Small Gods - Terry Pratchett [31]
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 around its hump.
“Good morning, brother,” said Brutha.
“Bugger off,” said the man without looking around.
“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 half-hidden 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 I, 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 traveling 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