. See? Everywhere, there’s the dead man. ” Victor gave him an odd look, and then turned the book around and peered at it. “Where? I don’t see any dead men. ” Gaspode snorted. “Look, all over the page,” he said. “He looks just like those tombs you get in old temples and stuff. You know? Where they do this statchoo of the stiff lyin’ on top of the tomb, with his arms crossed an’ holdin’ his sword. Dead noble. ” “Good grief! You’re right! It does look sort of…dead…” “Prob’ly all the writing’s goin’ on about what a great guy he was when he was alive,” said Gaspode knowledgeably. “You know, ‘Slayer of thousands’ stuff. Prob’ly he left a lot of money for priests to say prayers and light candles and sacrifice goats and stuff. There used to be a lot of that sort of thing. You know, you’d get dese guys whorin’ and drinkin’ and carryin’ on regardless their whole life, and then when the old Grim Reaper starts sharpenin’ his scythe they suddenly becomes all pious and pays a lot of priests to give their soul a quick wash-and-brush-up and gen’rally keep on tellin’ the gods what a decent chap they was. ” “Gaspode?” said Victor levelly. “What?” “You were a performing dog. How come you know all this stuff?” “I ain’t just a pretty face. ” “You aren’t even a pretty face, Gaspode. ” The little dog shrugged. “I’ve always had eyes and ears,” he said. “You’d be amazed, the stuff you see and hear when you’re a dog. I dint know what any of it meant at the time, of course. Now I do. ” Victor stared at the pages again. There certainly was a figure which, if you half-closed your eyes, looked very much like a statue of a knight with his hands resting on his sword. “It might not mean a man,” he said. “Pictographic writing doesn’t work like that. It’s all down to context, you see. ” He racked his brains to think of some of the books he’d seen. “For example, in the Agatean language the signs for ‘woman’ and ‘slave’ written down together actually mean ‘wife. ’” He looked closely at the page. The dead man—or the sleeping man, or the standing man resting his hands on his sword, the figure was so stylized it was hard to be sure—seemed to appear beside another common picture. He ran his finger along the line of pictograms.
“See,” he said, “it could be the man figure is only part of a word. See? It’s always to the right of this other picture, which looks a bit like—a bit like a doorway, or something. So it might really mean—” he hesitated. “‘Doorway/man,’” he hazarded. He turned the book slightly. “Could be some old king,” said Gaspode. “Could mean something like The Man with the Sword is Imprisoned, or something. Or maybe it means Watch Out, There’s a Man with a Sword behind the Door. Could mean anything, really. ” Victor squinted at the book again. “It’s funny,” he said. “It doesn’t look dead. Just…not alive. Waiting to be alive? A waiting man with a sword?” Victor peered at the little man-figure. It had hardly any features, but still managed to look vaguely familiar. “You know,” he said, “it looks just like my Uncle Osric…” Clickaclickaclicka. Click. The film spun to a standstill. There was a thunder of applause, a stamping of feet and a barrage of empty banged grain bags. In the very front row of the Odium the Librarian stared up at the now-empty screen. It was the fourth time that afternoon he’d watched Shadow of the Dessert , because there’s something about a 300lb orangutan that doesn’t encourage people to order it out of the pit between houses. A drift of peanut shells and screwed up paper bags lay around his feet. The Librarian loved the clicks. They spoke to something in his soul. He’d even started writing a story which he thought would make a very good moving picture. 18 Everyone he showed it to said it was jolly good, often even before they’d read it. But something about this click was worrying him. He’d sat through it four times, and he was still worried. He eased himself out of the three seats he was occupying and knuckled his way up the aisle and into the little room where Bezam was rewinding the film. Bezam looked up as the door opened. “Get out—” he began, and then grinned desperately and said, “Hallo, sir. Pretty good click, eh? We’ll be showing it again any minute now and— what the hell are you doing? You can’t do that! ” The Librarian ripped the huge roll of film off the projector and pulled it through his leathery fingers, holding it up to the light. Bezam tried to snatch it back and got a palm in his chest that sat him firmly on the floor, where great coils of film piled up on top of him. He watched in horror as the great ape grunted, grasped a piece of the film in both hands and, with two bites, edited it. Then the Librarian picked him up, dusted him off, patted him on the head, thrust the great pile of unwound click into his helpless arms, and ambled swiftly out of the room with a few frames of film dangling from one paw. Bezam stared helplessly after him. “You’re banned!” he shouted, when he judged the ape to be safely out of earshot. Then he looked down at the two severed ends. Breaks in films weren’t unusual. Bezam had spent many a flustered few minutes feverishly cutting and pasting while the audience cheerfully stamped its feet and high-spiritedly threw peanuts, knives and double-headed axes at the screen. He let the coils fall around him and reached for the scissors and glue. At least—he found, after holding the two ends up to the lantern—the Librarian hadn’t taken a very interesting bit. Odd, that. Bezam wouldn’t have put it past the ape to have taken a bit where the girl was definitely showing too much chest, or one of the fight scenes. But all he’d wanted was a piece that showed the Sons galloping down from their mountain fastness, in single file, on identical camels. “Dunno what he wanted that for,” he muttered, taking the lid off the glue pot. “It just shows a lot of rocks. ” Victor and Gaspode stood among the sand dunes near the beach. “That’s where the driftwood hut is,” said Victor, pointing, “and then if you look hard you can see there’s a sort of road pointing straight toward the hill. But there’s nothing on the hill but the old trees. ” Gaspode looked back at Holy Wood Bay. “Funny it bein’ circular,” he said. “I thought so,” said Victor. “I heard once where there was this city that was so wicked that the gods turned it into a puddle of molten glass,” said Gaspode, apropos of nothing. “And the only person who saw it happen was turned into a pillar of salt by day and a cheese shaker by night. ” “Gosh. What had the people been doing?” “Dunno. Prob’ly not much. It doesn’t take much to annoy gods. ” “Me good boy! Good boy Laddie!” The dog came streaking over the dunes, a comet of gold and orange hair. It skidded to a halt in front of Gaspode, and then began to dance around excitedly, yapping. “He’s escaped and he wants me to play with him,” said Gaspode despondently. “Ridiculous, ain’t it? Laddie drop dead. ” Laddie rolled over obediently, all four legs in the air. “See? He understands every word I say,” muttered Gaspode. “He likes you,” said Victor. “Huh,” sniffed Gaspode. “How’re dogs ever goin’ to amount to anything if they bounce around worshipping people just ’cos they’ve been given a meal? What’s he want me to do with this??” Laddie had dropped a stick in front of Gaspode and was looking at him expectantly. “He wants you to throw it,” said Victor. “What for?” “So he can bring it back. ” “What I don’t understand,” said Gaspode, as Victor picked up the stick and hurled it away, Laddie racing along underneath it, “is how come we’re descended from wolves. I mean, your average wolf, he’s a bright bugger, know what I mean? Chock full of cunnin’ an’ like that. We’re talking gray paws racing over the trackless tundra, is what I’m getting at. ” Gaspode looked wistfully at the distant mountains. “And suddenly a handful of generations later we’ve got Percy the Pup here with a cold nose, bright eyes, glossy coat and the brains of a stunned herring. ” “And you,” said Victor. Laddie whirled back in a storm of sand and dropped the damp stick in front of him. Victor picked it up and threw it again. Laddie bounded off, yapping himself sick with excitement. “Well, yeah,” said Gaspode, ambling along in a bow-legged swagger. “Only I can look after myself. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. You think Dopey the Mutt there would last five minutes in Ankh-Morpork? He set one paw in some o’ the streets, he’s three sets of fur gloves an’ Crispy Fried No. 27 at the nearest Klatchian all-night carryout. ” Victor threw the stick again. “Tell me,” he said, “who was the famous Gaspode you’re named after?” “You never heard of him?” “No. ” “He was dead famous. ” “He was a dog?” “Yeah. It was years and years ago. There was this ole bloke in Ankh who snuffed it, and he belonged to one of them religions where they bury you after you’re dead, an’ they did, and he had this ole dog—” “—called Gaspode—?” “Yeah, and this ole dog had been his only companion and after they buried the man he lay down on his grave and howled and howled for a couple of weeks. Growled at everybody who came near. An’ then died. ” Victor paused in the act of throwing the stick again. “That’s very sad,” he said. He threw. Laddie tore along underneath it, and disappeared into a stand of scrubby trees on the hillside. “Yeah. Everyone says it demonstrates a dog’s innocent and undyin’ love for ’is master,” said Gaspode, spitting the words out as if they were ashes. “You don’t believe that, then?” “Not really. I b’lieve any bloody dog will stay still an’ howl when you’ve just lowered the gravestone on his tail,” said Gaspode. There was a ferocious barking. “Don’t worry about it. He’s probably found a threatening rock or something,” said Gaspode. He’d found Ginger. The Librarian knuckled purposefully through the maze of Unseen University’s library and descended the steps toward the maximum-security shelves. Nearly all the books in the Library were, being magical, considerably more dangerous than ordinary books; most of them were chained to the bookcases to stop them flapping around. But the lower levels… …there they kept the rogue books, the books whose behavior or mere contents demanded a whole shelf, a whole room to themselves.
