“But perhaps we'd better just check that we know what we're doing,” he said. “It probably takes a min?ute or two before the doors start moving.” He fum?bled under his robe and produced something that looked, to Fergmen's eye, very much like a torture instrument. This must have communicated itself to Urn, who said very slowly and kindly: “This is an ad-just-ab-ble span-ner.”
“Yes?”
“It's for twisting nuts off.”
Fergmen nodded miserably.
“Yes?” he said.
“And this is a bottle of penetrating oil.”
“Oh, good.”
“Just give me a leg up, will you? It'll take time to unhook the linkage to the valve, so we might as well make a start.” Urn heaved himself into the ancient machinery while, above, the ceremony droned on.
Cut-Me-Own-Hand-Off Dhblah was all for new prophets. He was even in favor of the end of the world, if he could get the concession to sell religious statues, cut-price icons, rancid sweetmeats, ferment?ing dates, and putrescent olives on a stick to any watching crowds.
Subsequently, this was his testament. There never was a Book of the Prophet Brutha, but an enterprising scribe, during what came to be called the Renovation, did assemble some notes, and Dhblah had this to say:
"I. I was standing right by the statue of Ossory, right, when I noticed Brutha just beside me. Everyone was keeping away from him because of him being a bishop and they do things to you if you jostle bishops.
"II. I said to him, hello, Your Graciousness, and offered him a yoghurt practically free.
"III. He responded, no.
"IV. I said, it's very healthy, it's a live yoghurt.
"V. He said, yes, he could see.
"VI. He was staring at the doors. This was about the time of the third gong, right, so we all knew we'd got hours to wait. He was looking a bit down and it's not as if he even ate the yoghurt, which I admit was on the hum a bit, what with the heat. I mean, it was more alive than usual. I mean, I had to keep hitting it with a spoon to stop it getting out of the . . . all right. I was just explaining about the yoghurt. All right. I mean, you want to put a bit of color in, don't you? People like a bit of color. It was green.
"VII. He just stood there, staring. So I said, got a problem, Your Reverence? Upon which he vouch?safed, I cannot hear him. I said, what is this he to whom what you refer? He said, if he was here, he would send me a sign.
"VIII. There is no truth whatsoever in the rumor that I ran away at this juncture. It was just the pressure of the crowd. I have never been a friend of the Quisition. I might have sold them food, but I always charged them extra.
"IX. Anyway, right, then he pushed through the line of guards what was holding the crowd back and stood right in front of the doors, and they weren't sure what to do about bishops, and I heard him say something like, I carried you in the desert, I believed all my life, just give me this one thing.
“X. Something like that, anyway. How about some yoghurt? Bargain offer. Onna stick.”
Om lifted himself over a creeper-clad wall by grasping tendrils in his beak and hauling himself up by the neck muscles. Then he fell down the other side. The Citadel was as far away as ever.
Brutha's mind was flaming like a beacon in Om's senses. There's a streak of madness in everyone who spends quality time with gods, and it was driving the boy now.
“It's too soon!” Om yelled. “You need followers! It can't be just you! You can't do it by yourself! You have to get disciples first!”
Simony turned to look down the length of the Turtle. Thirty men were crouched under the shell, looking very apprehensive.
A corporal saluted.
“The needle's there, sergeant.”
The brass whistle whistled.
Simony picked up the steering ropes. This was what war should be, he thought. No uncertainty. A few more Turtles like this, and no one would ever fight again.
“Stand by,” he said.
He pulled the big lever hard.