“Yes, lord?”
Vorbis was sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at the wall.
“You are a young man visiting a new place,” said Vorbis. “No doubt there is much you wish to see.”
“There is?” said Brutha. Vorbis was using the exquisitor voice again-a level monotone, a voice like a strip of dull steel.
“You may go where you wish. See new things, Brutha. Learn everything you can. You are my eyes and ears. And my memory. Learn about this place.”
“Er. Really, lord?”
“Have I impressed you with my use of careless language, Brutha?”
“No, lord.”
“Go away. Fill yourself. And be back by sunset.”
“Er. Even the Library?” said Brutha.
“Ah? Yes, the Library. The Library that they have here. Of course. Crammed with useless and dangerous and evil knowledge. I can see it in my mind, Brutha. Can you imagine that?”
“No, Lord Vorbis.”
“Your innocence is your shield, Brutha. No. By all means go to the Library. I have no fear of any effect on you. ”
“Lord Vorbis?”
“Yes?”
“The Tyrant said that they hardly did anything to Brother Murduck . . .”
Silence unrolled its restless length.
Vorbis said, “He lied.”
“Yes.” Brutha waited. Vorbis continued to stare at the wall. Brutha wondered what he saw there. When nothing else appeared to be forthcoming, he said, “Thank you.”
He stepped back a bit before he went out, so that he could squint under the deacon's bed.
He's probably in trouble, Brutha thought as he hurried through the palace. Everyone wants to eat tortoises.
He tried to look everywhere while avoiding the friezes of unclad nymphs.
Brutha was technically aware that women were a different shape from men; he hadn't left the village until he was twelve, by which time some of his contemporaries were already married. And Omnianism encouraged early marriage as a preventive against Sin, although any activity involving any part of the human anatomy between neck and knees was more or less Sinful in any case.
Brutha wished he was a better scholar so he could ask his God why this was.
Then he found himself wishing his God was a more intelligent God so it could answer.
He hasn't screamed for me, he thought. I'm sure I would have heard. So maybe no one's cooking him.
A slave polishing one of the statues directed him to the Library. Brutha pounded down an aisle of pillars.
When he reached the courtyard in front of the Library it was crowded with philosophers, all craning to look at something. Brutha could hear the usual petulant squabbling that showed that philosophical discourse was under way.
In this case:
“I've got ten obols here says it can't do it again!”