Small Gods: Discworld Novel, A

by Terry Pratchett

  “I was told it was the finest thing to die for a god,” he mumbled.

  “Vorbis said that. And he was…stupid. You can die for your country or your people or your family, but for a god you should live fully and busily, every day of a long life.”

  “And how long is that going to be?”

  “We shall see.”

  Brutha looked up at Om.

  “You will not show yourself like this again?”

  Chap. III v.I. No. Once Is Enough.

  “Remember the desert.”

  II. I Will Remember.

  “Walk with me.”

  Brutha went over to the body of Vorbis and picked it up.

  “I think,” he said, “that they will land on the beach on the Ephebian side of the forts. They won’t use the rock shore and they can’t use the cliffs. I’ll meet them there.” He glanced down at Vorbis. “Someone should.”

  “You can’t mean you want to go by yourself?”

  “Ten thousand won’t be sufficient. One might be enough.”

  He walked down the steps.

  Urn and Simony watched him go.

  “He’s going to die,” said Simony. “He won’t even be a patch of grease on the sand.” He turned to Om. “Can you stop him?”

  III. It May Be That I Cannot.

  Brutha was already halfway across the Place.

  “Well, we’re not deserting him,” said Simony.

  IV. Good.

  Om watched them go, too. And then he was alone, except for the thousands watching him, crammed around the edges of the great square. He wished he knew what to say to them. That’s why he needed people like Brutha. That’s why all gods needed people like Brutha.

  “Excuse me?”

  The god looked down. V. Yes?

  “Um. I can’t sell you anything, can I?”

  VI. What Is Your Name?

  “Dhblah, god.”

  VII. Ah, Yes. And What Is It You Wish?

  The merchant hopped anxiously from one foot to the other.

  “You couldn’t manage just a small commandment? Something about eating yogurt on Wednesdays, say? It’s always very difficult to shift, midweek.”

  VIII. You Stand Before Your God And Look For Business Opportunities?

  “We-ell,” said Dhblah, “we could come to an arrangement. Strike while the iron is hot, as the inquisitors say. Haha. Twenty percent? How about it? After expenses, of course—”

  The Great God Om smiled. IX. I Think You Will Make A Little Prophet, Dhblah, he said.

  “Right. Right. That’s all I’m looking for. Just trying to make both ends hummus.”

  X. Tortoises Are To Be Left Alone.

  Dhblah put his head on one side.

  “Doesn’t sing, does it?” he said. “But…tortoise necklaces…hmm…brooches, of course. Tortoise-shel—”

  XI. NO!

  “Sorry, sorry. See what you mean. All right. Tortoise statues. Ye-ess. I thought about them. Nice shape. Incidentally, you couldn’t make a statue wobble every now and again, could you? Very good for business, wobbling statues. The statue of Ossory wobbles every Fast of Ossory, reg’lar. By means of a small piston device operated in the basement, it is said. But very good for the prophets, all the same.”

  XII. You Make me Laugh, Little Prophet. Sell Your Tortoises, By All Means.

  “Tell you the truth,” said Dhblah, “I’ve already drawn a few designs just now…”

  Om vanished. There was a brief thunderclap. Dhblah looked reflectively at his sketches.

  “…but I suppose I’ll have to take the little figure off them,” he said, more or less to himself.

  The shade of Vorbis looked around.

  “Ah. The desert,” he said. The black sand was absolutely still under the starlit sky. It looked cold.

  He hadn’t planned on dying yet. In fact…he couldn’t quite remember how he’d died…

  “The desert,” he repeated, and this time there was a hint of uncertainty. He’d never been uncertain about anything in his…life. The feeling was unfamiliar and terrifying. Did ordinary people feel like this?

  He got a grip on himself.

  Death was impressed. Very few people managed this, managed to hold on to the shape of their old thinking after death.

  Death took no pleasure in his job. It was an emotion he found hard to grasp. But there was such a thing as satisfaction.

  “So,” said Vorbis. “The desert. And at the end of the desert—?”

  JUDGMENT.

