BOOK II

The Book of the Dead

Two weeks went past. Ritual and ceremony in their due times kept the world under the sky and the stars in their courses. It was astonishing what ritual and ceremony could do.

The new king examined himself in the mirror, and frowned.

'What's it made of?' he said. 'It's rather foggy.'

'Bronze, sire. Polished bronze,' said Dios, handing him the Flail of Mercy.

'In Ankh-Morpork we had glass mirrors with silver on the back. They were very good.'

'Yes, sire. Here we have bronze, sire.'

'Do I really have to wear this gold mask?'

'The Face of the Sun, sire. Handed down through all the ages. Yes, sire. On all public occasions, sire.'

Teppic peered out through the eye slots. It was certainly a handsome face. It smiled faintly. He remembered his father visiting the nursery one day and forgetting to take it off; Teppic had screamed the place down.

'It's rather heavy.'

'It is weighted with the centuries,' said Dios, and passed over the obsidian Reaping Hook of Justice.

'Have you been a priest long, Dios?'

'Many years, sire, man and eunuch. Now-'

'Father said you were high priest even in grandad's time. You must be very old.'

'Well-preserved, sire. The gods have been kind to me,' said Dios, in the face of the evidence. 'And now, sire, if we could just hold this as well . .

'What is it?'

'The Honeycomb of Increase, sire. Very important.'

Teppic juggled it into position.

'I expect you've seen a lot of changes,' he said politely.

A look of pain passed over the old priest's face, but quickly, as if it was in a hurry to get away. 'No, sire,' he said smoothly, 'I have been very fortunate.'

'Oh. What's this?'

'The Sheaf of Plenty, sire. Extremely significant, very symbolic.'

'If you could just tuck it under my arm, then. . . Have you ever heard of plumbing, Dios?'

The priest snapped his fingers at one of the attendants. 'No, sire,' he said, and leaned forward. 'This is the Asp of Wisdom. I'll just tuck it in here, shall I?'

'It's like buckets, but not as, um, smelly.'

'Sounds dreadful, sire. The smell keeps bad influences away, I have always understood. This, sire, is the Gourd of the Waters of the Heavens. If we could just raise our chin . . .'

'This is all necessary, is it?' said Teppic indistinctly. 'It is traditional, sire. If we could just rearrange things a little, sire. . . here is the Three-Pronged Spear of the Waters of the Earth; I think we will be able to get this finger around it. We shall have to see about our marriage, sire.'

'I'm not sure we would be compatible, Dios.'

The high priest smiled with his mouth. 'Sire is pleased to jest, sire,' he said urbanely. 'However, it is essential that you marry.'

'I am afraid all the girls I know are in Ankh-Morpork,' said Teppic airily, knowing in his heart that this broad statement referred to Mrs Collar, who had been his bedder in the sixth form, and one of the serving wenches who'd taken a shine to him and always gave him extra gravy. (But . . . and his blood pounded at the memory.. . there had been the annual Assassins' Ball and, because the young assassins were trained to move freely in society and were expected to dance well, and because well-cut black silk and long legs attracted a certain type of older woman, they'd whirled the night away through baubons, galliards and slow— stepping pavonines, until the air thickened with musk and hunger. Chidder, whose simple open face and easygoing manner were a winner every time, came back to bed very late for days afterwards and tended to fall asleep during lessons . .

'Quite unsuitable, sire. We would require a consort well— versed in the observances. Of course, our aunt is available, sire.'

There was a clatter. Dios sighed, and motioned the attendants to pick things up.

'If we could just begin again, sire? This is the Cabbage of Vegetative Increase-'

'Sorry,' said Teppic, 'I didn't hear you say I should marry my aunt, did I?'

'You did, sire. Interfamilial marriage is a proud tradition of our lineage,' said Dios.

'But my aunt is my aunt!'

Dios rolled his eyes. He'd advised the late king repeatedly about the education of his son, but the man was stubborn, stubborn. Now he'd have to do it on the fly. The gods were testing him, he decided. It took decades to make a monarch, and he had weeks to do it in.

'Yes, sire,' he said patiently. 'Of course. And she is also your uncle, your cousin and your father.'

'Hold on. My father-'

The priest raised his hand soothingly. 'A technicality,' he said. 'Your great-great-grandmother once declared she is king as a matter of political expediency and I don't believe the edict is ever rescinded.'

'But she was a woman, though?'

Dios looked shocked. 'Oh no, sire. She is a man. She herself declared this.'

'But look, a chap's aunt-'

'Quite so, sire. I quite understand.'

'Well, thank you,' said Teppic.

'It is a great shame that we have no sisters.'

'Sisters!'

'It does not do to water the divine blood, sire. The sun might not like it. Now this, sire, is the Scapula of Hygiene. Where would you like it put?'

King Teppicymon XXVII was watching himself being stuffed. It was just as well he didn't feel hunger these days. Certainly he would never want to eat chicken again.

'Very nice stitching there, master.'

'Just keep your finger still, Gern.'

'My mother does stitching like that. She's got a pinny with stitching like that, has our mum,' said Gern conversationally.

'Keep it still, I said.'

'It's got all ducks and hens on it,' Gern supplied helpfully. Dil concentrated on the job in hand. It was good workmanship, he was prepared to admit. The Guild of Embalmers and Allied Trades had awarded him medals for it.

'It must make you feel really proud,' said Gern.

'What?'

'Well, our mam says the king goes on living, sort of thing, after all this stuffing and stitching. Sort of in the Netherworld. With your stitching in him.'

