“That woman there appears to be holding a penguin,” said Vorbis.
“Patina, Goddess of Wisdom,” said Brutha automatically, and then realized he’d said it.
“I, er, heard someone mention it,” he added.
“Indeed. And what remarkably good hearing you must have,” said Vorbis.
Aristocrates paused outside an impressive doorway and nodded at the party.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “the Tyrant will see you now.”
“You will recall everything that is said,” whispered Vorbis.
Brutha nodded.
The doors swung open.
All over the world there were rulers with titles like the Exalted, the Supreme, and Lord High Something or Other. Only in one small country was the ruler elected by the people, who could remove him whenever they wanted—and they called him the Tyrant.
The Ephebians believed that every man should have the vote.* Every five years someone was elected to be Tyrant, provided he could prove that he was honest, intelligent, sensible, and trustworthy. Immediately after he was elected, of course, it was obvious to everyone that he was a criminal madman and totally out of touch with the view of the ordinary philosopher in the street looking for a towel. And then five years later they elected another one just like him, and really it was amazing how intelligent people kept on making the same mistakes.
Candidates for the Tyrantship were elected by the placing of black or white balls in various urns, thus giving rise to a well-known comment about politics.
The Tyrant was a fat little man with skinny legs, giving people the impression of an egg that was hatching upside down. He was sitting alone in the middle of the marble floor, in a chair surrounded by scrolls and scraps of paper. His feet didn’t touch the marble, and his face was pink.
Aristocrates whispered something in his ear. The Tyrant looked up from his paperwork.
“Ah, the Omnian delegation,” he said, and a smile flashed across his face like something small darting across a stone. “Do be seated, all of you.”
He looked down again.
“I am Deacon Vorbis of the Citadel Quisition,” said Vorbis coldly.
The Tyrant looked up and gave him another lizard smile.
“Yes, I know,” he said. “You torture people for a living. Please be seated, Deacon Vorbis. And your plump young friend who seems to be looking for something. And the rest of you. Some young women will be along in a moment with grapes and things. This generally happens. It’s very hard to stop it, in fact.”
There were benches in front of the Tyrant’s chair. The Omnians sat down. Vorbis remained standing.
The Tyrant nodded. “As you wish,” he said.
“This is intolerable!” snapped Vorbis. “We have been treated—”
“Much better than you would have treated us,” said the Tyrant mildly. “You sit or you stand, my lord, because this is Ephebe and indeed you may stand on your head for all I care, but don’t expect me to believe that if it was I, seeking peace in your Citadel, I would be encouraged to do anything but grovel on what was left of my stomach. Be seated or be upstanding, my lord, but be quiet. I have nearly finished.”
“Finished what?” said Vorbis.
“The peace treaty,” said the Tyrant.
“But that is what we are here to discuss,” said Vorbis.
“No,” said the Tyrant. The lizard scuttled again: “That is what you are here to sign.”
Om took a deep breath and then pushed himself forward.
It was quite a steep flight of steps. He felt every one as he bumped down, but at least he was upright at the bottom.
He was lost, but being lost in Ephebe was preferable to being lost in the Citadel. At least there were no obvious cellars.
Library, library, library…
There was a library in the Citadel, Brutha had said. He’d described it, so Om had some idea of what he was looking for.
There would be a book in it.
Peace negotiations were not going well.
“You attacked us!” said Vorbis.
“I would call it preemptive defense,” said the Tyrant. “We saw what happened to Istanzia and Betrek and Ushistan.”
“They saw the truth of Om!”
“Yes,” said the Tyrant. “We believe they did, eventually.”
“And they are now proud members of the Empire.”
“Yes,” said the Tyrant. “We believe they are. But we like to remember them as they were. Before you sent them your letters, that put the minds of men in chains.”
“That set the feet of men on the right road,” said Vorbis.
“Chain letters,” said the Tyrant. “The Chain Letter to the Ephebians. Forget Your Gods. Be Subjugated. Learn to Fear. Do not break the chain—the last people who did woke up one morning to find fifty thousand armed men on their lawn.”
Vorbis sat back.
“What is it you fear?” he said. “Here in your desert, with your…gods? Is it not that, deep in your souls, you know that your gods are as shifting as your sand?”
“Oh, yes,” said the Tyrant. “We know that. That’s always been a point in their favor. We know about sand. And your God is a rock—and we know about rock.”
Om stumped along a cobbled alley, keeping to the shade as much as possible.
There seemed to be a lot of courtyards. He paused at the point where the alley opened into yet another of them.
There were voices. Mainly there was one voice, petulant and reedy.
This was the philosopher Didactylos.
Although one of the most quoted and popular philosophers of all time, Didactylos the Ephebian never achieved the respect of his fellow philosophers. They felt he wasn’t philosopher material. He didn’t bathe often enough or, to put it another way, at all. And he philosophized about the wrong sorts of things. And he was interested in the wrong sorts of things. Dangerous things. Other philosophers asked questions like: Is Truth Beauty, and is Beauty Truth? and: Is Reality Created by the Observer? But Didactylos posed the famous philosophical conundrum: “Yes, But What’s It Really All About, Then, When You Get Right Down To It, I Mean Really!”
