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, traveling 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]
“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 traveled 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 judgment 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 organize 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 honor, 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 harbor 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 that-
Brutha would never have dared to think of himself as a prophet, but he had a shrewd idea of the outcome of any interview that began in this way.
Many people assumed that Brutha was an idiot. He looked like one, from his round open face to his 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.