“Indeed. And what remarkably good hearing you must have,” said Vorbis.
Aristocrates paused outside an impressive doorway and nodded at the party.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “the Tyrant will see you now.”
“You will recall everything that is said,” whispered Vorbis.
Brutha nodded.
The doors swung open.
All over the world there were rulers with titles like the Exalted, the Supreme, and Lord High Something or Other. Only in one small country was the ruler elected by the people, who could remove him when?ever they wanted-and they called him the Tyrant.
The Ephebians believed that every man should have the vote.[6] Every five years someone was elected to be Tyrant, provided he could prove that he was honest, intelligent, sensible, and trustworthy. Immediately af?ter he was elected, of course, it was obvious to every?one that he was a criminal madman and totally out of touch with the view of the ordinary philosopher in the street looking for a towel. And then five years later they elected another one just like him, and really it was amazing how intelligent people kept on making the same mistakes.
Candidates for the Tyrantship were elected by the placing of black or white balls in various urns, thus giving rise to a well-known comment about politics.
The Tyrant was a fat little man with skinny legs, giving people the impression of an egg that was hatch?ing upside down. He was sitting alone in the middle of the marble floor, in a chair surrounded by scrolls and scraps of paper. His feet didn't touch the marble, and his face was pink.
Aristocrates whispered something in his ear. The Tyrant looked up from his paperwork.
“Ah, the Omnian delegation,” he said, and a smile flashed across his face like something small darting across a stone. “Do be seated, all of you.”
He looked down again.
“I am Deacon Vorbis of the Citadel Quisition,” said Vorbis coldly.
The Tyrant looked up and gave him another lizard smile.
“Yes, I know,” he said. “You torture people for a living. Please be seated, Deacon Vorbis. And your plump young friend who seems to be looking for something. And the rest of you. Some young women will be along in a moment with grapes and things. This generally happens. It's very hard to stop it, in fact.”
There were benches in front of the Tyrant's chair. The Omnians sat down. Vorbis remained standing.
The Tyrant nodded. “As you wish,” he said.
“This is intolerable!” snapped Vorbis. "We have been treated-
“Much better than you would have treated us,” said the Tyrant mildly. “You sit or you stand, my lord, because this is Ephebe and indeed you may stand on your head for all I care, but don't expect me to believe that if it was I, seeking peace in your Citadel, I would be encouraged to do anything but grovel on what was left of my stomach. Be seated or be upstanding, my lord, but be quiet. I have nearly finished.”
“Finished what?” said Vorbis.
“The peace treaty,” said the Tyrant.
“But that is what we are here to discuss,” said Vorbis.
“No,” said the Tyrant. The lizard scuttled again: “That is what you are here to sign.”
Om took a deep breath and then pushed himself forward.
It was quite a steep flight of steps. He felt every one as he bumped down, but at least he was upright at the bottom.
He was lost, but being lost in Ephebe was preferable to being lost in the Citadel. At least there were no obvious cellars.
Library, library, library . . .
There was a library in the Citadel, Brutha had said. He'd described it, so Om had some idea of what he was looking for.
There would be a book in it.