Small Gods - Terry Pratchett [72]
“Hmm,” he said.
“It’s all very well, but it’s not philosophy,” said Didactylos.
“Where’s the priest?”
“I’m here, but I’m not a—”
“How’re you feeling? You went out like a candle back there.”
“I’m…better now.”
“One minute upright, next minute a draft-excluder.”
“I’m much better.”
“Happen a lot, does it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Remembering the scrolls okay?”
“I…think so. Who set fire to the Library?”
Urn looked up from the mechanism.
“He did,” he said.
Brutha stared at Didactylos.
“You set fire to your own Library?”
“I’m the only one qualified,” said the philosopher. “Besides, it keeps it out of the way of Vorbis.”
“What?”
“Suppose he’d read the scrolls? He’s bad enough as it is. He’d be a lot worse with all that knowledge inside him.”
“He wouldn’t have read them,” said Brutha.
“Oh, he would. I know that type,” said Didactylos. “All holy piety in public, and all peeled grapes and self-indulgence in private.”
“Not Vorbis,” said Brutha, with absolute certainty. “He wouldn’t have read them.”
“Well, anyway,” said Didactylos, “if it had to be done, I did it.”
Urn turned away from the bow of the boat, where he was feeding more wood into the brazier under the globe.
“Can we all get on board?” he said.
Brutha eased his way on a rough bench seat amid-ships, or whatever it was called. The air smelled of hot water.
“Right,” said Urn. He pulled a lever. The spinning paddles hit the water; there was a jerk and then, steam hanging in the air behind it, the boat moved forward.
“What’s the name of this vessel?” said Didactylos.
Urn looked surprised.
“Name?” he said. “It’s a boat. A thing, of the nature of things. It doesn’t need a name.”
“Names are more philosophical,” said Didactylos, with a trace of sulkiness. “And you should have broken an amphora of wine over it.”
“That would have been a waste.”
The boat chugged out of the boathouse and into the dark harbor. Away to one side, an Ephebian galley was on fire. The whole of the city was a patchwork of flame.
“But you’ve got an amphora on board?” said Didactylos.
“Yes.”
“Pass it over, then.”
White water trailed behind the boat. The paddles churned.
“No wind. No rowers!” said Simony. “Do you even begin to understand what you have here, Urn?”
“Absolutely. The operating principles are amazingly simple,” said Urn.
“That wasn’t what I meant. I meant the things you could do with this power!”
Urn pushed another log on the fire.
“It’s just the transforming of heat into work,” he said. “I suppose…oh, the pumping of water. Mills that can grind even when the wind isn’t blowing. That sort of thing? Is that what you had in mind?”
Simony the soldier hesitated.
“Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.”
Brutha whispered, “Om?”
“Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
“It smells like a soldier’s knapsack in here. Get me out.”
The copper ball spun madly over the fire. It gleamed almost as brightly as Simony’s eyes.
Brutha tapped him on the shoulder.
“Can I have my tortoise?”
Simony laughed bitterly.
“There’s good eating on one of these things,” he said, fishing out Om.
“Everyone says so,” said Brutha. He lowered his voice to a whisper.
“What sort of place is Ankh?”
“A city of a million souls,” said the voice of Om, “many of them occupying bodies. And a thousand religions. There’s even a temple to the small gods! Sounds like a place where people don’t have trouble believing things. Not a bad place for a fresh start, I think. With my brains and your…with my brains, we should soon be in business again.”
“You don’t want to go back to Omnia?”
“No point,” said the voice of Om. “It’s always possible to overthrow an established god. People get fed up, they want a change. But you can’t overthrow yourself, can you?”
“Who’re you talking to, priest?” said Simony.
“I…er…was praying.”
“Hah! To Om? You might as well pray to that tortoise.”
“Yes.”
“I am ashamed for Omnia,” said Simony. “Look at us. Stuck in the past. Held back by repressive monotheism. Shunned by our neighbors. What