Small Gods (Discworld, #13)

by Terry Pratchett

There was always that little intake of breath that indicated a guilty conscience. Vorbis liked to see properly guilty consciences. That was what consciences were for. Guilt was the grease in which the wheels of the authority turned.

Vorbis gave a light laugh, the kind made by very intelligent people when they think of something that probably isn’t very amusing.

The memory stole over him: a desert is what you think it is. And now, you can think clearly . . . There were no lies here. All fancies fled away. That’s what happened in all deserts. It was just you, and what you believed. What have I always believed? That on the whole, and by and large, if a man lived properly, not according to what any priests said, but according to what seemed decent and honest inside, then it would, at the end, more or less, turn out all right. You couldn’t get that on a banner. But the desert looked better already. Fri’it set out.

“Are you all philosophers?” said Brutha. The one called Xeno stepped forward, adjusting the hang of his toga. “That’s right,” he said. “We’re philosophers. We think, therefore we am.” “Are,” said the luckless paradox manufacturer automatically. Xeno spun around. “I’ve just about had it up to here with you, Ibid!” he roared. He turned back to Brutha. “We are, therefore we am,” he said confidently. “That’s it.” Several of the philosophers looked at one another with interest. “That’s actually quite interesting,” one said. “The evidence of our existence is the fact of our existence, is that what you’re saying?” “Shut up,” said Xeno, without looking around.

The Ephebians believed that every man should have the vote.* Every five years someone was elected to be Tyrant, provided he could prove that he was honest, intelligent, sensible, and trustworthy. Immediately after he was elected, of course, it was obvious to everyone that he was a criminal madman and totally out of touch with the view of the ordinary philosopher in the street looking for a towel. And then five years later they elected another one just like him, and really it was amazing how intelligent people kept on making the same mistakes.

“It’s happened before,” said the tortoise. “Dozens of times. D’you know Abraxas found the lost city of Ee? Very strange carvings, he says. Belief, he says. Belief shifts. People start out believing in the god and end up believing in the structure.” “I don’t understand,” said Brutha. “Let me put it another way,” said the tortoise. “I am your God, right?” “Yes.” “And you’ll obey me.” “Yes.” “Good. Now take a rock and go and kill Vorbis.” Brutha didn’t move. “I’m sure you heard me,” said Om. “But he’ll . . . he’s . . . the Quisition would—” “Now you know what I mean,” said the tortoise. “You’re more afraid of him than you are of me, now. Abraxas says here: ‘Around the Godde there forms a Shelle of prayers and Ceremonies and Buildings and Priestes and Authority, until at Last the Godde Dies. Ande this maye notte be noticed.’”

What the gods said was heard by each combatant in his own language, and according to his own understanding. It boiled down to: I. This is Not a Game. II. Here and Now, You are Alive.