Steps led from the garden to the maze of underground tunnels and rooms that underlay the Temple and, indeed, the whole of the Citadel. Noiselessly, a couple of guards fell in behind them at a respectful distance.
Brutha followed Vorbis through the tunnels to the artificers' quarter, where forges and workshops clustered around one wide, deep light-well. Smoke and fumes billowed up around the hewn rock walls.
Vorbis walked directly to a large alcove that glowed red with the light of forge fires. Several workers were clustered around something wide and curved.
“There,” said Vorbis. “What do you think?”
It was a turtle.
The iron-founders had done a pretty good job, even down to the patterning on the shell and the scales on the legs. It was about eight feet long.
Brutha heard a rushing noise in his ears as Vorbis spoke.
“They speak poisonous gibberish about turtles, do they not? They think they live on the back of a Great Turtle. Well, let them die on one.”
Now Brutha could see the shackles attached to each iron leg. A man, or a woman, could with great discomfort lie spread-eagled on the back of the turtle and be chained firmly at the wrists and ankles.
He bent down. Yes, there was the firebox underneath. Some aspects of Quisition thinking never changed.
That much iron would take ages to heat up to the point of pain. Much time, therefore, to reflect on things . . .
“What do you think?” said Vorbis.
A vision of the future flashed across Brutha's mind.
“Ingenious,” he said.
“And it will be a salutary lesson for all others tempted to stray from the path of true knowledge,” said Vorbis.
“When do you intend to, uh, demonstrate it?”
“I am sure an occasion will present itself,” said Vorbis.
When Brutha straightened up, Vorbis was staring at him so intently that it was as if he was reading Brutha's thoughts off the back of his head.
“And now, please leave,” said Vorbis. “Rest as much as you can . . . my son.”
Brutha walked slowly across the Place, deep in unaccustomed thought.
“Afternoon, Your Reverence.”
“You know already?”
Cut-Me-Own-Hand-Off Dhblah beamed over the top of his lukewarm ice-cold sherbet stand.
“Heard it on the grapevine,” he said. “Here, have a slab of Klatchian Delight. Free. Onna stick.”
The Place was more crowded than usual. Even Dhblah's hot cakes were selling like hot cakes.
“Busy today,” said Brutha, hardly thinking about it.
“Time of the Prophet, see,” said Dhblah, “when the Great God is manifest in the world. And if you think it's busy now, you won't be able to swing a goat here in a few days' time.”
“What happens then?”
“You all right? You look a bit peaky.”
“What happens then?”