Cannibal books, books which, it left on a shelf with their weaker brethren, would be found looking considerably fatter and more smug in the smoking ashes next morning. Books whose mere contents pages could reduce the unprotected mind to gray cheese. Books that were not just books of magic, but magical books. There’s a lot of loose thinking about magic. People go around talking about mystic harmonies and cosmic balances and unicorns, all of which is to real magic what a glove puppet is to the Royal Shakespeare Company. Real magic is the hand around the bandsaw, the thrown spark in the powder keg, the dimension-warp linking you straight into the heart of a star, the flaming sword that burns all the way down to the pommel. Sooner juggle torches in a tar pit than mess with real magic. Sooner lie down in front of a thousand elephants. At least, that’s what wizards say, which is why they charge such swingeingly huge fees for getting involved with the bloody stuff. But down here, in the dark tunnels, there was no hiding behind amulets and starry robes and pointy hats. Down here, you either had it or you didn’t. And if you hadn’t got it, you’d had it. There were sounds from behind the heavily barred doors as the Librarian shuffled along. Once or twice something heavy threw itself against a door, making the hinges rattle. There were noises. The orangutan stopped in front of an arched doorway that was blocked with a door made not of wood but of stone, balanced so that it could easily be opened from outside but could withstand massive pressure from within. He paused for a moment, and then reached into a little alcove and removed a mask of iron and smoked glass, which he put on, and a pair of heavy leather gloves reinforced with steel mesh. There was also a torch made of oil-soaked rags; he lit this from one of the flickering braziers in the tunnel. At the back of the alcove was a brass key. He took the key, and then he took a deep breath. All the Books of Power had their own particular natures. The Octavo was harsh and imperious. The Bumper Fun Grimoire went in for deadly practical jokes. The Joy of Tantric Sex had to be kept under iced water. The Librarian knew them all, and how to deal with them. This one was different. Usually people saw only tenth-or twelfth-hand copies, as like the real thing as a painting or an explosion was to, well, to an explosion. This was a book that had absorbed the sheer, graphite-gray evil of its subject matter. Its name was hacked in letters over the arch, lest men and apes forget. NECROTELICOMNICON. He put the key in the lock, and offered up a prayer to the gods. “Oook,” he said fervently. “Oook. ” The door swung open. In the darkness within, a chain gave a faint clink. “She’s still breathing,” said Victor. Laddie leapt around them, barking furiously. “Maybe you should loosen her clothing or something,” said Gaspode. “It’s just a thought,” he added. “You don’t have to glare at me like that. I’m a dog, what do I know?” “She seems all right, but…look at her hands,” said Victor. “What the hell has she been trying to do?” “Tryin’ to open that door,” said Gaspode. “What door?” “That door there. ” Part of the hill had slipped away. Huge blocks of masonry protruded from the sand. There were the stubs of ancient pillars, sticking up like fluoridated teeth. Between two of them was an arched doorway, three times as high as Victor. It was sealed with a pair of pale gray doors, either of stone or of wood that had become as hard as stone over the years. One of them was slightly open, but had been prevented from opening further by the drifts of sand in front of it. Frantically scrabbled furrows had been dug deep into the sand. Ginger had been trying to shift it with her bare hands. “Stupid thing to do in this heat,” said Victor, vaguely. He looked from the door to the sea, and then down at Gaspode. Laddie scrambled up the sand and barked excitedly at the crack between the doors. “What’s he doing that for?” said Victor, suddenly feeling spooked. “All his hair is standing up. You don’t think he’s got one of those mysterious animal premonitions of evil, do you?” “I think he’s a pillock,” said Gaspode. “Laddie shut up!” There was a yelp. Laddie recoiled from the door, lost his balance on the shifting sand, and rolled down the slope. He leapt to his feet and started barking again; not ordinary stupid-dog barking this time, but the genuine treed-cat variety. Victor leaned forward and touched the door. It felt very cold, despite the perpetual heat of Holy Wood, and there was just the faint suspicion of vibration. He ran his fingers over the surface. There was a roughness there, as though there had been a carving that had been worn into obscurity over the years. “A door like that,” said Gaspode, behind him, “a door like that, if you want my opinion, a door like that, a door like that,” he took a deep breath, “bodes. ” “Hmm? What? Bodes what?” “It don’t have to bode anything,” said Gaspode. “Just basic bodingness is bad enough, take it from me. ” “It must have been important. Looks a bit temple-ish,” said Victor. “Why’d she want to open it?” “Bits of cliff sliding down an’ mysterious doors appearin’,” said Gaspode, shaking his head. “That’s a lot of boding. Let’s go somewhere far away and really think about it, eh?” Ginger gave a groan. Victor crouched down. “What’d she say?” “Dunno,” said Gaspode. “It sounded like ‘I want to be a lawn,’ I thought?” “Daft. Touch of the sun there, I reckon,” said Gaspode knowledgeably. “Maybe you’re right. Her head certainly feels very hot. ” He picked her up, staggering a little under the weight. “Come on,” he managed. “Let’s get down into the town. It’ll be getting dark soon. ” He looked around at the stunted trees. The door lay in a sort of hollow, which presumably caught enough dew to make the growth there slightly less desiccated than elsewhere. “You know, this place looks familiar,” he said. “We did our first click here. It’s where I first met her. ” “Very romantic,” said Gaspode distantly, hurrying away with Laddie bounding happily around him. “If something ’orrible comes out of that door, you can fink of it as Our Monster. ” “Hey! Wait!” “Hurry up, then. ” “What would she want to be a lawn for, do you think?” “Beats me…” After they had gone silence poured back into the hollow. A little later, the sun set. Its long light hit the door, turning the merest scratches into deep relief. With the help of imagination, they might just have formed the image of a man. With a sword. There was the faintest of noises as, grain by grain, sand trickled away from the door. By midnight it had opened by at least a sixteenth of an inch. Holy Wood dreamed. It dreamed of waking up. Ruby damped down the fires under the vats, put the benches on the tables, and prepared to shut the Blue Lias. But just before blowing out the last lamp she hesitated in front of the mirror. He’d be waiting out there again tonight. Just like every night. He’d been in during the evening, grinning to himself. He was planning something. Ruby had been taking advice from some of the girls who worked in the clicks, and in addition to her feather boa she’d now invested in a broad-rimmed hat with some sort of oograah, cherries she thought they were called, in it. She’d been assured that the effect was stunning. The trouble, she had to admit, was that he was, well, a very hunky troll. For millions of years troll women had been naturally attracted to trolls built like a monolith with an apple on top. Ruby’s treacherous instincts were firing messages up her spine, insidiously insisting that in those long fangs and bandy legs was everything a troll girl could wish for in a mate. Trolls like Rock or Morry, of course, were far more modern and could do things like use a knife and fork, but there was something, well, reassuring about Detritus. Perhaps it was the way his knuckles touched the ground so dynamically. And apart from anything else, she was sure she was brighter than he was.
