“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, armor and leathers so stained as to be unrecognizable, 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]
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.