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  Vorbis tried to concentrate. He couldn’t. He could feel certainty draining away. And he’d always been certain.

  He hesitated, like a man opening a door to a familiar room and finding nothing there but a bottomless pit. The memories were still there. He could feel them. They had the right shape. It was just that he couldn’t remember what they were. There had been a voice…. Surely, there had been a voice? But all he could remember was the sound of his own thoughts, bouncing off the inside of his own head.

  Now he had to cross the desert. What could there be to fear—

  The desert was what you believed.

  Vorbis looked inside himself.

  And went on looking.

  He sagged to his knees.

  I CAN SEE THAT YOU ARE BUSY, said Death.

  “Don’t leave me! It’s so empty!”

  Death looked around at the endless desert. He snapped his fingers and a large white horse trotted up.

  I SEE A HUNDRED THOUSAND PEOPLE, he said, swinging himself into the saddle.

  “Where? Where?”

  HERE. WITH YOU.

  “I can’t see them!”

  Death gathered up the reins.

  NEVERTHELESS, he said. His horse trotted forward a few steps.

  “I don’t understand!” screamed Vorbis.

  Death paused. “YOU HAVE PERHAPS HEARD THE PHRASE, he said, THAT HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE?

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  Death nodded. IN TIME, he said, YOU WILL LEARN THAT IT IS WRONG.

  The first boats grounded in the shallows, and the troops leapt into shoulder-high surf.

  No one was quite sure who was leading the fleet. Most of the countries along the coast hated one another, not in any personal sense, but simply on a kind of historical basis. On the other hand, how much leadership was necessary? Everyone knew where Omnia was. None of the countries in the fleet hated the others worse than they did Omnia. Now it was necessary for it…not to exist.

  General Argavisti of Ephebe considered that he was in charge, because although he didn’t have the most ships he was avenging the attack on Ephebe. But Imperiator Borvorius of Tsort knew that he was in charge, because there were more Tsortean ships than any others. And Admiral Rham-ap-Efan of Djelibeybi knew that he was in charge, because he was the kind of person who always thought he was in charge of anything. The only captain who did not, in fact, think that he was commanding the fleet was Fasta Benj, a fisherman from a very small nation of marsh-dwelling nomads of whose existence all the other countries were in complete ignorance, and whose small reed boat had been in the path of the fleet and had got swept along. Since his tribe believed that there were only fifty-one people in the world, worshiped a giant newt, spoke a very personal language which no one else understood, and had never seen metal or fire before, he was spending a lot of time wearing a puzzled grin.

  Clearly they had reached a shore, not of proper mud and reeds, but of very small gritty bits. He lugged his little reed boat up the sand, and sat down with interest to see what the men in the feathery hats and shiny fish-scale vests were going to do next.

  General Argavisti scanned the beach.

  “They must have seen us coming,” he said. “So why would they let us establish a beachhead?”

  Heat haze wavered over the dunes. A dot appeared, growing and contracting in the shimmering air.

  More troops poured ashore.

  General Argavisti shaded his eyes against the su
n.

  “Fella’s just standing there,” he said.

  “Could be a spy,” said Borvorius.

  “Don’t see how he could be a spy in his own country,” said Argavisti. “Anyway, if he was a spy he’d be creepin’ around. That’s how you can tell.”

  The figure had stopped at the foot of the dunes. There was something about it that drew the eye. Argavisti had faced many an opposing army, and this was normal. One patiently waiting figure was not. He found he kept turning to look at it.

  “S’carrying something,” he said eventually. “Sergeant? Go and bring that man here.”

  A few minutes later the sergeant returned.

  “Says he’ll meet you in the middle of the beach, sir,” he reported.

  “Didn’t I tell you to bring him here?”

  “He didn’t want to come, sir.”

  “You’ve got a sword, haven’t you?”

  “Yessir. Prodded him a bit, but he dint want to move, sir. And he’s carrying a dead body, sir.”

  “On a battlefield? It’s not bring-your-own, you know.”

  “And…sir?”

  “What?”

