Om's eye turned to Brutha.
“I had to,” he said. “It was the only way to get his attention. Now I've got him by the curiosity. When you've got 'em by the curiosity, their hearts and minds will follow.”
“He's a God,” said Brutha.
“Really? What's his name?” said the philosopher.
“Don't tell him! Don't tell him! The local gods'll hear!”
“I don't know,” said Brutha.
Didactylos turned Om over.
“The Turtle Moves,” said Urn thoughtfully.
“What?” said Brutha.
“Master did a book,” said Urn.
“Not really a book,” said Didactylos modestly. “More a scroll. Just a little thing I knocked off.”
“Saying that the world is flat and goes through space on the back of a giant turtle?” said Brutha.
“Have you read it?” Didactylos's gaze was unmoving. “Are you a slave?”
“No,” said Brutha. "I am a-
“Don't mention my name! Call yourself a scribe or something!”
“-scribe,” said Brutha weakly.
“Yeah,” said Urn. “I can see that. The telltale callus on the thumb where you hold the pen. The inkstains all over your sleeves.”
Brutha glanced at his left thumb. "I haven't-
“Yeah,” said Urn, grinning. “Use your left hand, do you?”
“Er, I use both,” said Brutha. “But not very well, everyone says.”
“Ah,” said Didactylos. “Ambi-sinister?”
“What?”
“He means incompetent with both hands,” said Om.
“Oh. Yes. That's me.” Brutha coughed politely. “Look . . . I'm looking for a philosopher. Um. One that knows about gods.”
He waited.
Then he said, “You aren't going to say they're a relic of an outmoded belief system?”
Didactylos, still running his fingers over Om's shell, shook his head.
“Nope. I like my thunderstorms a long way off.”
“Oh. Could you stop turning him over and over? He's just told me he doesn't like it.”
“You can tell how old they are by cutting them in half and counting the rings,” said Didactylos.