Not even one. One was just enough.
Gods who had been left behind.
And the thing about Brutha's flame of belief was this: in all the Citadel, in all the day, it was the only one the God had found.
Fri'it was trying to pray.
He hadn't done so for a long time.
Oh, of course there had been the eight compulsory prayers every day, but in the pit of the wretched night he knew them for what they were. A habit. A time for thought, perhaps. And method of measuring time.
He wondered if he'd ever prayed, if he'd ever opened heart and mind to something out there, or up there. He must have done, mustn't he? Perhaps when he was young. He couldn't even remember that. Blood had washed away the memories.
It was his fault. It had to be his fault. He'd been to Ephebe before, and had rather liked the white marble city on its rock overlooking the blue Circle Sea. And he'd visited Djelibeybi, those madmen in their little river valley who believed in gods with funny heads and put their dead in pyramids. He'd even been to far Ankh-Morpork, across the water, where they'd worship any god at all so long as he or she had money. Yes, Ankh-Morpork-where there were streets and streets of gods, squeezed together like a deck of cards. And none of them wanted to set fire to anyone else, or at least any more than was normally the case in Ankh?-Morpork. They just wanted to be left in peace, so that everyone went to heaven or hell in their own way.
And he'd drunk too much tonight, from a secret cache of wine whose discovery would deliver him into the machinery of the inquisitors within ten minutes.
Yes, you could say this for old Vorbis. Once upon a time the Quisition had been bribable, but not anymore. The chief exquisitor had gone back to fundamentals. Now there was a democracy of sharp knives. Better than that, in fact. The search for heresy was pursued even more vigorously among the higher levels in the Church. Vorbis had made it clear: the higher up the tree, the blunter the saw.
Give me that old-time religion . . .
He squeezed his eyes shut again, and all he could see were the horns of the temple, or fragmented suggestions of the carnage to come, or . . . the face of Vorbis.
He'd liked that white city.
Even the slaves had been content. There were rules about slaves. There were things you couldn't do to slaves. Slaves had value.
He'd learned about the Turtle, there. It had all made sense. He'd thought: it sounds right. It makes sense. But sense or not, that thought was sending him to hell.
Vorbis knew about him. He must do. There were spies everywhere. Sasho had been useful. How much had Vorbis got out of him? Had he said what he knew?
Of course he'd say what he knew . . .
Something went snap inside Fri'it.
He glanced at his sword, hanging on the wall.
And why not? After all, he was going to spend all eternity in a thousand hells . . .
The knowledge was freedom, of a sort. When the least they could do to you was everything, then the most they could do to you suddenly held no terror. If he was going to be boiled for a lamb, then he might as well be roasted for a sheep.
He staggered to his feet and, after a couple of tries, got the swordbelt off the wall. Vorbis's quarters weren't far away, if he could manage the steps. One stroke, that's all it would take. He could cut Vorbis in half without trying. And maybe . . . maybe nothing would happen afterward. There were others who felt like him-somewhere. Or, anyway, he could get down to the stables, be well away by dawn, get to Ephebe, maybe, across the desert . . .
He reached the door and fumbled for the handle.
It turned of its own accord.
Fri'it staggered back as the door swung inward.
Vorbis was standing there. In the flickering light of the oil lamp, his face registered polite concern.
“Excuse the lateness of the hour, my lord,” he said. “But I thought we should talk. About tomorrow.”
The sword clattered out of Fri'it's hand.
Vorbis leaned forward.
“Is there something wrong, brother?” he said.