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 sent 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.
IL 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 . . . other 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!”
Il. 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 sawedged 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.
“Oh?”
“Scalding, in fact.”
Brutha's gaze drifted from the steam funnel to the rotating knives.
“Very philosophical,” he said.
“We were going to use it against Vorbis,” said Urn.
“And now you're not. It's going to be used against Ephebians. You know, I used to think I was stupid, and then I met philosophers.”
Simony broke the silence by patting Brutha on the shoulder.
“It will all work out,” he said. “We won't lose. After all,” he smiled encouragingly, “we have God on our side.”
Brutha turned. His fist shot out. It wasn't a scientific blow, but it was hard enough to spin Simony around. He clutched his chin.
“What was that for? Isn't this what you wanted?”
“We get the gods we deserve,” said Brutha, “and I think we don't deserve any. Stupid. Stupid. The sanest man I've met this year lives up a pole in the desert. Stupid. I think I ought to join him.”
I. Why?
“Gods and men, men and gods,” said Brutha. “Everything happens because things have happened before. Stupid.”
II. But You Are The Chosen One.
“Choose someone else.”
Brutha strode off through the ragged army. No one tried to stop him. He reached the path that led up to the cliffs, and did not even turn to look at the battlelines.
“Aren't you going to watch the battle? I need someone to watch the battle.”
Didactylos was sitting on a rock, his hands folded on his stick.
“Oh, hello,” said Brutha, bitterly. “Welcome to Omnia.”
“It helps if you're philosophical about it,” said Didactylos.
“But there's no reason to fight!”
“Yes there is. Honor and revenge and duty and things like that.”
“Do you really think so? I thought philosophers were supposed to be logical?”
Didactylos shrugged.
“Well, the way I see it, logic is only a way of being ignorant by numbers.”
“I thought it would all be over when Vorbis was dead.”
Didactylos stared into his inner world.
“It takes a long time for people like Vorbis to die. They leave echoes in history.”
“I know what you mean.”
“How's Urn's steam machine?” said Didactylos.
“I think he's a bit upset about it,” said Brutha.
Didactylos cackled and banged his stick on the ground.
“Hah! He's learning! Everything works both ways!”
“It should do,” said Brutha.
Something like a golden comet sped across the sky of the Discworld. Om soared like an eagle, buoyed up by the freshness, by the strength of the belief. For as long as it lasted, anyway. Belief this hot, this desperate, never lasted long. Human minds could not sustain it. But while it did last, he was strong.
The central spire of Cori Celesti rises up from the mountains at the Hub, ten vertical miles of green ice and snow, topped by the turrets and domes of Dunmanifestin.
There the gods of the Discworld live.
At the least, any god who is anybody. And it is strange that, although it takes years of effort and work and scheming for a god to get there, once there they never seem to do a lot apart from drink too much and indulge in a little mild corruption. Many systems of government follow the same broad lines.
They play games. They tend to be very simple games, because gods are easily bored by complicated things. It is strange that, while small gods can have one aim in mind for millions of years, are in fact one aim, large gods seem to have the attention span of the common mosquito.
And style? If the gods of the Discworld were people they would think that three plaster ducks is a bit avant-garde.
There was a double door at the end of the main hall.
It rocked to a thunderous knocking.
The gods looked up vaguely from their various preoccupations, shrugged and turned away.
The doors burst inward.
Om strode through the debris, looking around with the air of one who has a search to complete and not a lot of time to do it in.
“Right,” he said.
Io, God of Thunder, looked up from his throne and waved his hammer threateningly.
“Who are you?”
Om strode toward the throne, picked up to by his toga, and gave a quick jab with his forehead.
Hardly anyone really believes in thunder gods any more . . .
