Small Gods

demons—but he could hear the voice of Nhumrod pointing out that this very fact made them even more demonic. Sin crept up on you like a wolf in a sheep’s skin.
    One of the goddesses had been having some very serious trouble with her dress, Brutha noticed; if Brother Nhumrod had been present, he would have had to hurry off for some very serious lying down.
    “Petulia, Goddess of Negotiable Affection,” said Om. “Worshiped by the ladies of the night and every other time as well, if you catch my meaning.”
    Brutha’s mouth dropped open.
    “They’ve got a goddess for painted jezebels? ”
    “Why not? Very religious people I understand. They’re used to being on their—they spend so much time looking at the—look, belief is where you find it. Specialization. That’s safe, see. Low risk, guaranteed returns. There’s even a God of Lettuce somewhere. I mean, it’s not as though any one else is likely to try to become a God of Lettuce. You just find a lettuce-growing community and hang on. Thunder gods come and go, but it’s you they turn to every time when there’s a bad attack of Lettuce Fly. You’ve got to…uh…hand it to Petulia. She spotted a gap in the market and filled it.”
    “There’s a God of Lettuce?”
    “Why not? If enough people believe, you can be god of anything…”
    Om stopped himself and waited to see if Brutha had noticed. But Brutha seemed to have something else on his mind.
    “That’s not right. Not treating people like that. Ow.”
    He’d walked into the back of a subdeacon. The party had halted, partly because the Ephebian escort had stopped too, but mainly because a man was running down the street.
    He was quite old, and in many respects resembled a frog that had been dried out for quite some time. Something about him generally made people think of the word “spry,” but, at the moment, they would be much more likely to think of the words “mother naked” and possibly also “dripping wet” and would be one hundred percent accurate, too. Although there was the beard. It was a beard you could camp out in.
    The man thudded down the street without any apparent self-consciousness and stopped outside a potter’s shop. The potter didn’t seem concerned at being addressed by a little wet naked man; in fact, none of the people in the street had given him a second glance.
    “I’d like a Number Nine pot and some string, please,” said the old man.
    “Yes sir, Mr. Legibus.” The potter reached under his counter and pulled out a towel. The naked man took it in an absent-minded way. Brutha got the feeling that this had happened to both of them before.
    “And a lever of infinite length and, um, an immovable place to stand,” said Legibus, drying himself off.
    “What you see is what I got, sir. Pots and general household items, but a bit short on axiomatic mechanisms.”
    “Well, have you got a piece of chalk?”
    “Got some right here from last time,” said the potter.
    The little naked man took the chalk and started to draw triangles on the nearest bit of wall. Then he looked down.
    “Why haven’t I got any clothes on?” he said.
    “ We’ve been having our bath again, haven’t we?” said the potter.
    “I left my clothes in the bath?”
    “I think you probably had an idea while you were in the bath?” prompted the potter.
    “That’s right! That’s right! Got this splendid idea for moving the world around!” said Legibus. “Simple lever principle. Should work perfectly. It’s just a matter of getting the technical details sorted out.”
    “That’s nice. We can move somewhere warm for the winter,” said the potter.
    “Can I borrow the towel?”
    “It’s yours anyway, Mr. Legibus.”
    “Is it?”
    “I said, you left it here last time. Remember? When you had that idea for the lighthouse?”
    “Fine. Fine,” said Legibus, wrapping the towel around himself. He drew a few more lines on the wall. “Fine. Okay. I’ll send someone down later to collect the wall.”
    He turned and appeared to see the Omnians for the first time. He peered forward and then shrugged.
    “Hmm,” he said, and wandered away.
    Brutha tugged at the cloak of one of the Ephebian soldiers.
    “Excuse me, but why did we stop?” he said.
    “Philosophers have right of way,” said the soldier.
    “What’s a philosopher?” said Brutha.
    “Someone who’s bright enough to find a job with no heavy lifting,” said a voice in his head.
    “An infidel seeking the just fate he