“Makes you think. Even Ossory must have been a man who walked around, just like you and me. Got wax in his ears, just like ordinary people. Funny thing.”
“What is?”
“The whole thing.”
Dhblah gave Brutha another conspiratorial grin and then sold a footsore pilgrim a bowl of hummus that he would come to regret.
Brutha wandered down to his dormitory It was empty at this time of day, hanging around dormitories being discouraged in case the presence of the rockhard mattresses engendered thoughts of sin. His few possessions were gone from the shelf by his bunk. Probably he had a room of his own somewhere, although no one had told him.
Brutha felt totally lost.
He lay down on the bunk, just in case, and offered up a prayer to Om. There was no reply. There had been no reply for almost all of his life, and that hadn't been too bad, because he'd never expected one. And before, there'd always been the comfort that perhaps Om was listening and simply not deigning to say anything.
Now, there was nothing to hear.
He might as well be talking to himself, and listening to himself.
Like Vorbis.
That thought wouldn't go away. Mind like a steel ball, Om had said. Nothing got in or out. So all Vorbis could hear were the distant echoes of his own soul. And out of the distant echoes he would forge a Book of Vorbis, and Brutha suspected he knew what the commandments would be. There would be talk of holy wars and blood and crusades and blood and piety and blood.
Brutha got up, feeling like a fool. But the thoughts wouldn't go away.
He was a bishop, but he didn't know what bishops did. He'd only seen them in the distance, drifting along like earthbound clouds. There was only one thing he felt he knew how to do.
Some spotty boy was hoeing the vegetable garden. He looked at Brutha in amazement when he took the hoe, and was stupid enough to try to hang on to it for a moment.
“I am a bishop, you know,” said Brutha. “Anyway, you aren't doing it right. Go and do something else.”
Brutha jabbed viciously at the weeds around the seedlings. Only away a few weeks and already there was a haze of green on the soil.
You're a bishop. For being good. And here's the iron turtle. In case you're bad. Because . . .
. . . there were two people in the desert, and Om spoke to one of them.
It had never occurred to Brutha like that before.
Om had spoken to him. Admittedly, he hadn't said the things that the Great Prophets said he said. Perhaps he'd never said things like that . . .
He worked his way along to the end of the row. Then he tidied up the bean vines.
Lu-Tze watched Brutha carefully from his little shed by the soil heaps.
It was another barn. Urn was seeing a lot of barns.
They'd started with a cart, and invested a lot of time in reducing its weight as much as possible. Gearing had been a problem. He'd been doing a lot of thinking about gears. The ball wanted to spin much faster than the wheels wanted to turn. That was probably a metaphor for something or other.
“And I can't get it to go backward,” he said.
“Don't worry,” said Simony. “It won't have to go backward. What about armor?”
Urn waved a distracted hand around his workshop.
“This is a village forge!” he said. “This thing is twenty feet long! Zacharos can't make plates bigger than a few feet across. I've tried nailing them on a framework, but it just collapses under the weight.”
Simony looked at the skeleton of the steam car and the pile of plates stacked beside it.
“Ever been in a battle, Urn?” he said.