There was a sort of gormless unstoppability about him that she found rather fascinating. That was the instincts at work again—intelligence has never been a particularly valuable survival trait in a troll. And she had to admit that, whatever she might attempt in the way of feather boas and fancy hats, she was pushing 140 and was 400 lbs above the fashionable weight. If only he’d buck his ideas up. Or at least, buck one idea up. Maybe this make-up the girls had been talking about could be worth a try. She sighed, blew out the lamp, opened the door and stepped out into a maze of roots. A gigantic tree stretched the whole length of the alley. He must have dragged it for miles. The few surviving branches poked through windows or waved forlornly in the air. In the middle of it all was Detritus, perched proudly on the trunk, his face split in a watermelon grin, his arms spread wide. “Tra-laa!” he said. Ruby heaved a gigantic sigh. Romance wasn’t easy, when you were a troll. The Librarian forced the page open and chained it down. The book tried to snap at him. Its contents had made it what it was. Evil and treacherous. It contained forbidden knowledge. Well, not actually forbidden. No one had ever gone so far as forbidding it. Apart from anything else, in order to forbid it you’d have to know what it was, which was forbidden. But it definitely contained the sort of information which, once you knew it, you wished you hadn’t. 19 Legend said that any mortal man who read more than a few lines of the original copy would die insane. This was certainly true. Legend also said that the book contained illustrations that would make a strong man’s brain dribble out of his ears. This was probably true, too. Legend went on to say that merely opening the Necrotelicomnicon would cause a man’s flesh to crawl off his hand and up his arm. No one actually knew if this was true, but it sounded horrible enough to be true and no one was about to try any experiments. Legend had a lot to say about the Necrotelicomnicon , in fact, but absolutely nothing to say about orangutans, who could tear the book into little bits and chew it for all legend cared. The worst that had ever happened to the Librarian after looking at it was a mild migraine and a touch of eczema, but that was no reason to take chances. He adjusted the smoked glass of the visor and ran one black-leather finger down the Index; the words bridled as the digit slid past, and tried to bite it. Occasionally he’d hold the strip of film up to the light of the flickering torch. The wind and sand had blurred them, but there was no doubt that there were carvings on the rock. And the Librarian had seen designs like that before. He found the reference he was looking for and, after a brief struggle during which he had to threaten the Necrotelicomnicon with the torch, forced the book to turn to the page. He peered closer. Good old Achmed the I Just Get These Headaches… “…and in that hill, it is said, a Door out of the World was found, and people of the city watched What was Seen therein, knowing not that Dread waited between the universes…” The Librarian’s fingertip dragged from right to left across the pictures, and skipped to the next paragraph. “…for Others found the Gate of Holy Wood and fell upon the World, and in one nighte All Manner of Madnesse befell, and Chaos prevailed, and the City sank beneath the Sea, and all became one withe the fishes and the lobsters save for the few who fled…” He curled a lip, and looked further down the page. “…a Golden Warrior, who drove the Fiends back and saved the World, and said, Where the Gate is, There Am I Also; I Am He that was Born of Holy Wood, to guard the Wild Idea. And they said, What must we do to Destroy the Gate Forever, and he said unto them, This you Cannot Do, for it is Not a Thing, but I will Guard the Gate for you. And they, not having been Born yesterday, and fearing the Cure more than the Malady, said to him, What will you Take from Us, that you will Guard the Door. And he grew until he was the height of a tree and said, Only your Remembrance, that I do Not Sleep. Three times a day will you remember Holy Wood. Else The Cities of the World Will Tremble and Fall, and you will See the Greatest of them All in Flames. And with that the Golden Man took up his golden sword and went into the Hill and stood at the Gate, forever. “And the People said to one another, Funny, he lookes just like my Uncle Osbert…” The Librarian turned the page. “…But there were among them, humans and animals alike, those touched by the magic of Holy Wood. It goeth through the generations like an ancient curse, until the priests cease in their Remembrance and the Golden Man sleepeth. Then let the world Beware…” The Librarian let the book snap shut. It wasn’t an uncommon legend. He’d read it before—at least, had read most of it—in books considerably less dangerous than this. You came across variants in all the cities of the Sto Plain. There had been a city once, in the mists of pre-history—bigger than Ankh-Morpork, if that were possible. And the inhabitants had done something , some sort of unspeakable crime not just against Mankind or the gods but against the very nature of the universe itself, which had been so dreadful that it had sunk beneath the sea one stormy night. Only a few people had survived to carry to the barbarian peoples in the less-advanced parts of the Disc all the arts and crafts of civilization, such as usury and macrame. No one had ever really taken it seriously. It was just one of those usual “If you don’t stop it you’ll go blind” myths that civilizations tended to hand on to their descendants. After all, Ankh-Morpork itself was generally considered as wicked a city as you could hope to find in a year of shore leaves, and seemed to have avoided any kind of supernatural vengeance, although it was always possible that it had taken place and no one had noticed. Legend had always put the nameless city far away and long ago. No one knew where it was, or even if it had existed. The Librarian glanced at the symbols again. They were very familiar. They were on the old ruins all over Holy Wood. Azhural stood on a low hill, watching the sea of elephants move below him. Here and there a supply wagon bobbed between the dusty gray bodies like a rudderless boat. A mile of veldt was being churned into a soggy mud wallow, bare of grass—although, by the smell of it, it’d be the greenest patch on the Disc after the rains came. He dabbed at his eyes with a corner of his robe. Three hundred and sixty-three! Who’d have thought it? The air was solid with the piqued trumpeting of three hundred and sixty-three elephants. And with the hunting and trapping parties already going on ahead, there should be plenty more. According to M’Bu, anyway. And he wasn’t going to argue. Funny, that. For years he’d thought of M’Bu as a sort of mobile smile. A handy lad with a brush and shovel, but not what you might call a major achiever. And then suddenly someone somewhere wanted a thousand elephants, and the lad had raised his head and a gleam had come into his eye and you could see that under that grin was a skilled kilopachydermatolist ready to answer the call. Funny. You could know someone for their whole life and not realize that the gods had put them in this world to move a thousand elephants around the place. Azhural had no sons. He’d already made up his mind to leave everything to his assistant. Everything he had at this point amounted to three hundred and sixty-three elephants and, ahaha, a mammoth overdraft, but it was the thought that counted. M’Bu trotted up the path toward him, his clipboard held firmly under one arm. “Everything ready, boss,” he said. “You just got to say the word. ” Azhural drew himself up. He looked around at the heaving plain, the distant baobab trees, the purple mountains. Oh, yes. The mountains. He’d had misgivings about the mountains.
