“And . . . was there a tortoise? Has he mentioned anything about a tortoise?”
“-tortoise? What have tortoises got to do with anything?” Nhumrod's expression softened. “But, of course, the Prophet said the sun had affected you. He said you were raving-excuse me-about all sorts of strange things.”
“He did?”
“He sat by your bed for three days. It was . . . inspiring.”
“How long . . . since we came back?”
“-back? Almost a week.”
“A week!”
“He said the journey exhausted you very much.”
Brutha stared at the wall.
“And he left orders that you were to be brought to him as soon as you were fully conscious,” said Nhumrod. “He was very definite about that.” His tone of voice suggested that he wasn't quite sure of Brutha's state of consciousness, even now. “Do you think you can walk? I can get some novices to carry you, if you'd prefer.”
“I have to go and see him now?”
“-now. Right away. I expect you'll want to thank him.”
Brutha had known about these parts of the Citadel only by hearsay. Brother Nhumrod had never seen them, either. Although he had not been specifically included in the summons, he had come nevertheless, fussing importantly around Brutha as two sturdy novices carried him in a kind of sedan chair normally used by the more crumbling of the senior clerics.
In the center of the Citadel, behind the Temple, was a walled garden. Brutha looked at it with an expert eye. There wasn't an inch of natural soil on the bare rock-every spadeful that these shady trees grew in must have been carried up by hand.
Vorbis was there, surrounded by bishops and Iams. He looked round as Brutha approached.
“Ah, my desert companion,” he said, amiably. “And Brother Nhumrod, I believe. My brothers, I should like you to know that I have it in mind to raise our Brutha to archbishophood.”
There was a very faint murmur of astonishment from the clerics, and then a clearing of a throat. Vorbis looked at Bishop Treem, who was the Citadel's archivist.
“Well, technically he is not yet even ordained,” said Bishop Treem, doubtfully. “But of course we all know there has been a precedent.”
“Ossory's ass,” said Brother Nhumrod promptly. He put his hand over his mouth and went red with shame and embarrassment.
mnians 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.
His voice echoed off the rocks. Flocks of scalbies shook off their lazy pedestrian habits and took off frantically, leaving feathers behind in their rush to get airborne. Snakes wriggled into cracks in the stone.
You could live in the desert. Or at least survive . . .
Getting back to Omnia could only be a matter of time. One more day . . .
Vorbis trooped along a little behind him. He said nothing and, when spoken to, gave no sign that he had understood what had been said to him.
Om, bumping along in Brutha's pack, began to feel the acute depression that steals over every realist in the presence of an optimist.
The strained strains of Claws of Iron shall Rend the Ungodly faded away. There was a small rockslide, some way off.
“We're alive,” said Brutha.