The brittle metal snapped in his hand.
ied to say “Urn?”
“Shut up, you,” said the other man, pressing the knife to his throat.
“Brutha?” said Urn. “You're alive?”
Brutha moved his eyes from his captor to Urn in a way which he hoped would indicate that it was too soon to make any commitment on this point.
“He's all right,” said Urn.
“All right? He's a priest!”
“But he's on our side. Aren't you, Brutha?”
Brutha tried to nod, and thought: I'm on everyone's side. It'd be nice if, just for once, someone was on mine.
The hand was unclamped from his mouth, but the knife remained resting on his throat. Brutha's normally careful thought processes ran like quicksilver.
“The Turtle Moves?” he ventured.
The knife was withdrawn, with obvious reluctance.
“I don't trust him,” said the man. “We should shove him down the hole at least.”
“Brutha's one of us,” said Urn.
“That's right. That's right,” said Brutha. “Which ones are you?”
Urn leaned closer.
“How's your memory?”
“Unfortunately, it is fine.”
“Good. Good. Uh. It would be a good idea to stay out of trouble, d'you hear . . . if anything happens. Remember the Turtle. Well, of course you would.”
“What things?”
Urn patted him on the shoulder, making Brutha think for a moment of Vorbis. Vorbis, who never touched another person inside his head, was a great toucher with his hands.
“Best if you don't know what's happening,” said Urn.
“But I don't know what's happening,” said Brutha.
“Good. That's the way.”
The burly man gestured with his knife towards the tunnels that led into the rock.
“Are we going, or what?” he demanded.
Urn ran after him and then stopped briefly and turned.
“Be careful,” he said. “We need what's in your head!”
Brutha watched them go.
“So do I,” he murmured.