Vorbis sat upright in the Tyrant's chair. It was approaching midnight.
A collection of Ephebian citizens, the Tyrant among them, had been herded in front of him.
He busied himself with some paperwork and then looked up with an air of mild surprise, as if he'd been completely unaware that fifty people were waiting in front of him at crossbow point.
"Ah," he said, and flashed a little smile.
"Well," he said, "I am pleased to say that we can now dispense with the peace treaty. Quite unnecessary. Why prattle of peace when there is no more war? Ephebe is now a diocese of Omnia. There will be no argument."
He threw a paper on to the floor.
"There will be a fleet here in a few days. There will be no opposition, while we hold the palace. Your infernal mirror is even now being smashed."
He steepled his fingers and looked at the assembled Ephebians.
"Who built it?"
The Tyrant looked up.
"It was an Ephebian construction," he said.
"Ah," said Vorbis, "democracy. I forgot. Then who"-he signaled one of the guards, who handed him a sack-"wrote this?"
A copy of De Chelonian Mobile was flung on to the marble floor.
Brutha stood beside the throne. It was where he had been told to stand.
He'd looked into the pit and now it was him. Everything around him was happening in some distant circle of light, surrounded by darkness. Thoughts chased one another round his head.
Did the Cenobiarch know about this? Did anyone else know about the two kinds of truth? Who else knew that Vorbis was fighting both sides of a war, like a child playing with soldiers? Was it really wrong if it was for the greater glory of …
… a god who was a tortoise. A god that only Brutha believed in?
Who did Vorbis talk to when he prayed?
Through the mental storm Brutha heard Vorbis's level tones: "If the philosopher who wrote this does not own up, the entirety of you will be put to the flame. Do not doubt that I mean it."
There was a movement in the crowd, and the sound of Didactylos's voice.
"Let go! You heard him! Anyway … I always wanted a chance to do this …"
A couple of servants were pushed aside and the philosopher stumped out of the crowd, his barren lantern held defiantly over his head.
Brutha watched the philosopher pause for a moment in the empty space, and then turn very slowly until he was directly facing Vorbis. He took a few steps forward then, and held the lantern out as he appeared to regard the deacon critically.
"Hmm," he said.
"You are the … perpetrator?" said Vorbis.
"Indeed. Didactylos is my name."
"You are blind?"
"Only as far as vision is concerned, my lord."
"Yet you carry a lantern," said Vorbis. "Doubtless for some catchword reason. Probably you'll tell me you're looking for an honest man?"
"I don't know, my lord. Perhaps you could tell me what he looks like?"
"I should strike you down now," said Vorbis.
"Oh, certainly."
Vorbis indicated the book.
"These lies. This scandal. This … this lure to drag the minds of men from the path of true knowledge. You dare to stand before me and declare"-he pushed the book with a toe-"that the world is flat and travels through the void on the back of a giant turtle?"
Brutha held his breath.
So did history.
Affirm your belief, Brutha thought. Just once, someone please stand up to Vorbis. I can't. But someone …
He found his eyes swiveling toward Simony, who stood on the other side of Vorbis's chair. The sergeant looked transfixed, fascinated.
Didactylos drew himself up to his full height. He half-turned and for a moment his blank gaze passed across Brutha. The lantern was extended at arm's length.
"No," he said.
"When every honest man knows that the world is a sphere, a perfect shape, bound to spin around the sphere of the Sun as Man orbits the central truth of Om," said Vorbis, "and the stars-
Brutha leaned forward, heart pounding.
"My lord?" he whispered.
"What?" snapped Vorbis.
"He said `no,' " said Brutha.
"That's right," said Didactylos.
Vorbis sat absolutely motion…