His philosophy was a mixture of three famous schools—the Cynics, the Stoics, and the Epicureans—and summed up all three of them in his famous phrase, “You can’t trust any bugger further than you can throw him, and there’s nothing you can do about it, so let’s have a drink. Mine’s a double, if you’re buying. Thank you. And a packet of nuts. Her left bosom is nearly uncovered, eh? Two more packets, then!”
Many people have quoted from his famous Meditations:
“It’s a rum old world all right. But you’ve got to laugh, haven’t you? Nil Illegitimo Carborundum is what I say. The experts don’t know everything. Still, where would we be if we were all the same?”
Om crawled closer to the voice, bringing himself around the corner of the wall so that he could see into a small courtyard.
There was a very large barrel against the far wall. Various debris around it—broken wine amphorae, gnawed bones, and a couple of lean-to shacks made out of rough boards—suggested that it was someone’s home. And this impression was given some weight by the sign chalked on a board and stuck to the wall over the barrel.
It read:
DIDACTYLOS and Nephew
Practical Philosophers
No Proposition Too Large
“We Can Do Your Thinking For You”
Special Rates after 6 pm
Fresh Axioms Every Day
In front of the barrel, a short man in a toga that must have once been white, in the same way that once all continents must have been joined together, was kicking another one who was on the ground.
“You lazy bugger!”
The younger one sat up.
“Honest, Uncle—”
“I turn my back for half an hour and you go to sleep on the job!”
“What job? We haven’t had anything since Mr. Piloxi the farmer last week—”
“
How d’you know? How d’you know? While you were snoring dozens of people could’ve been goin’ past, every one of ’em in need of a pers’nal philosophy!”
“—and he only paid in olives.”
“I shall prob’ly get a good price for them olives!”
“They’re rotten, Uncle.”
“Nonsense! You said they were green!”
“Yes, but they’re supposed to be black.”
In the shadows, the tortoise’s head turned back and forth like a spectator’s at a tennis match.
The young man stood up.
“Mrs. Bylaxis came in this morning,” he said. “She said the proverb you did for her last week has stopped working.”
Didactylos scratched his head.
“Which one was that?” he said.
“You gave her ‘It’s always darkest before dawn.’”
“Nothing wrong with that. Damn good philosophy.”
“She said she didn’t feel any better. Anyway, she said she’d stayed up all night because of her bad leg and it was actually quite light just before dawn, so it wasn’t true. And her leg still dropped off. So I gave her part exchange on ‘Still, it does you good to laugh.’”
Didactylos brightened up a bit.
“Shifted that one, eh?”
“She said she’d give it a try. She gave me a whole dried squid for it. She said I looked like I needed feeding up.”
“Right? You’re learning. That’s lunch sorted out at any rate. See, Urn? Told you it would work if we stuck at it.”
“I don’t call one dried squid and a box of greasy olives much of a return, master. Not for two weeks’ thinking.”
“We got three obols for doing that proverb for old Grillos the cobbler.”
“No we didn’t. He brought it back. His wife didn’t like the color.”
“And you gave him his money back?”
“Yes.”
“What, all of it?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t do that. Not after he’s put wear and tear on the words. Which one was it?”
“‘It’s a wise crow that knows which way the camel points.’”
“I put a lot of work in on that one.”
“He said he couldn’t understand it.”
“I don’t understand cobbling, but I know a good pair of sandals when I wears ’em.”
Om blinked his one eye. Then he looked at the shapes of the minds in front of him.
The one called Urn was presumably the nephew, and had a fairly normal sort of mind, even if it did seem to have too many circles and angles in it. But Didactylos’s mind bubbled and flashed like a potful of electric eels on full boil. Om had never seen anything like it. Brutha’s thoughts took eons to slide into place, it was like watching mountains colliding; Didactylos’s thoughts chased after one another with a whooshing noise. No wonder he was bald. Hair would have burned off from the inside.
Om had found a thinker.
A cheap one, too, by the sound of it.
He looked up at the wall behind the barrel. Further along was an impressive set of marble steps leading up to some bronze doors, and over the doors, made of metal letters set in the stone, was the word LIBRVM.
He’d spent too much time looking. Urn’s hand clamped itself on to his shell, and he heard Didactylos’s voice say, “Hey…there’s good eating on one of these things…”
Brutha cowered.
“You stoned our envoy!” shouted Vorbis. “An unarmed man!”
“He brought it upon himself,” said the Tyrant. “Aristocrates was there. He will tell you.”
The tall man nodded and stood up.
“By tradition anyone may speak in the marketplace,” he began.
“And be stoned?” Vorbis demanded.
Aristocrates held up a hand.
“Ah,” he said, “anyone can say what they like in the square. We have another tradition, though, called free listening. Unfortunately, when people dislike what they hear, they can become a little…testy.”
