“Cannot read and write,” said Vorbis. “But ex?tremely loyal, you say?”
“Loyal and devout,” said Nhumrod.
“And a good memory,” Vorbis murmured.
“It's more than that,” said Nhumrod. “It's not like memory at all.”
Vorbis appeared to reach a decision.
“Send him to see me when he is recovered,” he said.
Nhumrod looked panicky.
“I merely wish to talk to him,” said Vorbis. “I may have a use for him.”
“Yes, lord?”
“For, I suspect, the Great God Om moves in myste?rious ways.”
High above. No sound but the hiss of wind in feathers. The eagle stood on the breeze, looking down at the toy buildings of the Citadel.
It had dropped it somewhere, and now it couldn't find it. Somewhere down there, in that little patch of green.
Bees buzzed in the bean blossoms. And the sun beat down on the upturned shell of Om.
There is also a hell for tortoises.
He was too tired to waggle his legs now. That was all you could do, waggle your legs. And stick your head out as far as it would go and wave it about in the hope that you could lever yourself over.
You died if you had no believers, and that was what a small god generally worried about. But you also died if you died.
In the part of his mind not occupied with thoughts of heat, he could feel Brutha's terror and bewilder?ment. He shouldn't have done that to the boy. Of course he hadn't been watching him. What god did that? Who cared what people did? Belief was the thing. He'd just picked the memory out of the boy's mind, to impress, like a conjuror removing an egg from someone's ear.
I'm on my back, and getting hotter, and I'm going to die . . .
And yet . . . and yet . . . that bloody eagle had dropped him on a compost heap. Some kind of clown, that eagle. A whole place built of rocks on a rock in a rocky place, and he landed on the one thing that'd break his fall without breaking him as well. And really close to a believer.
Odd, that. Made you wonder if it wasn't some kin f divine providence, except that you were divine providence . . . and on your back, getting hotter, preparing to die . . .
That man who'd turned him over. That expression on that mild face. He'd remember that. That expres?sion, not of cruelty, but of some different level of be?ing. That expression of terrible peace . . .
A shadow crossed the sun. Om squinted up into the face of Lu-Tze, who gazed at him with gentle, upside?down compassion. And then turned him the right way up. And then picked up his broom and wandered off, without a second glance.
Om sagged, catching his breath. And then bright?ened up.
Someone up there likes me, he thought. And it's Me.
Sergeant Simony waited until he was back in his own quarters before he unfolded his own scrap of paper.
He was not at all surprised to find it marked with a small drawing of a turtle. He was the lucky one.
He'd lived for a moment like this. Someone had to bring back the writer of the Truth, to be a symbol for the movement. It had to be him. The only shame was that he couldn't kill Vorbis.
But that had to happen where it could be seen.
One day. In front of the Temple. Otherwise no one would believe.
Om stumped along a sandy corridor.