The quickest way to kill a tortoise for the pot is to plunge it into boiling water.
Kitchens and storerooms and craftsmen's workshops belonging to the Church's civilian population honeycombed the Citadel.[4] This was only one of them, a smoky-ceilinged cellar whose focal point was an arched fireplace. Flames roared up the flue. Turnspit dogs trotted in their treadmills. Cleavers rose and fell on the chopping blocks.
Off to one side of the huge hearth, among various other blackened cauldrons, a small pot of water was already beginning to seethe.
“The worms of revenge to eat your blackened nostrils!” screamed Om, twitching his legs violently. The basket rocked.
A hairy hand reached in and removed the herbs.
“Hawks to peck your liver!”
A hand reached in again and took the carrots.
“Afflict you with a thousand cuts!”
A hand reached in and took the Great God Om.
“The cannibal fungi of-!”
“Shut up!” hissed Brutha, shoving the tortoise under his robe.
He sidled toward the door, unnoticed in the general culinary chaos.
One of the cooks looked at him and raised an eyebrow.
“Just got to take this back,” Brutha burbled, bringing out the tortoise and waving it helpfully. “Deacon's orders.”
The cook scowled, and then shrugged. Novices were regarded by one and all as the lowest form of life, but orders from the hierarchy were to be obeyed without question, unless the questioner wanted to find himself faced with more important questions like whether or not it is possible to go to heaven after being roasted alive.
When they were out in the courtyard Brutha leaned against the wall and breathed out.
“Your eyeballs to-!” the tortoise began.
“One more word,” said Brutha, “and it's back in the basket.”
The tortoise fell silent.
“As it is, I shall probably get into trouble for missing Comparative Religion with Brother Whelk,” said Brutha. “But the Great God has seen fit to make the poor man shortsighted and he probably won't notice I'm not there, only if he does I shall have to say what I've done because telling lies to a Brother is a sin and the Great God will send me to hell for a million years.”
“In this one case I could be merciful,” said the tortoise. “No more than a thousand years at the outside.”
“My grandmother told me I shall go to hell when I die anyway,” said Brutha, ignoring this. “Being alive is sinful. It stands to reason, because you have to sin every day when you're alive.”
He looked down at the tortoise.
“I know you're not the Great God Om”-holy horns-“because if I was to touch the Great God Om”-holy horns-“my hands would burn away. The Great God would never become a tortoise, like Brother Nhumrod said. But it says in the Book of the Prophet Cena that when he was wandering in the desert the spirits of the ground and the air spoke unto him, so I wondered if you were one of those.”
e wall of the cave there was a drawing. It was vaguely oval, with three little extensions at the top-the middle one slightly the largest of the three-and three at the bottom, the middle one of these slightly longer and more pointed. A child's drawing of a turtle.
“Of course he'll go to Ephebe,” said a mask. “He won't dare not to. He'll have to dam the river of truth, at its source.”
“We must bail out what we can, then,” said another mask.
“We must kill Vorbis!”
“Not in Ephebe. When that happens, it must happen here. So that people will know. When we're strong enough.”
“Will we ever be strong enough?” said a mask. Its owner clicked his knuckles nervously.