“What've you got? He's got an army! You've got an army? How many divisions have you got?”
But thoughts like that needed energy, and there was a limit to the amount of energy available in one tortoise. He found a bunch of fallen grapes and gobbled them until the juice covered his head, but it didn't make a lot of difference.
And then there was nightfall. Nights here weren't as cold as the desert, but they weren't as warm as the day. He'd slow down at night as his blood cooled. He wouldn't be able to think as fast. Or walk as fast.
He was losing heat already. Heat meant speed.
He pulled himself up on to an anthill-
“You're going to die! You're going to die!”
-and slid down the other side.
Preparations for the inauguration of the Cenobiarch Prophet began many hours before the dawn. Firstly, and not according to ancient tradition, there was a very careful search of the temple by Deacon Cusp and some of his colleagues. There was a prowling for tripwires and a poking of odd corners for hidden archers. Although it was against the thread, Deacon Cusp had his head screwed on. He also sent a few squads into the town to round up the usual suspects. The Quisition always found it advisable to leave a few suspects at large. Then you knew where to find them when you needed them.
After that a dozen lesser priests arrived to shrive the premises and drive out all afreets, djinns, and devils. Deacon Cusp watched them without comment. He'd never had any personal dealings with supernatural entities, but he knew what a well-placed arrow would do to an unexpecting stomach.
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.”