Small Gods - Terry Pratchett [68]
JUDGMENT IS AT THE END OF THE DESERT.
Ichlos tried to smile.
“My mum told me about this,” he said. “When you’re dead, you have to walk a desert. And you see everything properly, she said. And remember everything right.”
Death studiously did nothing to indicate his feelings either way.
“Might meet a few friends on the way, eh?” said the soldier.
POSSIBLY.
Ichlos set out. On the whole, he thought, it could have been worse.
Urn clambered across the shelves like a monkey, pulling books out of their racks and throwing them down to the floor.
“I can carry about twenty,” he said. “But which twenty?”
“Always wanted to do that,” murmured Didactylos happily. “Upholding truth in the face of tyranny and so on. Hah! One man, unafraid of the—”
“What to take? What to take?” shouted Urn.
“We don’t need Grido’s Mechanics,” said Didactylos. “Hey, I wish I could have seen the look on his face! Damn good shot, considering. I just hope someone wrote down what I—”
“Principles of gearing! Theory of water expansion!” shouted Urn. “But we don’t need Ibid’s Civics or Gnomon’s Ectopia, that’s for sure—”
“What? They belong to all mankind!” snapped Didactylos.
“Then if all mankind will come and help us carry them, that’s fine,” said Urn. “But if it’s just the two of us, I prefer to carry something useful.”
“Useful? Books on mechanisms?”
“Yes! They can show people how to live better!”
“And these show people how to be people,” said Didactylos. “Which reminds me. Find me another lantern. I feel quite blind without one—”
The Library door shook to a thunderous knocking. It wasn’t the knocking of people who expected the door to be opened.
“We could throw some of the others into the—”
The hinges leapt out of the walls. The door thudded down.
Soldiers scrambled over it, swords drawn.
“Ah, gentlemen,” said Didactylos. “Pray don’t disturb my circles.”
The corporal in charge looked at him blankly, and then down at the floor.
“What circles?” he said.
“Hey, how about giving me a pair of compasses and coming back in, say, half an hour?”
“Leave him, corporal,” said Brutha.
He stepped over the door.
“I said leave him.”
“But I got orders to—”
“Are you deaf? If you are, the Quisition can cure that,” said Brutha, astonished at the steadiness of his own voice.
“You don’t belong to the Quisition,” said the corporal.
“No. But I know a man who does,” said Brutha. “You are to search the palace for books. Leave him with me. He’s an old man. What harm can he do?”
The corporal looked hesitantly from Brutha to his prisoners.
“Very good, corporal. I will take over.”
They all turned.
“Did you hear me?” said Sergeant Simony, pushing his way forward.
“But the deacon told us—”
“Corporal?”
“Yes, sergeant?”
“The deacon is far away. I am right here.”
“Yes, sergeant.”
“Go!”
“Yes, sergeant.”
Simony cocked an ear as the soldiers marched away.
Then he stuck his sword in the door and turned to Didactylos. He made a fist with his left hand and brought his right hand down on it, palm extended.
“The Turtle Moves,” he said.
“That all depends,” said the philosopher, cautiously.
“I mean I am…a friend,” he said.
“Why should we trust you?” said Urn.
“Because you haven’t got any choice,” said Sergeant Simony briskly.
“Can you get us out of here?” said Brutha.
Simony glared at him. “You?” he said. “Why should I get you out of here? You’re an inquisitor!” He grasped his sword.
Brutha backed away.
“I’m not!”
“On the ship, when the captain sounded you, you just said nothing,” said Simony. “You’re not one of us.”
“I don’t think I’m one of them, either,” said Brutha. “I’m one of mine.”
He gave Didactylos an imploring look, which was a wasted effort, and turned it towards Urn instead.
“I don’t know about this soldier,” he said. “All I know is that Vorbis means to have you killed and he will burn your Library. But I can help. I worked it out on the way here.”
“And don’t listen to him,” said Simony. He dropped on one knee in front of Didactylos, like a supplicant. “Sir, there are…some of us…who know your book for what it is…see,