They walked past a fountain. The deacon's steelshod staff clicked in the night.

"I see a great future for you in the Church," said Vorbis, eventually. "The time of the eighth Prophet is coming. A time of expansion, and great opportunity for those true in the service of Om."

Brutha looked into the pit.

If Vorbis was right, and there was a kind of light that made darkness visible, then down there was its opposite, the darkness where no light could ever reach: darkness that blackened light. He thought of blind Didactylos and his empty lantern.

He heard himself say, "And with people like the Ephebians, there is no truce. No treaty can be held binding, if it is between people like the Ephebians and those who follow a deeper truth?"

Vorbis nodded. "When the Great God is with us," he said, "who can stand against us? You impress me, Brutha."

There was more laughter in the darkness, and the twang of stringed instruments.

"A feast," sneered Vorbis. "The Tyrant invited us to a feast! I sent some of the party, of course. Even their generals are in there! They think themselves safe behind their labyrinth, as a tortoise thinks himself safe in his shell, not realizing it is a prison. Onward."

The inner wall of the labyrinth loomed out of the darkness. Brutha leaned against it. From far above came the chink of metal on metal as a sentry went on his rounds.

The gateway to the labyrinth was wide open. The Ephebians had never seen the point of stopping people entering. Up a short side-tunnel the guide for the first sixth of the way slumbered on a bench, a candle gut­tering beside him. Above his alcove hung the bronze bell that would-be traversers of the maze used to sum­mon him. Brutha slipped past.

"Brutha?"

"Yes, lord?"

"Lead the way through the labyrinth. I know you can."

"Lord-”

"This is an order, Brutha," said Vorbis, pleasantly.

There is no hope for it, Brutha thought. It is an order.

"Then tread where I tread, lord," he whispered. "Not more than one step behind me."

"Yes, Brutha."

"If I step around a place on the floor for no reason, you step around it too."

"Yes, Brutha."

Brutha thought: perhaps I could do it wrong. No. I took vows and things. You can't just disobey. The whole world ends if you start thinking like that . . .

He let his sleeping mind take control. The way through the labyrinth unrolled in his head like a glow­ing wire .

. . . diagonally forward and right three and-a-half paces, and left sixty-three paces, pause two seconds­where a steely swish in the darkness suggested that one of the guardians had devised something that won him a prize-and up three steps . . .

I could run forward, he thought. I could hide, and he'd walk into one of the pits or a deadfall or some­thing, and then I could sneak back to my room and who would ever know?

I would .

. . . forward nine paces, and right one pace, and forward nineteen paces, and left two paces . . .

There was a light ahead. Not the occasional white glow of moonlight from the slits in the roof, but yel­low lamplight, dimming and brightening as its owner came nearer.

"Someone's coming," he whispered. "It must be one of the guides!"

Vorbis had vanished.

Brutha hovered uncertainly in the passageway as the light bobbed nearer.

An elderly voice said, "That you, Number Four?"

The light came round a corner. It half-illuminated an old man, who walked up to Brutha and raised the candle to his face.

"Where's Number Four?" he said, peering around Brutha.

A figure appeared behind the man, from out of a side­passage. Brutha had the briefest glimpse of Vorbis, his face strangely peaceful, as he gripped the head of his staff, twisted and pulled. Sharp metal glittered for a moment in the candlelight.

Then the light went out.

Vorbis's voice said, "Take the lead again."

Trembling, Brutha obeyed. He felt the soft flesh of an outflung arm under his sandal for a moment.

The pit, he thought. Look into Vorbis's eyes, and there's the pit. And I'm in it with him.

I've got to remember about fundamental truth.

No more guides were patrolling the labyrinth. After a mere million years, the night air blew cool on his face, and Brutha stepped out under the stars.

"Well done. Can you remember the way to the gate?"

"Yes, Lord Vorbis."

The deacon pulled his hood over his face.

"Carry on."

There were a few torches lighting the streets, but Ephebe was not a city that stayed awake in darkness. A couple of passers-by paid them no attention.

"They guard their harbor," said Vorbis, conversational. "But the way to the desert . . . everyone knows that no one can cross the desert. I am sure you know that, Brutha."

"But now I suspect that what I know is not the truth," said Brutha.

"Quite so. Ah. The gate. I believe it had two guards yesterday?"

"I saw two."

"And now it is night and the gate is shut. But there will be a watchman. Wait here."

Vorbis disappeared into the gloom. After a while there was a muffled conversation. Brutha stared straight ahead of him.

The conversation was followed by muffled silence. After a while Brutha started to count to himself.

After ten, I'll go back.

Another ten, then.

All right. Make it thirty. And then I'll . . .

"Ah, Brutha. Let us go."

Brutha swallowed his heart again, and turned slowly.

"I did not hear you, lord," he managed.

"I walk softly."

"Is there a watchman?"

"Not now. Come help me with the bolts."

A small wicket gate was set into the main gate. Brutha, his mind numb with hatred, shoved the bolts aside with the heel of his hand. The door opened with barely a creak.

Outside there was the occasional light of a distant farm, and crowding darkness.

Then the darkness poured in.

Hierarchy, Vorbis said later. The Ephebians didn't think in terms of hierarchies.

No army could cross the desert. But maybe a small army could get a quarter of the way, and leave a cache of water. And do that several times. And another small army could use part of that cache to go further, maybe reach halfway, and leave a cache. And another small army . . .

It had taken months. A third of the men had died, of heat and dehydration and wild animals and worse things, the worse things that the desert held . . .

You had to have a mind like Vorbis's to plan it.

And plan it early. Men were already dying in the desert before Brother Murduck went to preach; there was already a beaten track when the Omnian fleet burned in the bay before Ephebe.

You had to have a mind like Vorbis's to plan your retaliation before your attack.

It was over in less than an hour. The fundamental truth was that the handful of Ephebian guards in the palace had no chance at all.