Someone tapped him on the rib-cage. He gasped at the sudden linkage of real life into the chain of thought, and reached instinctively for his dagger.
“Oh,” he said.
Lu-Tze nodded and smiled and indicated with his broom that Deacon Cusp was standing on a patch of floor that he, Lu-Tze, wished to sweep.
“Hello, you ghastly little yellow fool,” said Deacon Cusp.
Nod, smile.
“Never say a bloody word, do you?” said Deacon Cusp.
Smile, smile.
“Idiot.”
Smile. Smile. Watch.
Urn stood back.
“Now,” he said, “you sure you've got it all?”
“Easy,” said Simony, who was sitting in the Turtle's saddle.
“Tell me again,” said Urn.
“We-stoke-up-the-firebox,” said Simony. “Then-when-the?red-needle-points-to-xxvi, turn-the-brass-tap; when-the-bronze-whistle-blows, pull-the-big-lever. And steer by pulling the ropes.”
“Right,” said Urn. But he still looked doubtful. “It's a precision device,” he said.
“And I am a professional soldier,” said Simony. “I'm not a superstitious peasant.”
"Fine, fine. Well . . . if you're sure . . . '
They'd had time to put a few finishing touches to the Moving Turtle. There were serrated edges to the shell and spikes on the wheels. And of course the waste steam pipe . . . he was a little uncertain about the waste steam pipe . . .
“It's merely a device,” said Simony. “It does not present a problem.”
“Give us an hour, then. You should just get to the Temple by the time we get the doors open.”
“Right. Understood. Off you go. Sergeant Fergmen knows the way.”
Urn looked at the steam pipe and bit his lip. I don't know what effect it's going to have on the enemy, he thought, but it scares the hells out of me.
Brutha woke up, or at least ceased trying to sleep. Lu-Tze had gone. Probably sweeping somewhere.
He wandered through the deserted corridors of the novice section. It would be hours before the new Cenobiarch was crowned. There were dozens of ceremonies to be undertaken first. Everyone who was anyone would be in the Place and the surrounding piazzas, and so would the even greater number of people who were no one very much. The sestinas were empty, the endless prayers left unsung. The Citadel might have been dead, were it not for the huge indefinable background roar of tens of thousands of people being silent. Sunlight filtered down through the light-wells.
Brutha had never felt more alone. The wilderness had been a feast of fun compared to this. Last night . . . last night, with Lu-Tze, it had all seemed so clear. Last night he had been in a mood to confront Vorbis there and then. Last night there seemed to be a chance. Anything was possible last night. That was the trouble with last nights. They were always followed by this mornings.
He wandered out into the kitchen level, and then into the outside world. There were one or two cooks around, preparing the ceremonial meal of meat, bread, and salt, but they paid him no attention at all.
He sat down outside one of the slaughterhouses. There was, he knew, a back gate somewhere around. Probably no one would stop him, today, if he walked out. Today they would be looking for unwanted people walking in.
He could just walk away. The wilderness had seemed quite pleasant, apart from the thirst and hunger. St. Ungulant with his madness and his mushrooms seemed to have life exactly right. It didn't matter if you fooled yourself provided you didn't let yourself know it, and did it well. Life was so much simpler, in the desert.
But there were a dozen guards by the gate. They had an unsympathetic look. He went back to his seat, which was tucked away in a corner, and stared gloomily at the ground.
If Om was alive, surely he could send a sign?