Now he knew why, when Vorbis spoke about Ephebe, his face was gray with hatred and his voice was tense as a wire. If there was no truth, what was there left? And these bumbling old men spent their time kicking away the pillars of the world, and they'd nothing to replace them with but uncertainty. And they were proud of this?
Urn was standing on a small ladder, fishing among the shelves of scrolls. Didactylos sat opposite Brutha, his blind gaze still apparently fixed on him.
“You don't like it, do you?” said the philosopher.
Brutha had said nothing.
“You know,” said Didactylos conversationally, “people'll tell you that us blind people are the real business where the other senses are concerned. It's not true, of course. The buggers just say it because it makes them feel better. It gets rid of the obligation to feel sorry for us. But when you can't see you do learn to listen more. The way people breathe, the sounds their clothes make . . .”
Urn reappeared with another scroll.
“You shouldn't do this,” said Brutha wretchedly. “All this . . .” His voice trailed off.
“I know about sureness,” said Didactylos. Now the light, irascible tone had drained out of his voice. “I remember, before I was blind, I went to Omnia once. This was before the borders were closed, when you still let people travel. And in your Citadel I saw a crowd stoning a man to death in a pit. Ever seen that?”
“It has to be done,” Brutha mumbled. "So the soul can be shriven and-'
“Don't know about the soul. Never been that kind of a philosopher,” said Didactylos. “All I know is, it was a horrible sight.”
"The state of the body is not-
“Oh, I'm not talking about the poor bugger in the pit,” said the philosopher. “I'm talking about the people throwing the stones. They were sure all right. They were sure it wasn't them in the pit. You could see it in their faces. So glad it wasn't them that they were throwing just as hard as they could.”
Urn hovered, looking uncertain.
“I've got Abraxas's On Religion,” he said.
“Old 'Charcoal' Abraxas,” said Didactylos, suddenly cheerful again. “Struck by lightning fifteen times so far, and still not giving up. You can borrow this one overnight if you want. No scribbling comments in the margins, mind you, unless they're interesting.”
“This is it!” said Om. “Come on, let's leave this idiot.”
Brutha unrolled the scroll. There weren't even any pictures. Crabbed writing fiIled it, line after line.
“He spent years researching it,” said Didactylos. “Went out into the desert, talked to the small gods. Talked to some of our gods, too. Brave man. He says gods like to see an atheist around. Gives them something to aim at.”
Brutha unrolled a bit more of the scroll. Five minutes ago he would have admitted that he couldn't read. Now the best efforts of the inquisitors couldn't have forced it out of him. He held it up in what he hoped was a familiar fashion.
“Where is he now?” he said.
“Well, someone said they saw a pair of sandals with smoke coming out just outside his house a year or two back,” said Didactylos. “He might have, you know, pushed his luck.”
“I think,” said Brutha, “that I'd better be going. I'm sorry to have intruded on your time.”
“Bring it back when you've finished with it,” said Didactylos.
“Is that how people read in Omnia?” said Urn.
“What?”
“Upside down.”
Brutha picked up the tortoise, glared at Urn, and strode as haughtily as possible out of the Library.
“Hmm,” said Didactylos. He drummed his fingers on the tables.
“It was him I saw in the tavern last night,” said Urn. “I'm sure, master.”
“But the Omnians are staying here in the palace.”