He’d mentioned them to M’Bu, who said, “We’ll cross them bridges when we get to ’em, boss,” and when Azhural had pointed out that there weren’t any bridges, had looked him squarely in the eye and said firmly, “First we build them bridge, then we cross ’em. ” Far beyond the mountains was the Circle Sea and Ankh-Morpork and this Holy Wood place. Far-away places with strange sounding names. A wind blew across the veldt, carrying faint whispers, even here. Azhural raised his staff. “It’s fifteen hundred miles to Ankh-Morpork,” he said. “We’ve got three hundred and sixty-three elephants, fifty carts of forage, the monsoon’s about to break and we’re wearing…we’re wearing…sort of things, like glass, only dark…dark glass things on our eyes…” His voice trailed off. His brow furrowed, as if he’d just been listening to his own voice and hadn’t understood it. The air seemed to glitter. He saw M’Bu staring at him. He shrugged. “Let’s go,” he said. M’Bu cupped his hands. He’d spent all night working out the order of the march. “Blue Section bilong Uncle N’gru— forward !” he shouted. “Yellow Section bilong Aunti Googool— forward! Green Section bilong Second-cousin! Kck!— forward …” An hour later the veldt in front of the low hill was deserted except for a billion flies and one dung beetle who couldn’t believe his luck. Something went “plop” on the red dust, throwing up a little crater. And again, and again. Lightning split the trunk of a nearby baobab. The rains began. Victor’s back was beginning to ache. Carrying young women to safety looked a good idea on paper, but had major drawbacks after the first hundred yards. “Have you any idea where she lives?” he said. “And is it somewhere close?” “No idea,” said Gaspode. “She once said something about it being over a clothes shop,” said Victor. “That’ll be in the alley alongside Borgle’s then,” said Gaspode. Gaspode and Laddie led the way through the alleys and up a rickety outside staircase. Maybe they smelled out Ginger’s room. Victor wasn’t going to argue with mysterious animal senses. Victor went up the back stairs as quietly as possible. He was dimly aware that where people stayed was often infested by the Common or Greatly Suspicious Landlady, and he felt that he had enough problems as it was. He used Ginger’s feet to push open the door. It was a small room, low-ceilinged and furnished with the sad, washed-out furniture found in rented rooms across the multiverse. At least, that’s how it had started out. What it was furnished with now was Ginger. She had saved every poster. Even those from early clicks, when she was just in very small print as A Girl. They were thumb-tacked to the walls. Ginger’s face—and his own—stared at him from every angle. There was a large mirror at one end of the poky room, and a couple of half-burned candles in front of him. Victor deposited the girl carefully on the narrow bed and then stared around him, very carefully. His sixth, seventh and eighth senses were screaming at him. He was in a place of magic. “It’s like a sort of temple,” he said. “A temple to…herself. ” “It gives me the willies,” said Gaspode. Victor stared. Maybe he’d always successfully avoided being awarded the pointy hat and big staff, but he had acquired wizard instincts. He had a sudden vision of a city under the sea, with octopuses curling stealthily through the drowned doorways and lobsters watching the streets. “Fate don’t like it when people take up more space than they ought to. Everyone knows that. ” I’m going to be the most famous person in the whole world , thought Victor. That’s what she said. He shook his head. “No,” he said aloud. “She just likes posters. It’s just ordinary vanity. ” It didn’t sound believable, even to him. The room fairly hummed with… …what? He hadn’t felt anything like it before. Power of some sort, certainly. Something that was brushing tantalizingly against his senses. Not exactly magic. At least, not the kind he was used to. But something that seemed similar while not being the same, like sugar compared with salt; the same shape and the same color, but… Ambition wasn’t magical. Powerful, yes, but not magical…surely? Magic wasn’t difficult. That was the big secret that the whole baroque edifice of wizardry had been set up to conceal. Anyone with a bit of intelligence and enough perseverance could do magic, which was why the wizards cloaked it with rituals and the whole pointy-hat business. The trick was to do magic and get away with it. Because it was as if the human race was a field of corn and magic helped the users grow just that bit taller, so that they stood out. That attracted the attention of the gods and—Victor hesitated—other Things outside this world. People who used magic without knowing what they were doing usually came to a sticky end. All over the entire room, sometimes. He pictured Ginger, back on the beach. I want to be the most famous person in the whole world. Perhaps that was something new, come to think of it. Not ambition for gold, or power, or land or all the things that were familiar parts of the human world. Just ambition to be yourself, as big as possible. Not ambition for , but to be. He shook his head. He was just in some room in some cheap building in some town that was about as real as, as, as, well, as the thickness of a click. It wasn’t the place to have thoughts like this. The important thing was to remember that Holy Wood wasn’t a real place at all. He stared at the posters again. You just get one chance, she said. You live for maybe seventy years, and if you’re lucky you get one chance. Think of all the natural skiers who are born in deserts. Think of all the genius blacksmiths who were born hundreds of years before anyone invented the horse. All the skills that are never used. All the wasted chances. How lucky for me, he thought gloomily, that I happen to be alive at this time. Ginger turned over in her sleep. At least her breathing was more regular now. “Come on ,” said Gaspode. “It’s not right, you being alone in a lady’s boodwah. ” “I’m not alone,” Victor said. “She’s with me. ” “That’s the point,” said Gaspode. “Woof,” Laddie added, loyally. “You know,” said Victor, following the dogs down the stairs, “I’m beginning to feel there’s something wrong here. There’s something going on and I don’t know what it is. Why was she trying to get into the hill?” “Prob’ly in league with dread Powers,” said Gaspode. “The city and the hill and the old book and everything,” said Victor, ignoring this. “It all makes sense if only I knew what was connecting it. ” He stepped out into the early evening, into the lights and noise of Holy Wood. “Tomorrow we’ll go up there in the daylight and sort this out once and for all,” he said. “No, we won’t,” said Gaspode. “The reason being, tomorrow we’re goin’ to Ankh-Morpork, remember?” “We?” said Victor. “Ginger and I are going. I didn’t know about you. ” “Laddie goin’, too,” said Gaspode. “I—” “Good boy Laddie!” “Yeah, yeah. I heard the trainers say. So I’ve got to go with him to see he don’t get into any trouble, style of fing. ” Victor yawned. “Well, I’m going to go to bed. We’ll probably have to start early. ” Gaspode looked innocently up and down the alley. Somewhere a door opened and there was the sound of drunken laughter. “I fought I might have a bit of a stroll before turnin’ in,” he said. “Show Laddie—” “Laddie good boy!” “—the sights and that. ” Victor looked doubtful. “Don’t keep him out too late,” he said. “People will worry. ” “Yeah, right,” said Gaspode. “G’night. ” He sat and watched Victor wander off. “Huh,” he said, under his dreadful breath. “Catch anyone worryin’ about me. ” He glared up at Laddie, who sprang to obedient attention. “Right, young fella-me-pup,” he said. “’S time you got educated. Lesson One, Glomming Free Drinks in Bars. It’s lucky for you,” he added, “that you met me. ” Two canine shapes staggered uncertainly up the midnight street.
“We’re poor li’l lambs,” Gaspode howled, “wot have loorst our way…” “Woof! Woof! Woof!” “We’re li’l loorst sheeps wot have—wot have…” Gaspode sagged down, and scratched an ear, or at least where he vaguely thought an ear might be. His leg waved uncertainly in the air. Laddie gave him a sympathetic look. It had been an amazingly successful evening. Gaspode had always got his free drinks by simply sitting and staring intently at people until they got uncomfortable and poured him some beer in a saucer in the hope that he would drink it and go away. It was slow and tedious, but as a technique it had served him well. Whereas Laddie… Laddie did tricks. Laddie could drink out of bottles, Laddie could bark the number of fingers people held up; so could Gaspode, of course, but it had never occurred to him that such an activity could be rewarded. Laddie could home in on young women who were being taken out for the evening by a hopeful swain and lay his head on their lap and give them such a soulful look that the swain would buy him a saucer of beer and a bag of goldfish-shaped biscuits just in order to impress the prospective loved-one. Gaspode had never been able to do that, because he was too short for laps and, anyway, got nothing but disgusted screams if he tried it. He’d sat under the table in perplexed disapproval to begin with, and then in alcoholic perplexed disapproval, because Laddie was generosity itself when it came to sharing saucers of beer. Now, after they’d both been thrown out, Gaspode decided it was time for a lecture in true dogness. “You don’t want to go himblong. Umlong. Humbling yourself to ’umans,” he said. “It’s letting everyone down. We’ll never frow off the shackles of dependency on mankind if dogs like you go aroun’ bein’ glad to see people the whole time. I was person’ly disgusted when you did that Lyin’-on-your-back-and-playin’-dead routine, let me tell you. ” “Woof. ” “You’re just a running dog of the human imperialists,” said Gaspode severely. Laddie put his paws over his nose. Gaspode tried to stand up, tripped over his legs, and sat down heavily. After a while a couple of huge tears coursed down his fur. “O’course,” he said, “I never had a chance, you know. ” He managed to get back on all four feet. “I mean, look at the start I had in life. Frone inna river inna sack. An actual sack. Dear little puppy dog opens his eyes, look out in wonder at the world, style of fing, he’s in this sack. ” The tears dripped off his nose. “For two weeks I thought the brick was my mother. ” “Woof,” said Laddie, with uncomprehending sympathy. “Just my luck they threw me in the Ankh,” Gaspode went on. “Any other river, I’d have drowned and gone to doggy heaven. I heard where this big black ghostly dog comes up to you when you die an’ says, your time has gome. Cone. Come. ” Gaspode stared at nothing much. “Can’t sink in the Ankh, though,” he said thoughtfully. ‘Ver’ tough river, the Ankh. ” “Woof. ” “It shouldn’t happen to a dog,” said Gaspode. “Metaphorically. ” “Woof. ” Gaspode peered blearily at Laddie’s bright, alert and irrevocably stupid face. “You don’t understand a bloody word I’ve been saying, do you?” he muttered. “Woof! ” said Laddie, begging. “Lucky bugger,” sighed Gaspode. There was a commotion at the other end of the alley. He heard a voice say, “There he is! Here, Laddie! Here, boy!” The words dripped relief. “It’s the Man,” growled Gaspode. “You don’t have to go. ” “Good boy Laddie! Laddie good boy!” barked Laddie, trotting forward obediently, if a little unsteadily. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere!” muttered one of the trainers, raising a stick. “Don’t hit it!” said the other trainer. “You’ll ruin everything. ” He peered into the alley, and met Gaspode’s stare coming the other way. “That’s the fleabag that’s been hanging around,” he said. “It gives me the creeps. ” “Heave something at it,” suggested the other man. The trainer reached down and picked up a stone. When he stood up again the alley was empty. Drunk or sober, Gaspode had perfect reflexes in certain circumstances. “See?” the trainer said, glaring at the shadows. “It’s like it’s some kind of mind reader. ” “It’s just a mutt,” said his companion. “Don’t worry about it. Come on, get the leash on this one and let’s get him back before Mr. Dibbler finds out. ” Laddie followed them obediently back to Century of the Fruitbat, and allowed himself to be chained up to his kennel. Possibly he didn’t like the idea, but it was hard to be sure in the network of duties, obligations and vague emotional shadows that made up what, for want of a better word, had to be called his mind. He pulled experimentally on the chain once or twice, and then lay down, awaiting developments. After a while a small hoarse voice on the other side of the fence said, “I could send you a bone with a file in it, only you’d eat it. ” Laddie perked up. “Good boy Laddie! Good boy Gaspode!” “Ssh! Ssh! At least they ort to let you speak to a lawyer,” said Gaspode. “Chaining someone up’s against human rights. ” “Woof!” “Anyway, I paid ’em back. I followed the ’orrible one back to his house an’ piddled all down his front door. ” “Woof!” Gaspode sighed, and waddled away. Sometimes, in his heart of hearts, he wondered whether it wouldn’t after all be nice to belong to someone. Not just be owned by them or chained up by them, but actually belong , so that you were glad to see them and carried their slippers in your mouth and pined away when they died, etc. Laddie actually liked that kind of stuff, if you could call it “liked”; it was more like something built into his bones. Gaspode wondered darkly if this was true dogness, and growled deep in his throat. It wasn’t, if he had anything to do with it. Because true dogness wasn’t about slippers and walkies and pining for people, Gaspode was sure. Dogness was about being tough and independent and mean. Yeah. Gaspode had heard that all canines could interbreed, even back to the original wolves, so that must mean that, deep down inside, every dog was a wolf. You could make a dog out of a wolf, but you couldn’t take the wolf out of a dog. When the hardpad was acting up and the fleas were feisty and acting full of plumptiousness, it was a comforting thought. Gaspode wondered how you went about mating with a wolf, and what happened to you when you stopped. Well, that didn’t matter. What mattered was that true dogs didn’t go around going mad with pleasure just because a human said something to them. Yeah. He growled at a pile of trash and dared it to disagree. Part of the pile moved, and a feline face with a defunct fish in its mouth peered out at him. He was just about to bark half-heartedly at it, for tradition’s sake, when it spat the fish out and spoke to him. “Hallo, Gathpode. ” Gaspode relaxed. “Oh. Hallo, cat. No offense meant. Didn’t know it was you. ” “I hateth fisth,” said the cat, “but at leasth they don’t talk back. ” Another part of the trash moved and Squeak the mouse emerged. “What’re you two doin’ down here?” said Gaspode. “I thought you said it was safer on the hill. ” “Not anymore,” said the cat. “It’sh getting too shpooky. ” Gaspode frowned. “You’re a cat,” he said disapprovingly. “You ort to be right alongside the idea of spooky. ” “Yeah, but that doesh’nt exhtend to having golden sparks crackling off your fur and the ground shaking the whole time. And weird voices that you think must be happening in your own head,” said cat. “It’s becoming eldritch up there. ” “So we all came down,” said Squeak. “Mr. Thumpy and the duck are hiding out in the dunes—” Another cat dropped off the fence beside them. It was large and ginger and not blessed with Holy Wood intelligence. It stared at the sight of a mouse looking relaxed in the presence of a cat. Squeak nudged cat on the paw. “Get rid of it,” he said. Cat glared at the newcomer. “Sod off,” he said. “Go on, beat it. Gods, thish ish so humiliating. ” “Not just for you,” said Gaspode, as the new cat trotted away shaking its head.
“If some of the dogs in this town see me chatting to a cat, my street cred is going to go way down. ” “We were reckoning,” said the cat, with the occasional nervous glance toward Squeak, “that maybe we ought to give in and see if, see if, see if—” “He’s trying to say there might be a place for us in moving pictures,” said Squeak. “What do you think?” “As a double act?” said Gaspode. They nodded. “Not a chance,” he said. “Who’s going to pay good money to see cats and mice chasing one another? They’re only interested even in dogs if they jus’ pander to humans the whole time, so they certainly ain’t going to watch a cat chase a mouse. Take it from me. I know about movin’ pictures. ” “Then it’s about time your humans got it sorted out so we can go home,” snapped the mouse. “The boy isn’t doing anything. ” “He’s useless ,” said the mouse. “He’s in love,” said Gaspode. “It’s very tricky. ” “Yeah, I know how it ish,” said the cat sympathetically. “People throwing old boots and things at you. ” “Old boots?” said the mouse. “That’sh what’s always happened to me when I’ve been in love,” said Cat wistfully. “It’s different for humans,” said Gaspode uncertainly. “You don’t get so many boots and buckets of water thrown at you. It’s more, er, flowers and arguing and stuff. ” The animals looked glumly at one another. “I’ve watched ’em,” said Squeak. “She thinks he’s a idiot. ” “That’s all part of it,” added Gaspode. “They call it romance. ” Cat shrugged. “Give me a boot every time. You know where you stand, with a boot. ” The glittering spirit of Holy Wood streamed out into the world, no longer a trickle but a flood. It bubbled in the veins of people, even of animals. When the handlemen turned their handles, it was there. When the carpenters hammered their nails, they hammered for Holy Wood. Holy Wood was in Borgle’s stew, in the sand, in the air. It was growing. And it was going to flower… Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, or C. M. O. T. as he liked to be called, sat up in bed and stared at the darkness. In his head a city was on fire. He fumbled hurriedly beside his bed for the matches, managed to light the candle, and eventually located a pen. There was no paper. He specifically told everyone there ought to be some paper by his bed, in case he woke up with an idea. That’s when you got the best ideas, when you were asleep. At least there was a pen and ink… Images sleeted past his eyes. Catch them now, or let them go forever… He snatched up the pen and started to scribble on the bedsheets. A Man and A Woman Aflame With Passione in A Citie Riven by Sivil War! The pen scritched and spluttered its way across the coarse linen. Yes! Yes! This was it! He’d show ’em, with their silly plaster pyramids and penny-and-dime palaces. This was the one they’d have to look up to! When the history of Holy Wood was written this was the one they’d point to and say: That was the Moving Picture to End all Moving Pictures! Trolls! Battles! Romance! People with thin mustaches! Soldiers of fortune! And one woman’s fight to keep the—Dibbler hesitated—something-or-other she loves, we’ll think about this later, in a world gone mad! The pen jerked and tore and raced onward. Brother against brother! Women in crinoline dresses slapping people’s faces! A mighty dynasty brought low! A great city aflame! Not with passione, he made a note in the margin, but with flame. Possibly even— He bit his lip. Yeah. He’d been waiting for this! Yeah! A thousand elephants! (Later Soll Dibbler said, “Look, Uncle, the Ankh-Morpork civil war—great idea. No problem with that. Famous historical occurrence, no problem. It’s just that none of the historians mentioned seeing any elephants. ” “It was a big war,” said Dibbler defensively. “You’re bound to miss things. ” “Not a thousand elephants, I think. ” “Who’s running this studio?” “It’s just that—” “Listen,” said Dibbler. “Maybe they didn’t have a thousand elephants, but we’re going to have a thousand elephants, ’cos a thousand elephants is more real , OK?”) The sheet gradually filled up with Dibbler’s excited scrawl. He reached the bottom and continued over the woodwork of the bed. By the gods, this was the real stuff! No fiddly little battles here. They’d need just about every handleman in Holy Wood! He sat back, panting with exhilarated exhaustion. He could see it now. It was as good as made. All it needed was a title. Something with a ring to it. Something that people would remember. Something—he scratched his chin with the pen—that said that the affairs of ordinary people were so much chaff in the great storms of history. Storms, that was it. Good imagery, a storm. You got thunder. Lightning. Rain. Wind. Wind. That was it! He crawled up to the top of the sheet and, with great care, wrote: BLOWN AWAY. Victor tossed and turned in his narrow bed, trying to get to sleep. Images marched through his half-dozing mind. There were chariot races and pirate ships and things he couldn’t identify, and in the middle of it all this thing , climbing a tower. Something huge and terrible, grinning defiance at the world. And someone screaming… He sat up, drenched in sweat. After a few minutes he swung his legs out of bed and went to the window. Above the lights of the town Holy Wood Hill brooded in the first dim light of dawn. It was going to be another fine day. Holy Wood dreams surged through the streets, in