Small Gods

said the tortoise. “I tell you, when I’m back on form, there’s going to be a considerable redesigning of eagles.”
    “What’s the eagle trying to do to you?” said Brutha.
    “It wants to carry me off to its nest and give me dinner,” snarled the tortoise. “What do you think it wanted to do?” There was a short pause in which it contemplated the futility of sarcasm in the presence of Brutha; it was like throwing meringues at a castle.
    “It wants to eat me,” it said patiently.
    “But you’re a tortoise!”
    “I am your God! ”
    “But currently in the shape of a tortoise. With a shell on, is what I mean.”
    “That doesn’t worry eagles,” said the tortoise darkly. “They pick you up, carry you up a few hundred feet, and then…drop you.”
    “Urrgh.”
    “No. More like…crack…splat. How did you think I got in here?”
    “You were dropped? But—”
    “Landed on a pile of dirt in your garden . That’s eagles for you. Whole place built of rock and paved with rock on a big rock and they miss.”
    “That was lucky. Million-to-one chance,” said Brutha.
    “I never had this trouble when I was a bull. The number of eagles who can pick up a bull, you can count them on the fingers of one head. Anyway,” said the tortoise, “there’s worse here than eagles. There’s a—”
    “There’s good eating on one of them, you know,” said a voice behind Brutha.
    He stood up guiltily, the tortoise in his hand.
    “Oh, hello, Mr. Dhblah,” he said.
    Everyone in the city knew Cut-Me-Own-Hand-Off Dhblah, purveyor of suspiciously new holy relics, suspiciously old rancid sweetmeats on a stick, gritty figs, and long-past-the-sell-by dates. He was a sort of natural force, like the wind. No one knew where he came from or where he went at night. But he was there every dawn, selling sticky things to the pilgrims. And in this the priests reckoned he was on to a good thing, because most of the pilgrims were coming for the first time and therefore lacked the essential thing you needed in dealing with Dhblah, which was the experience of having dealt with him before. The sight of someone in the Place trying to unstick their jaws with dignity was a familiar one. Many a devout pilgrim, after a thousand miles of perilous journey, was forced to make his petition in sign language.
    “Fancy some sherbet for afters?” said Dhblah hopefully. “Only one cent a glass, and that’s cutting me own hand off.”
    “Who is this fool?” said Om.
    “I’m not going to eat it,” said Brutha hurriedly.
    “Going to teach it to do tricks, then?” said Dhblah cheerfully. “Look through hoops, that kind of thing?”
    “Get rid of him,” said Om. “Smite him on the head, why don’t you, and push the body behind the statue.”
    “Shut up,” said Brutha, beginning to experience once again the problems that occur when you’re talking to someone no one else can hear.
    “No need to be like that about it,” said Dhblah.
    “I wasn’t talking to you,” said Brutha.
    “Talking to the tortoise, were you?” said Dhblah. Brutha looked guilty.
    “My old mum used to talk to a gerbil,” Dhblah went on. “Pets are always a great help in times of stress. And in times of starvation too, o’course.”
    “This man is not honest,” said Om. “I can read his mind.”
    “Can you?”
    “Can I what?” said Dhblah. He gave Brutha a lopsided look. “Anyway, it’ll be company on your journey.”
    “What journey?”
    “To Ephebe. The secret mission to talk to the infidel.”
    Brutha knew he shouldn’t be surprised. News went around the enclosed world of the Citadel like bushfire after a drought.
    “Oh,” he said. “That journey.”
    “They say Fri’it’s going,” said Dhblah. “And—that other one. The éminence grease .”
    “Deacon Vorbis is a very nice person,” said Brutha. “He has been very kind to me. He gave me a drink.”
    “What of? Never mind,” said Dhblah. “Of course, I wouldn’t say a word against him, myself,” he added quickly.
    “Why are you talking to this stupid person?” Om demanded.
    “He’s a…friend of mine,” said Brutha.
    “I wish he was a friend of mine ,” said Dhblah. “Friends like that, you never have enemies. Can I press you to a candied sultana? Onna stick?”

    There were twenty-three other novices in Brutha’s dormitory, on the principle that sleeping alone promoted sin. This always puzzled the novices themselves, since a moment’s reflection would suggest