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“Listen, friend. I've got no time for talking to some pantywaister in a sheet. Where's the gods of Ephebe and Tsort?”
lo, clutching at his nose, waved vaguely towards the center of the hall.
“You nidn't naf to ndo dat!” he said reproachfully.
Om strode across the hall.
In the center of the room was what at first looked like a round table, and then looked like a model of the Discworld, Turtle, elephants and all, and then in some undefinable way looked like the real Discworld, seen from far off yet brought up close to. There was something subtly wrong about the distances, a feeling of vast space curled up small. But possibly the real Discworld wasn't covered with a network of glowing lines, hovering just above the surface. Or perhaps miles above the surface?
Om hadn't seen this before, but he knew what it was. Both a wave and a particle; both a map and the place mapped. If he focused on the tiny glittering dome on top of the tiny Cori Celesti, he would undoubtedly see himself, looking down on an even smaller model . . . and so on, down to the point where the universe coiled up like the tail of an ammonite, a kind of creature that lived millions of years ago and never believed in any gods at all . . .
The gods clustered around it, watching intently.
Om elbowed aside a minor Goddess of Plenty.
There were dice floating just above the world, and a mess of little clay figures and gaming counters. You didn't need to be even slightly omnipotent to know what was going on.
“He hid by nose!”
Om turned around.
“I never forget a face, friend. Just take yours away, right? While you still have some left?”
He turned back to the game.
“S'cuse me,” said a voice by his waist. He looked down at a very large newt.
“Yes?”
“You not supposed do that here. No Smiting. Not up here. It the rules. You want fight, you get your humans fight his humans.”
“Who're you?”
“P'tang-P'tang, me.”
“You're a god?”
“Definite.”
“Yeah? How many worshipers have you got?”
“Fifty-one!”
The newt looked at him hopefully, and added, “Is that lots? Can't count.”
It pointed at a rather crudely molded figure on the beach in Omnia and said, “But got a stake!”
Om looked at the figure of the little fisherman.
“When he dies, you'll have fifty worshippers,” he said.
“That more or less than fifty-one?”
“A lot less.”
“Definite?”