great invisible golden waves. And Something came with it. Something that never, never dreamed at all. Something that never went to sleep. Ginger got out of bed and also looked toward the hill, although it is doubtful if she saw it. Moving like a sightless person in a familiar room, she padded across to the door, down the steps, and out into the tail of the night. A small dog, a cat and a mouse watched from the shadows as she moved silently down the alley and headed for the hill. “Did you see her eyes? ” said Gaspode. “Glowing,” said the cat. “Yukth!” “She’s going to the hill,” said Gaspode. “I don’t like that. ” “So what?” said Squeak. “She’s always around the hill somewhere. Goes up there every night and moons around looking dramatic. ” “What?” “Every night. We thought it was all this romance stuff. ” “But you can see by the way she’s movin’ that somethin’s not right,” said Gaspode desperately. “That’s not walkin’, that’s lurchin’. Like she’s bein’ pulled along by a inner voice, style of fing. ” “Don’t look like that to me,” said Squeak. “Walking on two legs is lurching, in my book. ” “You’ve only got to look at her face to see there’s somethin’ wrong!” “Of course there’s something wrong. She’s a human ,” said Squeak. Gaspode considered the options. There weren’t many. The obvious one was to find Victor and get him to come back here. He rejected it. It sounded too much like the silly, bouncy sort of thing that Laddie would do. It suggested that the best a dog could think of when confronted with a puzzle was to find a human to solve it. He trotted forward and gripped the trailing hem of the sleepwalker’s nightdress firmly in his jaws. She walked on, pulling him off his feet. The cat laughed, far too sarcastically for Gaspode’s liking. “Time to wake up, miss,” he growled, letting the nightdress go. Ginger strode onward. “See?” said the cat. “Give them an opposed thumb and they think they’re something shpecial. ” “I’m going to follow her,” said Gaspode. “A girl could come to harm out by herself at night. ” “That’s dogs for you,” said the cat to Squeak. “Alwaysh fawning on people. It’ll be diamante collars and a bowl with his name on it nexsht, I’m telling you. ” “If you’re lookin’to lose a mouthful of fur you’ve come to the right place, kitty,” snarled Gaspode, barring his rotting teeth again. “I don’t have to tolerate that short of thing,” said the cat, lifting its nose haughtily. “Come, Squeak. Let us hie us to a garbage heap where there ain’t sho much rubbish. ” Gaspode scowled at their departing backs. “Pussy!” he yelled after them. Then he trotted after Ginger, hating himself.
If I was a wolf, which technic’ly I am, he thought, there’d definitely be a rending of jaws and similar. Any girl wandering around by herself would be in dead trouble. I could attack, I could attack any time I liked, I’m jus’ choosing not to. One thing I’m not doin’, I’m not sort of keepin’ an eye on her. I know Victor told me to keep an eye on her, but catch me goin’ around doin’ what humans tell me. I’d like to see humans that could give me orders. Tear his froat out, jus’ like that. Hah. An’ if anything happened to her he’d go around moonin’ for days and prob’ly forget to feed me. Not that dogs like me needs humans to feed ’em, I could be out bringing down reindeers just by leaping on their backs and bitin’ their jugulars off, but it’s damn convenient getting it all on a plate. She was moving quite fast. Gaspode’s tongue hung out as he strove to keep up. His head was aching. He risked a few sideways squints to see if any other dogs were watching. If they were, he thought, he could pretend he was chasin’ her. Which was what he was doing, anyway. Yeah. The trouble was, he never had much breath at the best of times, and it was getting hard to keep pace. She ought to have the decency to slow down a bit. Ginger began to climb the lower slopes of the hill. Gaspode considered barking loudly, and then if anyone drew attention to this afterward he could always say it was to frighten her. Trouble was, he had about enough wind left for a threatening wheeze. Ginger topped a rise and went down into the little dell among the trees. Gaspode staggered after her, righted himself, opened his mouth to whimper a warning, and almost swallowed his tongue. The door had opened several inches. More sand rolled down the heap even as Gaspode watched. And he could hear voices. They didn’t seem to be speaking words but the bones of words, meaning without disguise. They hummed around his bullet head like mendicant mosquitoes, begging and cajoling and— — he was the most famous dog in the world. The knots unraveled from his coat, the frayed patches sprouted glossy curls, his fur grew on his suddenly-supple frame and withdrew from his teeth. Plates appeared in front of him not laden with the multi-colored and mysterious organs that he was normally expected to eat but with dark red steak. There was sweet water, no, there was beer in a bowl with his name on it. Tantalizing odors on the air suggested that a number of lady dogs would be happy to make his acquaintance after he had drunk and dined. Thousands of people thought he was marvelous. He had a collar with his name on it, and — No, that couldn’t be right. Not a collar. It’d be a squeaky toy next, if you dint draw the line at collars. The image collapsed in confusion, and now— — the pack bounded through the dark, snow-covered trees, falling in behind him, red mouths agape, long legs eating up the road. The fleeing humans on the sledge didn’t have a chance; one was thrown aside when a runner bounced off a branch, and lay screaming in the road as Gaspode and the wolves fell upon — No, that wasn’t right, he thought wretchedly. You dint actually eat humans. They got up your nose all right, the gods knew, but you couldn’t acktually eat ’em. A confusion of instincts threatened to short-circuit his schizophrenically doggy mind. The voices gave up their assault in disgust and turned their attention to Ginger, who was methodically trying to shift more sand. One of Gaspode’s fleas bit him sharply. It was probably dreaming of being the biggest flea in the world. His leg came up automatically to scratch it, and the spell faded. He blinked. “Bloody hell,” he whined. This is what’s happening to the humans! Wonder what they’re making her dream? The hairs rose along Gaspode’s back. You didn’t need any special mysterious animal instincts here. Perfectly generalized everyday instincts were enough to horrify him. There was something dreadful on the other side of the door. She was trying to let it out. He had to wake her up. Biting wasn’t really a good idea. His teeth weren’t that good these days. He doubted very much if barking would be any better. That left one alternative… The sand moved eerily under his paws; maybe it was dreaming of being rocks. The scrawny trees around the hollow were wrapped in sequoia fantasies. Even the air that curled around Gaspode’s bullet head moved sluggishly, although it’s anyone’s guess what the air dreams about. Gaspode trotted up to Ginger and pushed his nose against her leg. The universe contains any amount of horrible ways to be woken up, such as the noise of the mob breaking down the front door, the scream of fire engines, or the realization that today is the Monday which on Friday night was a comfortably long way off. A dog’s wet nose is not strictly speaking the worst of the bunch, but it has its own peculiar dreadfulness which connoisseurs of the ghastly and dog owners everywhere have come to know and dread. It’s like having a small piece of defrosting liver pressed lovingly against you. Ginger blinked. The glow faded from her eyes. She looked down, her expression of horror turning to astonishment and then, when she saw Gaspode leering up at her, back to a more mundane horror. “’Allo,” Gaspode said, ingratiatingly. She backed away, bringing her hands up protectively. Sand dribbled between her fingers. Her eyes flickered toward it in bewilderment, and then back to Gaspode. “Gods, that’s horrible ,” she said. “What’s going on? Why am I here? ” Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh no,” she whispered, “not again!” She stared at him for a moment, glared up at the doorway, then turned, hitched up her nightdress, and hurried back to town through the morning mists. Gaspode struggled after her, aware of anger in the air, desperately trying to put as much space as possible between the door and himself. Sunnink dreadful in there, he thought. Prob’ly tentacled fings that rips your face off. I mean, when you finds mysterious doors in old hills, stands to reason wot comes out ain’t going to be pleased to see you. Evil creatures wot Man shouldn’t wot of, and here’s one dog wot don’t want to wot of them either. Why couldn’t she… He grumbled on toward the town. Behind him the door moved the tiniest fraction of an inch. Holy Wood was awake long before Victor, and the hammering from Century of the Fruitbat echoed around the sky. Waggonloads of timber were queuing up to enter the archway. He was buffeted and pushed aside by a hurrying stream of plasterers and carpenters. Inside, crowds of workmen scurried around the arguing figures of Silverfish and C. M. O. T. Dibbler. Victor reached them just as Silverfish said, in astonished tones, “The whole city?” “You can leave out the bits around the edge,” said Dibbler. “But I want the whole of the center. The palace, the University, the Guilds—everything that makes it a real city, understand? It’s got to be right!” He was red in the face. Behind him loomed Detritus the troll, patiently holding what appeared to be a bed over his head on one massive hand, like a waiter with a tray. Dibbler had the sheets in one hand. Then Victor realized that the whole bed, not just the sheets, was covered in writing. “But the cost—” Silverfish protested. “We’ll find the money somehow,” said Dibbler calmly. Silverfish couldn’t have looked more horrified if Dibbler had worn a dress. He tried to rally. “Well, if you’re determined , Throat—” “Right!” “—I suppose, come to think of it, maybe we could amortize the cost over several clicks, maybe even hire it out afterward—” “What are you talking about?” demanded Dibbler. “We’re building it for Blown Away! ” “Yes, yes, of course,” said Silverfish soothingly. “And then afterward, we can—” “Afterward? There won’t be any afterward! Haven’t you read the script? Detritus, show him the script!” Detritus obligingly dropped the bed between them. “It’s your bed , Throat. ” “Script, bed, what’s the difference? Look…here…just above the carving…” There was a pause while Silverfish read. It was quite a long one.
