He substituted: “We shall be on our guard.”
“Can we surprise them?”
Fri'it hesitated. “We?” he said.
“I shall lead the party,” said Vorbis. There was the briefest exchange of glances between himself and the secretary. "I . . . would like to be away from the Citadel for a while. A change of air. Besides, we should not let the Ephebians think they merit the attentions of a superior member of the Church. I was just musing as to the possibilities, should we be provoked-
Fri'it's nervous click was like a whip-crack.
"We have given them our word-
“There is no truce with unbelievers,” said Vorbis.
“But there are practical considerations,” said Fri'it, as sharply as he dared. “The palace of Ephebe is a labyrinth. I know. There are traps. No one gets in without a guide.”
“How does the guide get in?” said Vorbis.
“I assume he guides himself,” said the general.
“In my experience there is always another way,” said Vorbis. “Into everything, there is always another way. Which the God will show in his own good time, we can be assured of that.”
“Certainly matters would be easier if there was a lack of stability in Ephebe,” said Drunah. “It does indeed harbor certain . . . elements.”
“And it will be the gateway to the whole of the Turnwise coast,” said Vorbis.
"Well-
“The Djel, and then Tsort,” said Vorbis.
Drunah tried to avoid seeing Fri'it's expression.
“It is our duty,” said Vorbis. “Our holy duty. We must not forget poor Brother Murduck. He was unarmed and alone.”
Brutha's huge sandals flip-flopped obediently along the stone-flagged corridor toward Brother Nhumrod's barren cell.
He tried composing messages in his head. Master, there's a tortoise who says-Master, this tortoise wants-Master, guess what, I heard from this tortoise in the melons that-
Brutha would never have dared to think of himself as a prophet, but he had a shrewd idea of the outcome of any interview that began in this way.
Many people assumed that Brutha was an idiot. He looked like one, from his round open face to his splayfeet and knock-ankles. He also had the habit of moving his lips while he thought deeply, as if he was rehearsing every sentence. And this was because that was what he was doing. Thinking was not something that came easily to Brutha. Most people think automatically, thoughts dancing through their brains like static electricity across a cloud. At least, that's how it seemed to him. Whereas he had to construct thoughts a bit at a time, like someone building a wall. A short lifetime of being laughed at for having a body like a barrel and feet that gave the impression that they were about to set out in opposite directions had given him a strong tendency to think very carefully about anything he said.
Brother Nhumrod was prostrate on the floor in front of a statue of Om Trampling the Ungodly, with his fingers in his ears. The voices were troubling him again.
Brutha coughed. He coughed again.
Brother Nhumrod raised his head.
“Brother Nhumrod?” said Brutha.
“What?”
“Er . . . Brother Nhumrod?”
“What?”
Brother Nhumrod unplugged his ears.
“Yes?” he said testily.