“Come and tell you,” said Brutha, dutifully.
“-tell you. Good. Good. That's what I like to hear,” said Nhumrod. “That's what I tell all my boys. Remember that I'm always here to deal with any little problems that may be bothering you.”
“Yes, master. Shall I go back to the garden now?”
“-now. I think so. I think so. And no more voices, d'you hear?” Nhumrod waved a finger of his nonpatting hand. A cheek puckered.
“Yes, master.”
“What were you doing in the garden?”
“Hoeing the melons, master,” said Brutha.
“Melons? Ah. Melons,” said Nhumrod slowly.
“Melons. Melons. Well, that goes some way toward explaining things, of course.”
An eyelid flickered madly.
It wasn't just the Great God that spoke to Vorbis, in the confines of his head. Everyone spoke to an exquisitor, sooner or later. It was just a matter of stamina.
Vorbis didn't often go down to watch the inquisitors at work these days. Exquisitors didn't have to. He sent down instructions, he received reports. But special circumstances merited his special attention.
It has to be said . . . there was little to laugh at in the cellar of the Quisition. Not if you had a normal sense of humor. There were no jolly little signs saying: You Don't Have To Be Pitilessly Sadistic To Work Here But It Helps!!!
But there were things to suggest to a thinking man that the Creator of mankind had a very oblique sense of fun indeed, and to breed in his heart a rage to storm the gates of heaven.
The mugs, for example. The inquisitors stopped work twice a day for coffee. Their mugs, which each man had brought from home, were grouped around the kettle on the hearth of the central furnace which incidentally heated the irons and knives.
They had legends on them like A Present From the Holy Grotto of Ossory, or To The World's Greatest Daddy. Most of them were chipped, and no two of them were the same.
And there were the postcards on the wall. It was traditional that, when an inquisitor went on holiday, he'd send back a crudely colored woodcut of the local view with some suitably jolly and risque message on the back. And there was the pinned-up tearful letter from Inquisitor First Class Ishmale “Pop” Quoom,
thanking all the lads for collecting no fewer than seventy?eight obols for his retirement present and the lovely bunch of flowers for Mrs. Quoom, indicating that he'd always remember his days in No. 3 pit, and was looking forward to coming in and helping out any time they were short-handed.
And it all meant this: that there are hardly any excesses of the most crazed psychopath that cannot easily be duplicated by a normal, kindly family man who just comes in to work every day and has a job to do.
Vorbis loved knowing that. A man who knew that, knew everything he needed to know about people.
Currently he was sitting alongside the bench on which lay what was still, technically, the trembling body of Brother Sasho, formerly his secretary.
He looked up at the duty inquisitor, who nodded. Vorbis leaned over the chained secretary.
“What were their names?” he repeated.
“. . . don't know . . .”
“I know you gave them copies of my correspondence, Sasho. They are treacherous heretics who will spend eternity in the hells. Will you join them?”
“. . . don't know names . . .”
“I trusted you, Sasho. You spied on me. You betrayed the Church.”
“. . . no names . . .”
“Truth is surcease from pain, Sasho. Tell me.”
“. . . truth . . .”