Silverfish wasn’t used to reading matter that didn’t come in columns with totals at the bottom. Eventually he said, “You’re going…to…set it on fire?” “It’s historical. You can’t argue with history,” said Dibbler smugly. “The city was burned down in the civil war, everyone knows that. ” Silverfish drew himself up. “The city might have been,” he said stiffly, “but I didn’t have to find the budget for it! It’s recklessly extravagant!” “I’ll pay for it somehow,” said Dibbler, calmly. “In a word—im-possible!” “That’s two words,” said Dibbler. “There’s no way I can work on something like this,” said Silverfish, ignoring the interruption. “I’ve tried to see your point of view, haven’t I? But you’ve taken moving pictures and you’re trying to turn them into, into, into dreams. I never wanted them to be like this! Include me out!” “OK. ” Dibbler looked up at the troll. “Mr. Silverfish was just leaving,” he said. Detritus nodded, and then slowly and firmly picked up Silverfish by his collar. Silverfish went white. “You can’t get rid of me like that,” he said. “You want to bet?” “There won’t be an alchemist in Holy Wood who’ll work for you! We’ll take the handlemen with us! You’ll be finished!” “Listen! After this click the whole of Holy Wood will be coming to me for a job! Detritus, throw this bum out!” “Right you are, Mr. Dibbler,” rumbled the troll, gripping Silverfish’s collar. “You haven’t heard the last of this, you—you scheming, devious megalomaniac!” Dibbler removed his cigar. “That’s Mister Megalomaniac to you,” he said. He replaced the cigar, and nodded significantly to the troll, who gently but firmly grasped Silverfish by a leg as well. “You lay a finger on me and you’ll never work in this town again!” shouted Silverfish. “I got a job anyway, Mr. Silverfish,” said Detritus calmly, carrying Silverfish toward the gate. “I’m Vice-President of Throwing Out People Mr. Dibbler Doesn’t like the Face Of. ” “Then you’ll have to take on an assistant!” snarled Silverfish. “I got a nephew looking for a career,” said the troll. “Have a nice day. ” “Right,” said Dibbler, rubbing his hands briskly. “Soll!” Soll appeared from behind a trestle table loaded with rolled-up plans, and took a pencil out of his mouth. “Yes, Uncle?” “How long will it take?” “About four days, Uncle. ” “That’s too long. Hire more people. I want it done by tomorrow, right?” “But, Uncle—” “Or you’re sacked,” said Dibbler. Soll looked frightened. “I’m your nephew, Uncle,” he protested. “You can’t sack nephews. ” Dibbler looked around and appeared to notice Victor for the first time. “Ah, Victor. You’re good at words,” he said. “Can I sack a nephew?” “Er. I don’t think so. I think you have to disown them, or something,” said Victor lamely. “But—” “Right! Right!” said Dibbler. “Good man. I knew it was some kind of a word like that. Disown. Hear that, Soll?” “Yes, Uncle,” said Soll dispiritedly. “I’ll go and see if I can find some more carpenters, then, shall I?” “Right. ” Soll flashed Victor a look of terrified astonishment as he scurried away. Dibbler started haranguing a group of handlemen. Instructions spouted out of the man like water from a fountain. “I reckon no one’s goin’ to Ankh-Morpork this morning, then,” said a voice by Victor’s knee. “He’s certainly very, er, ambitious today,” said Victor. “Not like himself at all. ” Gaspode scratched an ear. “There was sunnink I got to tell you. What was it, now? Oh, yeah. I remember. Your girlfriend is an agent of demonic powers. That night we saw her on the hill she was prob’ly on her way to commune with evil. What d’you fink of that, eh?” He grinned. He was rather proud of the way he’d introduced the subject. “That’s nice,” said Victor abstractedly. Dibbler was certainly acting even stranger than usual. Even stranger than usual for Holy Wood, even… “Yeah,” said Gaspode, slightly annoyed at this reception. “A-cavortin’ at night with eldritchly occult Intelligences from the Other Side, I shouldn’t wonder. ” “Good,” said Victor. You didn’t normally burn things in Holy Wood. You saved them and painted on the other side. Despite himself, he began to get interested. “—a cast of thousands,” Dibbler was saying. “I don’t care where you get them from, we’ll hire everyone in Holy Wood if we have to, right? And I want—” “A-helpin’ them in their evil attempts to take over the whole world, if I’m any judge,” said Gaspode. “Does she?” said Victor. Dibbler was talking to a couple of apprentice alchemists now. What was that. A twenty -reeler? But no one had ever dreamed of going above five! “Yeah, a-diggin’ away to rouse them from their ancient slumber to reek havoc, style of fing,” said Gaspode. “Prob’ly aided by cats, you mark my—” “Look, just shut up a minute, will you?” said Victor, irritably. “I’m trying to hear what they’re saying. ” “Well, ’scuse me. I was jus’ tryin’ to save the world,” muttered Gaspode. “If gharstely creatures from Before the Dawna Time starts wavin’ at you from under your bed, jus’ you don’t come complainin’ to me. ” “What are you going on about?” said Victor. “Oh, nothin’. Nothin’. ” Dibbler looked up, caught sight of Victor’s craning face, and waved at it. “You, lad! Come here! Have I got a part for you!” “Have you?” said Victor, pushing his way through the crowd. “That’s what I said!” “No, you asked if—” Victor began, and gave up. “And where’s Miss Ginger, may I ask?” said Dibbler. “Late again?” “…prob’ly sleepin’in…” grumbled a sullen and totally ignored voice from down below in the sea of legs, “…prob’ly takes it out of you, messin’ with the occult…” “Soll, send someone to fetch her here—” “Yes, Uncle. ” “…wot can you expect, huh, people who like cats’re capable of anythin’, you can’t trust ’em…” “And find someone to transcribe the bed. ” “Yes, Uncle. ” “…but do they listen! Not them. Bet if I had a glossy coat an’ ran aroun’ yappin’ they’d listen all right…” Dibbler opened his mouth to speak, and then frowned and raised a hand. “Where’s that muttering coming from?” he said. “…prob’ly saved the whole world for ’em, by rights I’d get a statchoo put up to me nose but no, oh no, not for you Mr. Gaspode, on account of you not bein’ the right kinda person, so…” The whine stopped. The crowd shuffled aside, revealing a small bow-legged gray dog, which looked up impassively at Dibbler. “Bark?” it said, innocently. Events always moved fast in Holy Wood, but the work on Blown Away sped forward like a comet. The other Fruitbat clicks were halted. So were most of the others in the town, because Dibbler was hiring actors and handlemen at twice what anyone else would pay. And a sort of Ankh-Morpork rose among the dunes. It would have been cheaper, Soll complained, to have risked the wrath of the wizards, sneaked some filming in Ankh-Morpork itself, and then slipped someone a fistful of dollars to put a match to the place. Dibbler disagreed. “Apart from anything else,” he declared, “it wouldn’t look right. ” “But it’s the real Ankh-Morpork, Uncle,” said Soll. “It’s got to look exactly right. How can it not look right?” “Ankh-Morpork doesn’t look all that genuine, you know,” said Dibbler thoughtfully. “Of course it’s bloody genuine!” snapped Soll, the bonds of kinship stretching to snapping point. “It’s really there! It’s really itself! You can’t make it any more genuine! It’s as genuine as it can get!” Dibbler took his cigar out of his mouth. “No, it isn’t,” he said. “You’ll see. ” Ginger turned up around lunchtime, looking so pale that even Dibbler didn’t shout at her. She kept glaring at Gaspode, who tried to stay out of her way. Dibbler was preoccupied, anyway. He was in his office, explaining The Plot. It was basically quite simple, running on the familiar lines of Boy Meets Girl, Girl Meets Another Boy, Boy Loses Girl, except that on this occasion there was a civil war in the middle of it… The origins of the Ankh-Morpork Civil War (8:32 p. m. , Grune 3,432—10:45 a. m. , Grune 4,432) have always been a subject of heated debate among historians. There are two main theories: 1.
