Small Gods

cabin when Brutha puffed along the passage and knocked on the door. There was no reply. After a while, Brutha pushed the door open.
    Vorbis did not appear to read. Obviously he wrote, because of the famous Letters, but no one ever saw him do it. When he was alone he spent a lot of time staring at the wall, or prostrate in prayer. Vorbis could humble himself in prayer in a way that made the posturings of power-mad emperors look subservient.
    “Um,” said Brutha, and tried to pull the door shut again.
    Vorbis waved one hand irritably. Then he stood up. He did not dust off his robe.
    “Do you know, Brutha,” he said, “I do not think there is a single person in the Citadel who would dare to interrupt me at prayer? They would fear the Quisition. Everyone fears the Quisition. Except you, it appears. Do you fear the Quisition?”
    Brutha looked into the black-on-black eyes. Vorbis looked into a round pink face. There was a special face that people wore when they spoke to an exquisitor. It was flat and expressionless and glistened slightly, and even a half-trained exquisitor could read the barely concealed guilt like a book. Brutha just looked out of breath but then, he always did. It was fascinating.
    “No, lord,” he said.
    “Why not?”
    “The Quisition protects us, lord. It is written in Ossory, chapter VII, verse—”
    Vorbis put his head on one side.
    “Of course it is. But have you ever thought that the Quisition could be wrong?”
    “No, lord,” said Brutha.
    “But why not?”
    “I do not know why, Lord Vorbis. I just never have.”
    Vorbis sat down at a little writing table, no more than a board that folded down from the hull.
    “And you are right, Brutha,” he said. “Because the Quisition cannot be wrong. Things can only be as the God wishes them. It is impossible to think that the world could run in any other way, is this not so?”
    A vision of a one-eyed tortoise flickered momentarily in Brutha’s mind.
    Brutha had never been any good at lying. The truth itself had always seemed so incomprehensible that complicating things even further had always been beyond him.
    “So the Septateuch teaches us,” he said.
    “Where there is punishment, there is always a crime,” said Vorbis. “Sometimes the crime follows the punishment, which only serves to prove the foresight of the Great God.”
    “That’s what my grandmother used to say,” said Brutha automatically.
    “Indeed? I would like to know more about this formidable lady.”
    “She used to give me a thrashing every morning because I would certainly do something to deserve it during the day,” said Brutha.
    “A most complete understanding of the nature of mankind,” said Vorbis, with his chin on one hand. “Were it not for the deficiency of her sex, it sounds as though she would have made an excellent inquisitor.”
    Brutha nodded. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.
    “And now,” said Vorbis, with no change in his tone, “you will tell me what you saw in the desert.”
    “Uh. There were six flashes. And then a pause of about five heartbeats. And then eight flashes. And another pause. And two flashes.”
    Vorbis nodded thoughtfully.
    “Three-quarters,” he said. “All praise to the Great God. He is my staff and guide through the hard places. And you may go.”
    Brutha hadn’t expected to be told what the flashes meant, and wasn’t going to enquire. The Quisition asked the questions. They were known for it.

    Next day the ship rounded a headland and the bay of Ephebe lay before it, with the city a white smudge on the horizon which time and distance turned into a spilling of blindingly white houses, all the way up a rock.
    It seemed of considerable interest to Sergeant Simony. Brutha had not exchanged a word with him. Fraternization between clergy and soldiers was not encouraged; there was a certain tendency to unholiness about soldiers…
    Brutha, left to his own devices again as the crew made ready for port, watched the soldier carefully. Most soldiers were a bit slovenly and generally rude to minor clergy. Simony was different. Apart from anything else, he gleamed. His breastplate hurt the eyes. His skin looked scrubbed.
    The sergeant stood at the prow, staring fixedly as the city drew nearer. It was unusual to see him very far away from Vorbis. Wherever Vorbis stood there was the sergeant, hand on sword, eyes scanning the surroundings for…what?
    And always silent, except when spoken to. Brutha tried to be friends.
    “Looks