Peace negotiations were not going well.
“You attacked us!” said Vorbis.
“I would call it preemptive defense,” said the Tyrant. “We saw what happened to Istanzia and Betrek and Ushistan.”
“They saw the truth of Om!”
“Yes,” said the Tyrant. “We believe they did, eventually.”
“And they are now proud members of the Empire.”
“Yes,” said the Tyrant. “We believe they are. But we like to remember them as they were. Before you sent them your letters, that put the minds of men in chains.”
“That set the feet of men on the right road,” said Vorbis.
“Chain letters,” said the Tyrant. “The Chain Letter to the Ephebians. Forget Your Gods. Be Subjugated. Learn to Fear. Do not break the chain-the last people who did woke up one morning to find fifty thousand armed men on their lawn.”
Vorbis sat back.
“What is it you fear?” he said. “Here in your desert, with your . . . gods? Is it not that, deep in your souls, you know that your gods are as shifting as your sand?”
“Oh, yes,” said the Tyrant. “We know that. That's always been a point in their favor. We know about sand. And your God is a rock-and we know about rock.”
Om stumped along a cobbled alley, keeping to the shade as much as possible.
There seemed to be a lot of courtyards. He paused at the point where the alley opened into yet another of them.
There were voices. Mainly there was one voice, petulant and reedy.
This was the philosopher Didactylos.
Although one of the most quoted and popular philosophers of all time, Didactylos the Ephebian never achieved the respect of his fellow philosophers. They felt he wasn't philosopher material. He didn't bathe often enough or, to put it another way, at all. And he philosophized about the wrong sorts of things. And he was interested in the wrong sorts of things. Dangerous things. Other philosophers asked questions like: Is Truth Beauty, and is Beauty Truth? and: is Reality Created by the Observer? But Didactylos posed the famous philosophical conundrum: “Yes, But What's It Really All About, Then, When You Get Right Down To It, I Mean Really!”
o;You've got no money at all?” he said.
“No,” said Brutha.
“Well, we've got to have a philosopher,” said the tortoise flatly. “I can't think and you don't know how to. We've got to find someone who does it all the time.”
“Of course, you could try old Didactylos,” said the barman. “He's about as cheap as they come.”
“Doesn't use expensive soap?” said Brutha.
“I think it could be said without fear of contradiction,” said the barman solemnly, “that he doesn't use any soap at all whatsoever in any way.”
“Oh. Well. Thank you,” said Brutha.
“Ask him where this man lives,” Om commanded.
“Where can I find Mr. Didactylos?” said Brutha.
“In the palace courtyard. Next door to the Library. You can't miss him. Just follow your nose.”
“We just came- Brutha said, but his inner voice prompted him not to complete the sentence. ”We'll just be going then."
“Don't forget your tortoise,” said the barman. “There's good eating on one of them.”
“May all your wine turn to water!” Om shrieked.