Small Gods by Terry Pratchett Page B

shadow crossed the sun. Om squinted up into the face of Lu-Tze, who gazed at him with gentle, upside-down compassion. And then turned him the right way up. And then picked up his broom and wandered off, without a second glance.
    Om sagged, catching his breath. And then brightened up.
    Someone up there likes me, he thought. And it’s Me.

    Sergeant Simony waited until he was back in his own quarters before he unfolded his own scrap of paper.
    He was not at all surprised to find it marked with a small drawing of a turtle. He was the lucky one.
    He’d lived for a moment like this. Someone had to bring back the writer of the Truth, to be a symbol for the movement. It had to be him. The only shame was that he couldn’t kill Vorbis.
    But that had to happen where it could be seen.
    One day. In front of the Temple. Otherwise no one would believe .

    Om stumped along a sandy corridor.
    He’d hung around a while after Brutha’s disappearance. Hanging around is another thing tortoises are very good at. They’re practically world champions.
    Bloody useless boy, he thought. Served himself right for trying to talk to a barely coherent novice.
    Of course, the skinny old one hadn’t been able to hear him. Nor had the chef. Well, the old one was probably deaf. As for the cook…Om made a note that, when he was restored to his full godly powers, a special fate was going to lie in wait for the cook. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was going to be, but it was going to involve boiling water and probably carrots would come into it somewhere.
    He enjoyed the thought of that for a moment. But where did it leave him? It left him in this wretched garden, as a tortoise. He knew how he’d got in —he glared in dull terror at the tiny dot in the sky that the eye of memory knew was an eagle—and he’d better find a more terrestrial way out unless he wanted to spend the next month hiding under a melon leaf.
    Another thought struck him. Good eating!
    When he had his power again, he was going to spend quite some time devising a few new hells. And a couple of fresh Precepts, too. Thou shalt not eat of the Meat of the Turtle. That was a good one. He was surprised he hadn’t thought of it before. Perspective, that’s what it was.
    And if he’d thought of one like Thou Shalt Bloody Well Pick up Any Distressed Tortoises and Carry Them Anywhere They Want Unless, And This is Important, You’re an Eagle a few years ago, he wouldn’t be in this trouble now.
    Nothing else for it. He’d have to find the Cenobiarch himself. Someone like a High Priest would be bound to be able to hear him.
    And he’d be in this place somewhere. High Priests tended to stay put. He should be easy enough to find. And while he might currently be a tortoise, Om was still a god. How hard could it be?
    He’d have to go upwards. That’s what a hierarchy meant. You found the top man by going upwards.
    Wobbling slightly, his shell jerking from side to side, the former Great God Om set off to explore the citadel erected to his greater glory.
    He couldn’t help noticing things had changed a lot in three thousand years.

    “Me?” said Brutha. “But, but—”
    “I don’t believe he means to punish you,” said Nhumrod. “Although punishment is what you richly deserve, of course. We all richly deserve,” he added piously.
    “But why? ”
    “—why? He said he just wants to talk to you.”
    “But there is nothing I could possibly say that a quisitor wants to hear!” wailed Brutha.
    “—Hear. I am sure you are not questioning the deacon’s wishes,” said Nhumrod.
    “No. No. Of course not,” said Brutha. He hung his head.
    “Good boy,” said Nhumrod. He patted as far up Brutha’s back as he could reach. “Just you trot along,” he said. “I’m sure everything will be all right.” And then, because he too had been brought up in habits of honesty, he added, “Probably all right.”

    There were few steps in the Citadel. The progress of the many processions