“I was there too,” said another advisor. “Your priest got up to speak and at first everything was fine, because people were laughing. And then he said that Om was the only real God, and everyone went quiet. And then he pushed over a statue of Tuvelpit, the God of Wine. That’s when the trouble started.”
“Are you proposing to tell me he was struck by lightning?” said Vorbis.
Vorbis was no longer shouting. His voice was level, without passion. The thought rose in Brutha’s mind: this is how the exquisitors speak. When the inquisitors have finished, the exquisitors speak…
“No. By an amphora. Tuvelpit was in the crowd, you see.”
“And striking honest men is considered proper godly behavior, is it?”
“Your missionary had said that people who did not believe in Om would suffer endless punishment. I have to tell you that the crowd considered this rude.”
“And so they threw stones at him…”
“Not many. They only hurt his pride. And only after they’d run out of vegetables.”
“They threw vegetables?”
“When they couldn’t find any more eggs.”
“And when we came to remonstrate—”
“I am sure sixty ships intended more than remonstrating,” said the Tyrant. “And we have warned you, Lord Vorbis. People find in Ephebe what they seek. There will be more raids on your coast. We will harass your ships. Unless you sign.”
“And passage through Ephebe?” said Vorbis.
The Tyrant smiled.
“Across the desert? My lord, if you can cross the desert, I am sure you can go anywhere.” The Tyrant looked away from Vorbis and towards the sky, visible between the pillars.
“And now I see it is nearing noon,” he said. “And the day heats up. Doubtless you will wish to discuss our…uh…proposals with your colleagues. May I suggest we meet again at sunset?”
Vorbis appeared to give this some consideration.
“I think,” he said eventually, “that our deliberations may take longer. Shall we say…tomorrow morning?”
The Tyrant nodded.
“As you wish. In the meantime, the palace is at your disposal. There are many fine temples and works of art should you wish to inspect them. When you require meals, mention the fact to the nearest slave.”
“Slave is an Ephebian word. In Om we have no word for slave,” said Vorbis.
“So I understand,” said the Tyrant. “I imagine that fish have no word for water.” He smiled the fleeting smile again. “And there are the baths and the Library, of course. Many fine sights. You are our guests.”
Vorbis inclined his head.
“I pray,” he said, “that one day you will be a guest of mine.”
“And what sights I shall see,” said the Tyrant.
Brutha stood up, knocking over his bench and going redder with embarrassment.
He thought: they lied about Brother Murduck. They beat him within an inch of his life, Vorbis said, and flogged him the rest of the way. And Brother Nhumrod said he saw the body, and it was really true. Just for talking! People who would do that sort of thing deserve…punishment. And they keep slaves. People forced to work against their will. People treated like animals. And they even call their ruler a Tyrant!
And why isn’t any of this exactly what it seems?
Why don’t I believe any of it?
Why do I know it isn’t true?
And what did he mean about fish not having a word for water?
The Omnians were half-escorted, half-led back to their compound. Another bowl of fruit was waiting on the table in Brutha’s cell, with some more fish and a loaf of bread.
There was also a man, sweeping the floor.
“Um,” said Brutha. “Are you a slave?”
“Yes, master.”
“That must be terrible.”
The man leaned on his broom. “You’re right. It’s terrible. Really terrible. D’you know, I only get one day off a week?”
Brut
ha, who had never heard the words “day off” before, and who was in any case unfamiliar with the concept, nodded uncertainly.
“Why don’t you run away?” he said.
“Oh, done that,” said the slave. “Ran away to Tsort once. Didn’t like it much. Came back. Run away for a fortnight in Djelibeybi every winter, though.”
“Do you get brought back?” said Brutha.
“Huh!” said the slave. “No, I don’t. Miserable skin-flint, Aristocrates. I have to come back by myself. Hitching lifts on ships, that kind of thing.”
“You come back?”
“Yeah. Abroad’s all right to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there. Anyway, I’ve only got another four years as a slave and then I’m free. You get the vote when you’re free. And you get to keep slaves.” His face glazed with the effort of recollection as he ticked off points on his fingers. “Slaves get three meals a day, at least one with meat. And one free day a week. And two weeks being-allowed-to-run-away every year. And I don’t do ovens or heavy lifting, and worldly-wise repartee only by arrangement.”
“Yes, but you’re not free,” said Brutha, intrigued despite himself.
“What’s the difference?”
“Er…you don’t get any days off.” Brutha scratched his head. “And one less meal.”
“Really? I think I’ll give freedom a miss then, thanks.”
“Er…have you seen a tortoise anywhere around here?” said Brutha.
“No. And I cleaned under the bed.”
“Have you seen one anywhere else today?”
“You want one? There’s good eating on a—”
“No. No. It’s all right—”
“Brutha!”
It was Vorbis’s voice. Brutha hurried out into the courtyard and into Vorbis’s cell.
“Ah, Brutha.”
“Yes, lord?”
Vorbis was sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at the wall.
Small Gods: Discworld Novel, A Page 14