  “Says he’s probably the Cenobiarch, sir. Wants to talk about a peace treaty.”

  “Oh, he does? Peace treaty? We know about peace treaties with Omnia. Go and tell…no. Take a couple of men and bring him here.”

  Brutha walked back between the soldiers, through the organized pandemonium of the camp. I ought to feel afraid, he thought. I was always afraid in the Citadel. But not now. This is through fear and out the other side.

  Occasionally one of the soldiers would give him a push. It’s not allowed for an enemy to walk freely into a camp, even if he wants to.

  He was brought before a trestle table, behind which sat half a dozen large men in various military styles, and one small olive-skinned man who was gutting a fish and grinning hopefully at everyone.

  “Well, now,” said Argavisti, “Cenobiarch of Omnia, eh?”

  Brutha dropped Vorbis’s body on to the sand. Their gaze followed it.

  “I know him—” said Borvorius. “Vorbis! Someone killed him at last, eh? And will you stop trying to sell me fish? Does anyone know who this man is?” he added, indicating Fasta Benj.

  “It was a tortoise,” said Brutha.

  “Was it? Not surprised. Never did trust them, always creeping around. Look, I said no fish! He’s not one of mine, I know that. Is he one of yours?”

  Argavisti waved a hand irritably. “Who sent you, boy?”

  “No one. I came by myself. But you could say I come from the future.”

  “Are you a philosopher? Where’s your sponge?”

  “You’ve come to wage war on Omnia. This would not be a good idea.”

  “From Omnia’s point of view, yes.”

  “From everyone’s. You will probably defeat us. But not all of us. And then what will you do? Leave a garrison? Forever? And eventually a new generation will retaliate. Why you did this won’t mean anything to them. You’ll be the oppressors. They’ll fight. They might even win. And there’ll be another war. And one day people will say: why didn’t they sort it all out, back then? On the beach. Before it all started. Before all those people died. Now we have that chance. Aren’t we lucky?”

  Argavisti stared at him. Then he nudged Borvorius.

  “What did he say?”

  Borvorius, who was better at thinking than the others, said, “Are you talking about surrender?”

  “Yes. If that’s the word.”

  Argavisti exploded.

  “You can’t do that!”

  “Someone will have to. Please listen to me. Vorbis is dead. He’s paid.”

  “Not enough. What about your soldiers? They tried to sack our city!”

  “Do your soldiers obey your orders?”

  “Certainly!”

  “And they’d cut me down here and now if you commanded it?”

  “I should say so!”

  “And I’m unarmed,” said Brutha.

  The sun beat down on an awkward pause.

  “When I say they’d obey—” Argavisti began.

  “We were not sent here to parley,” said Borvorius abruptly. “Vorbis’s death changes nothing fundamental. We are here to see that Omnia is no longer a threat.”

  “It is not. We will send materials and people to help rebuild Ephebe. And gold, if you like. We will reduce the size of our army. And so on. Consider us beaten. We will even open Omnia to whatever other religions wish to build holy places here.”

  A voice echoed in his head, like the person behind you who says, “Put the red Queen on the black King,” when you think you have been playing all by yourself…

  I. What?

  “This will encourage…local effort,” said Brutha. II. Other Gods? Here?

  “There will be free trade along the coast. I wish to see Omnia take its place among its fellow nations.”

  III. I heard You Mention Other Gods.

  “Its place is at the bottom,” said Borvorius.

  “No. That won’t work.”

  IV. Could We Please Get Back To The Matter Of

  Other Gods?

  “Will you please excuse me a moment?” said Brutha, brightly. “I need to pray.”

  Even Argavisti raised no objection as Brutha walked off a little way up the beach. As St. Ungulant preached to any who would listen, there were plus points in being a madman. People hesitated to stop you, in case it made things worse.

  “Yes?” said Brutha, under his breath. V. I Don’t Seem To Recall Any Discussion About Other Gods Being Worshiped In Omnia?

  “Ah, but it’ll work for you,” said Brutha. “People will soon see that those other ones are no good at all, won’t they?” He crossed his fingers behind his back.

