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“How many miles have we traveled, Brutha?” “Four miles and seven estado, lord.” “But how do you know?” That was a question he couldn’t answer. How did he know the sky was blue? It was just something in his head. You couldn’t think about how you thought. It was like opening a box with the crowbar that was inside.
“Yeah,” said Urn, grinning. “Use your left hand, do you?” “Er, I use both,” said Brutha. “But not very well, everyone says.” “Ah,” said Didactylos. “Ambi-sinister?” “What?” “He means incompetent with both hands,” said Om.
“Look at it this way,” said Om, “if you’d walked in the cave without me to warn you, you’d be lying on the floor now with a foot the size of a wardrobe. Do unto others before they do unto you.”
“Sir, surely only things that exist are worth believing in?” said the enquirer, who was wearing a uniform of a sergeant of the Holy Guard. “If they exist, you don’t have to believe in them,” said Didactylos. “They just are.”
Anything was possible last night. That was the trouble with last nights. They were always followed by this mornings.
He remembered Didactylos saying the world was a funny place. And, he thought distantly, it really was. Here people were about to roast someone to death, but they’d left his loin-cloth on, out of respectability. You had to laugh. Otherwise you’d go mad.