The common people, having been heavily taxed by a particularly stupid and unpleasant king, decided that enough was enough and that it was time to do away with the outmoded concept of monarchy and replace it with, as it turned out, a series of despotic overlords who still taxed heavily but at least had the decency not to pretend the gods had given them the right to do it, which made everyone feel a bit better OR 2. One of the players in a game of Cripple Mr. Onion in a tavern had accused another of palming more than the usual number of aces, and knives had been drawn, and then someone had hit someone with a bench, and then someone else had stabbed someone, and arrows started to fly, and someone had swung on the chandelier, and a carelessly-hurled axe had hit someone in the street, and then the Watch had been called in, and someone had set fire to the place, and someone had hit a lot of people with a table, and then everyone lost their tempers and commenced to start fighting. Anyway, it all caused a civil war, which is something every mature civilization needs to have had… 20 “The way I see it,” said Dibbler, “there’s this high-born girl living all by herself in this big house, right, and her young man goes off to fight for the rebels, you see, and she meets this other guy, and there’s the chemistry between them—” “They blow up?” said Victor. “He means they fall in love,” said Ginger coldly. “That sort of thing,” nodded Dibbler. “Eyes meeting across a crowded room. And she’s all alone in the world except for the servants and, let’s see, yeah, perhaps her pet dog—” “This’ll be Laddie?” said Ginger. “Right. And of course she’s going to do everything she can to preserve the family mine, so she’s kind of flirting with ’em both, the men, not the dog, and then one of them gets killed in the war and the other one throws her over but it’s all OK because she’s tough at heart. ” He sat back. “What d’you think?” he said. The people sitting around the room looked uneasily at one another. There was a fidgety silence. “It sounds great, Uncle,” said Soll, who wasn’t looking for any more problems today. “Technically very challenging,” said Gaffer. There was a chorus of relieved assent from the rest of the team. “I don’t know,” said Victor slowly. Everyone else’s eyes turned on him in the same way that spectators at the lion pit watch the first condemned criminal to be pushed out through the iron gate. He went on: “I mean, is that all? It doesn’t sound, well, very complicated for such a long click. People sort of falling in love while a civil war is going on in the background…I don’t see how you can make much of a picture out of that. ” There was another troubled silence. A couple of people near Victor moved away. Dibbler was staring at him. Victor could hear, coming from under his chair, an almost inaudible little voice. “… oh , of course, there’s always a part for Laddie…wot’s he got that I haven’t got, that’s wot I’d like to …” Dibbler was still staring fixedly at Victor. Then he said, “You’re right. You’re right. Victor’s right. Why didn’t anyone else spot it?” “That’s just what I was thinking, Uncle,” said Soll hurriedly. “We need to flesh it out a bit. ” Dibbler waved his cigar vaguely. “We can think up some more stuff as we go, no problem. Like…like…how about a chariot race? People always like a chariot race. It’s gripping. Will he fall out, will the wheels come off? Yeah. A chariot race. ” “I’ve, er, been reading a bit about the Civil War,” said Soll cautiously, “and I don’t think there’s any mention of—” “Of there not being chariot races, am I right?” said Dibbler, in soapy tones containing the razor blade of menace. Soll sagged. “Since you put it like that, Uncle,” he said, “you’re right. ” “And…” Dibbler stared reflectively, “…we could try…a great big shark?” Even Dibbler sounded slightly surprised at his own suggestion. Soll looked hopefully at Victor. “I’m almost certain sharks didn’t fight in the Civil War,” said Victor. “You sure?” “I’m sure people would have noticed,” said Victor. “They’d have got trampled by the elephants,” muttered Soll. “Yeah,” said Dibbler, sadly. “It was just a thought. Don’t know why I said it, really. ” He stared at nothing for a while, and then shook his head briskly. A shark, Victor thought. All the little golden fishes of your own thoughts are swimming away happily, and then the water moves and this great shark of a thought comes in from outside. As if someone’s doing our thinking for us. “You just don’t know how to behave,” Victor told Gaspode, when they were alone. “I could hear you grumbling under the chair the whole time. ” “I might not know how to behave, but at least I don’t go mooning around over some girl who’s letting dretful Creatures of the Night into the world,” said Gaspode. “I should hope not,” said Victor, and then, “What do you mean?” “Aha! Now he listens! Your girlfriend—” “She’s not my girlfriend!” “ Would-be girlfriend,” said Gaspode, “is goin’ out every night and tryin’ to open that door in the hill. She tried it again last night, after you’d gone. I saw her. I stopped her,” he added, defiantly. “Not that I expect any credit, of course. There’s some dretful in there, an’ she’s lettin’ it out. No wonder she’s always late and tired in the mornings, what with spendin’ the whole night diggin’. ” “How do you know they’re dreadful?” said Victor weakly. “Put it like this,” said Gaspode. “If something’s shoved in a cave under a hill behind great big doors, it’s not ’cos people want it to come out every night to wash the dishes, is it? ’Corse,” he added charitably, “I’m not sayin’ she knows she’s doing it. Prob’ly they’ve got a grip of her weak an’ feeble cat-lovin’ female mind and are twisting it to their evil will. ” “You do talk a lot of crap sometimes,” said Victor, but he didn’t sound very convincing even to himself. “Ask her, then,” said the dog, smugly. “I will!” “Right!” Exactly how, though? thought Victor, as they trudged out into the sunshine. Excuse me, miss, my dog says that you…no. I say, Ginger, I understand that you’re going out and…no. Hey, Ginj, how come my dog saw…no. Perhaps he should just start up a conversation and wait until it got around naturally to monstrosities from Beyond the Void. But it would have to wait, because of the row that was going on. It was over the third major part in Blown Away. Victor was of course the dashing but dangerous hero, Ginger was the only possible choice for the female lead, but the second male role—the dull but dutiful one—was causing trouble. Victor had never seen anyone stamp their foot in anger before. He’d always thought it was something they did only in books. But Ginger was doing it. “Because I’d look an idiot, that’s why!” she was saying. Soll, who was by now feeling like a lightning rod on a stormy day, waved his hand frantically. “But he’s ideal for the role!” he said. “It calls for a solid character—” “Solid? Of course he’s solid! He’s made of stone! ” shouted Ginger. “He might have a suit of chain mail and a false mustache but he’s still a troll!” Rock, looming monolithically over the pair of them, cleared his throat noisily. “Excuse me,” he said, “I hope we’re not going to get elementalist about this?” Now it was Ginger’s turn to wave her hands. “I like trolls,” she said. “As trolls, that is. But you can’t seriously mean me to do a romantic scene with a, a, a cliff face. ” “Now look here,” said Rock, his voice winding up like a pitcher’s arm. “What you’re saying is, is OK for trolls to be shown bashing people with clubs, is not OK to show trolls have finer feelings like squashy humans?” “She’s not saying that at all,” said Soll desperately. “She’s not—” “If you cut me, do I not bleed?” said Rock. “No, you don’t,” said Soll, “but—” “Ah, yes, but I would. If I had blood, I’d bleed all over the place. ” “And another thing,” said a dwarf, prodding Soll in the knee. “It says in the script that she owns a mine full of happy, laughing, singing dwarfs, right?” “Oh, yes,” said Soll, putting the troll problem on one side.

Subsets and Splits

No community queries yet

The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.