  VI. This Is Religion, Boy. Not Comparison Bloody Shopping! You Shall Not Subject Your God To Market Forces!

  “I’m sorry. I can see that you would be worried about—”

  VII. Worried? Me? By A Bunch Of Primping Women And Muscle-bound Posers In Curly Beards?

  “Fine. Is that settled, then?”

  VIII. They Won’t Last Five Minutes!…what?

  “And now I’d better go and talk to these men one more time.”

  His eye was caught by a movement among the dunes.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “The idiots…”

  He turned and ran desperately toward the beached fleet.

  “No! It’s not like that! Listen! Listen!”

  But they had seen the army, too.

  It looked impressive, perhaps more impressive than it really was. When news gets through that a huge enemy fleet has beached with the intent of seriously looting, pillaging, and—because they are from civilized countries—whistling and making catcalls at the women and impressing them with their flash bloody uniforms and wooing them away with their flash bloody consumer goods, I don’t know, show them a polished bronze mirror and it goes right to their heads, you’d think there was something wrong with the local lads…then people either head for the hills or pick up some handy, swingable object, get Granny to hide the family treasures in her drawers, and prepare to make a fight of it.

  And, in the lead, the iron cart. Steam poured out of its funnel. Urn must have got it working again.

  “Stupid! Stupid!” Brutha shouted, to the world in general, and carried on running.

  The fleet was already forming battle-lines, and its commander, whichever he was, was amazed to see an apparent attack by one man.

  Borvorius caught him as he plunged towards a line of spears.

  “I see,” he said. “Keep us talking while your soldiers got into position, eh?”

  “No! I didn’t want that!”

  Borvorius’s eyes narrowed. He had not survived the many wars of his life by being a stupid man.

  “No,” he said, “maybe you didn’t. But it doesn’t matter. Listen to me, my innocent little priest. Sometimes there has to be a war. Things go too far for words. There’s…othe
r forces. Now…go back to your people. Maybe we’ll both be alive when all this is over and then we can talk. Fight first, talk after. That’s how it works, boy. That’s history. Now, go back.”

  Brutha turned away. I. Shall I Smite Them?

  “No!”

  II. I Could Make Them As Dust. Just Say The

  Word.

  “No. That’s worse than war.”

  III. But You Said A God Must Protect His People—

  “What would we be if I told you to crush honest men?”

  IV. Not Stuck Full Of Arrows?

  “No.”

  The Omnians were assembling among the dunes. A lot of them had clustered around the iron-shielded cart. Brutha looked at it through a mist of despair.

  “Didn’t I say I’d go down there alone?” he said.

  Simony, who was leaning against the Turtle, gave him a grim smile.

  “Did it work?” he said.

  “I think…it didn’t.”

  “I knew it. Sorry you had to find out. Things have a way of wanting to happen, see? Sometimes you get people facing off and…that’s it.”

  “But if only people would—”

  “Yeah. You could use that as a commandment.”

  There was a clanging noise, and a hatch opened on the side of the Turtle. Urn emerged, backward, holding a spanner.

  “What is this thing?” said Brutha.

  “It’s a machine for fighting,” said Simony. “The Turtle Moves, eh?”

  “For fighting Ephebians?” said Brutha.

  Urn turned around.

  “What?” he said.

  “You’ve built this…this thing…to fight Ephebians?”

  “Well…no…no,” said Urn, looking bewildered. “We’re fighting Ephebians?”

  “Everyone,” said Simony.

  “But I never…I’m an…I never—”

  Brutha looked at the spiked wheels and the saw-edged plates around the edge of the Turtle.

  “It’s a device that goes by itself,” said Urn. “We were going to use it for…I mean…look, I never wanted it to…”

  “We need it now,” said Simony.

  “Which we?”

  “What comes out of the big long spout thing at the front?” said Brutha.

  “Steam,” said Urn dully. “It’s connected to the safety valve.”

  “Oh.”

  “It comes out very hot,” said Urn, sagging even more.