God Emperor of Didcot Read Online Free Page B

declared. ‘Grand sentiments!’
    From the side came the creak of wheels. Smith had forgotten about the Grandmaster of the Collective Union of Plantation Production Associates, as much as one could forget about a man who lived in a gigantic vat of tea. He looked around at the Grandmaster, and saw his own face reflected in the smudged, dented metal above the little tap: a mask of determination with a well-kept moustache.
    ‘The tea must brew,’ the Grandmaster said.
    ‘We will go at once,’ Smith promised. ‘We will prepare for all eventualities and, if needs be, we will destroy this man. But we need to do this the Imperial way. First, before we kill him and take this planet for ourselves, we shall see if he will listen to reason.’

2 Casino Imperiale
    ‘Crusade! Crusade! Butcher the unbelievers! Wade in their blood! Rejoice in the lamentation of their women and drive their children before you like lambs to the slaughter! Crusade!’
    ‘So much for reasonable,’ said Isambard Smith.
    They stood at the back of a crowd that spread for a hundred yards in every direction from the front of the ex-warehouse that was now the Church of the Grand Annhilator. Above them, the sun of Urn had reached its peak, and the heat was remorseless. The combination of sun and shouting made Carveth slightly queasy and she felt grateful for her hat and ice cream.
    On the balcony of the church, the Grand Hyrax was a flailing mass of beard, hair and wide sleeves. He looked like a battered wizard trying to summon up spirits.
    ‘What do we want? Crusade! When do we want it? Now!’
    ‘What’s he doing?’ Carveth demanded, jumping up and down. The crowd roared approval, a wave of sound.
    ‘Not quite sure,’ Smith said, struggling to lean around the tall man in front of him. The fellow wore a collapsible wire frame on his head, with a piece of cloth stretched over it to form a sun-shade. ‘The tea-towel this chap’s got on his head is spoiling my view.’
    Carveth elbowed him. ‘You can’t say that!’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘That’s, I dunno, racist or something? Rhianna’d have your knackers if she heard you going on like that.’
    ‘Excuse me?’ The man in front turned around. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing. This is a tea towel, actually,’ he said, gesturing to his headwear. ‘It’s traditional on Urn: it bears the symbol of the collective plantation where I work. We Teasmen are a proud bunch, you see. Also,’ he added, pulling the ends of the tea towel over his ears, ‘it’s good for blocking out all the noise made by that colossal tit up there.’
    Behind the Hyrax, a row of robed, wild-looking men ran out like a chorus line and started battering themselves industriously with sticks. ‘You’ve got to admit, he knows how to put on a show,’ Smith observed. ‘He’s even got his own flagellants.’
    ‘Indeed.’ Suruk nodded. ‘He seems full of hot air.’
    ‘Flatulence, Suruk,’ Smith said. ‘Different business.’
    ‘Forgive me, Lord, for I have wind,’ Carveth added.
    ‘Two, four, six, eight, what do we appreciate? Crusade! Give me a C! Give me an R!’
    ‘Let’s go,’ Carveth said. ‘We’re not learning anything helpful here, and the mission briefing says that our contact has a swimming pool.’
    They turned and slipped through the crowd, Suruk leading the way. People moved out of his path: although free citizens, M’Lak rarely came to Urn, and the sentient population was almost entirely human. Around them, the crowd still gawped at the demagogue.
    ‘I wonder why anyone would listen to a load of arse like that,’ Smith said.
    Suruk shrugged. ‘Humans are stupid.’
    ‘Maybe, but not that stupid. You wonder what anyone could see in him.’
    They emerged beside their car, a Crofton Imp that Smith had hired at the spaceport. Smith drove, Carveth sitting beside him and Suruk stretched across the back seats, next to Gerald’s shaded, air-conditioned cage.
    The landing on Urn had gone surprisingly