Small Gods - Terry Pratchett [4]
The third thing the people noticed about Vorbis was his height. He was well over six feet tall, but stick-thin, like a normal proportioned person modeled in clay by a child and then rolled out.
The second thing that people noticed about Vorbis was his eyes. His ancestors had come from one of the deep desert tribes that had evolved the peculiar trait of having dark eyes—not just dark of pupil, but almost black of eyeball. It made it very hard to tell where he was looking. It was as if he had sunglasses on under his skin.
But the first thing they noticed was his skull.
Deacon Vorbis was bald by design. Most of the Church’s ministers, as soon as they were ordained, cultivated long hair and beards that you could lose a goat in. But Vorbis shaved all over. He gleamed. And lack of hair seemed to add to his power. He didn’t menace. He never threatened. He just gave everyone the feeling that his personal space radiated several meters from his body, and that anyone approaching Vorbis was intruding on something important. Superiors fifty years his senior felt apologetic about interrupting whatever it was he was thinking about.
It was almost impossible to know what he was thinking about and no one ever asked. The most obvious reason for this was that Vorbis was the head of the Quisition, whose job it was to do all those things that needed to be done and which other people would rather not do.
You do not ask people like that what they are thinking about in case they turn around very slowly and say “You.”
The highest post that could be held in the Quisition was that of deacon, a rule instituted hundreds of years ago to prevent this branch of the Church becoming too big for its boots.* But with a mind like his, everyone said, he could easily be an archpriest by now, or even an Iam.
Vorbis didn’t worry about that kind of trivia. Vorbis knew his destiny. Hadn’t the God himself told him?
“There,” said Brother Nhumrod, patting Brutha on the shoulder. “I’m sure you will see things clearer now.”
Brutha felt that a specific reply was expected.
“Yes, master,” he said. “I’m sure I shall.”
“—shall. It is your holy duty to resist the voices at all times,” said Nhumrod, still patting.
“Yes, master. I will. Especially if they tell me to do any of the things you mentioned.”
“—mentioned. Good. Good. And if you hear them again, what will you do? Mmm?”
“Come and tell you,” said Brutha, dutifully.
“—tell you. Good. Good. That’s what I like to hear,” said Nhumrod. “That’s what I tell all my boys. Remember that I’m always here to deal with any little problems that may be bothering you.”
“Yes, master. Shall I go back to the garden now?”
“—now. I think so. I think so. And no more voices, d’you hear?” Nhumrod waved a finger of his nonpatting hand. A cheek puckered.
“Yes, master.”
“What were you doing in the garden?”
“Hoeing the melons, master,” said Brutha.
“Melons? Ah. Melons,” said Nhumrod slowly.
“Melons. Melons. Well, that goes some way toward explaining things, of course.”
An eyelid flickered madly.
It wasn’t just the Great God that spoke to Vorbis, in the confines of his head. Everyone spoke to an exquisitor, sooner or later. It was just a matter of stamina.
Vorbis didn’t often go down to watch the inquisitors at work these days. Exquisitors didn’t have to. He sent down instructions, he received reports. But special circumstances merited his special attention.
It has to be said…there was little to laugh at in the cellar of the Quisition. Not if you had a normal sense of humor. There were no jolly little signs saying: You Don’t Have To Be Pitilessly Sadistic To Work Here But It Helps!!!
But there were things to suggest to a thinking man that the Creator of mankind had a very oblique sense of fun indeed, and to breed in his heart a rage to storm the gates of heaven.
The mugs, for example. The inquisitors stopped work twice a day for coffee. Their