“And I expect sometimes you drink . . . water?” said Brutha.
“You know, it's odd, isn't it,” said St. Ungulant. “There's all this wonderful stuff to drink but every so often I get this, well, I can only call it a craving, for a few sips of water. Can you explain that?”
“It must be . . . a little hard to come by,” said Brutha, still talking very carefully, like someone playing a fifty-pound fish on a fifty-one-pound breakingstrain fishing-line.
“Strange, really,” said St. Ungulant. “When icecold beer is so readily available, too.”
“Where, uh, do you get it? The water?” said Brutha.
“You know the stone plants?”
“The ones with the big flowers?”
“If you cut open the fleshy part of the leaves, there's up to half a pint of water,” said the saint. “It tastes like weewee, mind you.”
“I think we could manage to put up with that,” said Brutha, through dry lips. He backed toward the rope-ladder that was the saint's contact with the ground.
“Are you sure you won't stay?” said St. Ungulant. “It's Wednesday. We get sucking pig plus chef's selection of sun-drenched dew-fresh vegetables on Wednesdays.”
“We, uh, have lots to do,” said Brutha, halfway down the swaying ladder.
“Sweets from the trolley?”
"I think perhaps . . .
St. Ungulant looked down sadly at Brutha helping Vorbis away across the wilderness.
“And afterward there's probably mints!” he shouted, through cupped hands. “No?”
Soon the figures were mere dots on the sand.
“There may be visions of sexual grati-no, I tell a lie, that's Fridays . . .” St. Ungulant murmured.
Now that the visitors had gone, the air was once again filled with the zip and whine of the small gods. There were billions of them.
St. Ungulant smiled.
He was, of course, mad. He'd occasionally suspected this. But he took the view that madness should not be wasted. He dined daily on the food of the gods, drank the rarest vintages, ate fruits that were not only out of season but out of reality. Having to drink the occasional mouthful of brackish water and chew the odd lizard leg for medicinal purposes was a small price to pay.
He turned back to the laden table that shimmered in the air. All this . . . and all the little gods wanted was someone to know about them, someone to even believe that they existed.
There was jelly and ice-cream today, too.
“All the more for us, eh, Angus?”
Yes, said Angus.
The fighting was over in Ephebe. It hadn't lasted long, especially when the slaves joined in. There were too many narrow streets, too many ambushes and, above all, too much terrible determination. It's generally held that free men will always triumph over slaves, but perhaps it all depends on your point of view.
Besides, the Ephebian garrison commander had declared somewhat nervously that slavery would henceforth be abolished, which infuriated the slaves. What would be the point of saving up to become free if you couldn't own slaves afterwards? Besides, how'd they eat?
The Omnians couldn't understand, and uncertain people fight badly. And Vorbis had gone. Certainties seemed less certain when those eyes were elsewhere.
The Tyrant was released from his prison. He spent his first day of freedom carefully composing messages to the other small countries along the coast.
It was time to do something about Omnia.
Brutha sang.