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 light-
“No! ”
“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.