“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 armor 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 harbor. 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 neighbors. 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 armor 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.