“I'm much better.”
“Happen a lot, does it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Remembering the scrolls okay?”
“I . . . think so. Who set fire to the Library?”
Urn looked up from the mechanism.
“He did,” he said.
Brutha stared at Didactylos.
“You set fire to your own Library?”
“I'm the only one qualified,” said the philosopher. “Besides, it keeps it out of the way of Vorbis.”
“What?”
“Suppose he'd read the scrolls? He's bad enough as it is. He'd be a lot worse with all that knowledge inside him.”
“He wouldn't have read them,” said Brutha.
“Oh, he would. I know that type,” said Didactylos “All holy piety in public, and all peeled grapes and self-indulgence in private.”
“Not Vorbis,” said Brutha, with absolute certainty. “He wouldn't have read them.”
“Well, anyway,” said Didactylos, “if it had to be done, I did it.”
Urn turned away from the bow of the boat, where he was feeding more wood into the brazier under the globe.
“Can we all get on board?” he said.
Brutha eased his way on a rough bench seat amidships, or whatever it was called. The air smelled of hot water.
“Right,” said Urn. He pulled a lever. The spinning paddles hit the water; there was a jerk and then, steam hanging in the air behind it, the boat moved forward.
“What's the name of this vessel?” said Didactylos.
Urn looked surprised.
“Name?” he said. “It's a boat. A thing, of the nature of things. It doesn't need a name.”
“Names are more philosophical,” said Didactylos, with a trace of sulkiness. “And you should have broken an amphora of wine over it.”
“That would have been a waste.”
The boat chugged out of the boathouse and into the dark harbor. Away to one side, an Ephebian galley was on fire. The whole of the city was a patchwork of flame.
“But you've got an amphora on board?” said Didactylos.
“Yes.”
“Pass it over, then.”
White water trailed behind the boat. The paddles churned.