And several sacks of straw and a couple of buckets of pitch, thought the shade of the king sadly. And the wrapping off Gern's lunch, although he didn't blame the lad, who'd just forgotten where he'd put it. All eternity with someone's lunch wrapping as part of your vital organs. There had been half a sausage left, too.

He'd become quite attached to Dil, and even to Gern. He seemed still to be attached to his body, too — at least, he felt uncomfortable if he wandered more than a few hundred yards away from it — and so in the course of the last couple of days he'd learned quite a lot about them.

Funny, really. He'd spent the whole of his life in the kingdom talking to a few priests and so forth. He knew objectively there had been other people around — servants and gardeners and so forth — but they figured in his life as blobs. He was at the top, and then his family, and then the priests and the nobles of course, and then there were the blobs. Damn fine blobs, of course, some of the finest blobs in the world, as loyal a collection of blobs as a king might hope to rule. But blobs, none the less.

But now he was absolutely engrossed in the daily details of Dil's shy hopes for advancement within the Guild, and the unfolding story of Gern's clumsy overtures to Glwenda, the garlic farmer's daughter who lived nearby. He listened in fascinated astonishment to the elaboration of a world as full of subtle distinctions of grade and station as the one he had so recently left; it was terrible to think that he might never know if Gern overcame her father's objections and won his intended, or if Dil's work on this job — on him — would allow him to aspire to the rank of Exalted Grand Ninety-Degree Variance of the Matron Lodge of the Guild of Embalmers and Allied Trades.

It was as if death was some astonishing optical device which turned even a drop of water into a complex hive of life.

He found an overpowering urge to counsel Dil on elementary politics, or apprise Gern of the benefits of washing and looking respectable. He tried it several times. They could sense him, there was no doubt about that. But they just put it down to draughts.

Now he watched Dil pad over to the big table of bandages, and come back with a thick swatch which he held reflectively against what even the king was now prepared to think of as his corpse.

'I think the linen,' he said at last. 'It's definitely his colour.'

Gern put his head on one side.

'He'd look good in the hessian,' he said. 'Or maybe the calico.'

'Not the calico. Definitely not the calico. On him it's too big.'

'He could moulder into it. With wear, you know.'

Dil snorted. 'Wear? Wear? You shouldn't talk to me about calico and wear. What happens if someone robs the tomb in a thousand years' time and him in calico, I'd like to know. He'd lurch halfway down the corridor, maybe throttle one of them, I'll grant you, but then he's coming undone, right? The elbows'll be out in no time, I'll never live it down.'

'But you'll be dead, master!'

'Dead? What's that got to do with it?' Dil riffled through the samples. 'No, it'll be the hessian. Got plenty of give in it, hessian. Good traction, too. He'll really be able to lurch up speed in the passages, if he ever needs to.'

The king sighed. He'd have preferred something lightweight in taffeta.

'And go and shut the door,' Dil added. 'It's getting breezy in here.'

'And now it's time,' said the high priest, 'for us to see our late father.' He allowed himself a quiet smile. 'I am sure he is looking forward to it,' he added.

Teppic considered this. It wasn't something he was looking forward to, but at least it would get everyone's mind off him marrying relatives. He reached down in what he hoped was a kingly fashion to stroke one of the palace cats. This also was not a good move. The creature sniffed it, went cross-eyed with the effort of thought, and then bit his fingers.

'Cats are sacred,' said Dios, shocked at the words Teppic uttered.

'Long-legged cats with silver fur and disdainful expressions are, maybe,' said Teppic, nursing his hand, 'I don't know about this sort. I'm sure sacred cats don't leave dead ibises under the bed. And I'm certain that sacred cats that live surrounded by endless sand don't come indoors and do it in the king's sandals, Dios.'

'All cats are cats,' said Dios, vaguely, and added, 'If we would be so gracious as to follow us.' He motioned Teppic towards a distant arch.

Teppic followed slowly. He'd been back home for what seemed like ages, and it still didn't feel right. The air was too dry. The clothes felt wrong. It was too hot. Even the buildings seemed wrong. The pillars, for one thing. Back home, back at the Guild, pillars were gracefull fluted things with little bunches of stone grapes and things around the top. Here they were massive pear— shaped lumps, where all the stone had run to the bottom.

Half a dozen servants trailed behind him, carrying the various items of regalia.

He tried to imitate Dios's walk, and found the movements coming back to him. You turned your torso this way, then you turned your head this way, and extended your arms at forty-five degrees to your body with the palms down, and then you attempted to move.

The high priest's staff raised echoes as it touched the flagstones. A blind man could have walked barefoot through the palace by tracing the time-worn dimples it had created over the years.

'I am afraid that we will find that our father has changed somewhat since we last saw him,' said Dios conversationally, as they undulated by the fresco of Queen Khaphut accepting Tribute from the Kingdoms of the World.

'Well, yes,' said Teppic, bewildered by the tone. 'He's dead, isn't he?'

'There's that, too,' said Dios, and Teppic realised that he hadn't been referring to something as trivial as the king's current physical condition.

He was lost in a horrified admiration. It wasn't that Dios was particularly cruel or uncaring, it was simply that death was a mere irritating transition in the eternal business of existence. The fact that people died was just an inconvenience, like them being out when you called.

It's a strange world, he thought. It's all busy shadows, and it never changes. And I'm part of it.

'Who's he?' he said, pointing to a particularly big fresco showing a tall man with a hat like a chimney and a beard like a rope riding a chariot over a lot of other, much smaller, people.

'His name is in the cartouche below,' said Dios primly.

'What?'

'The small oval, sire,' said Dios.

Teppic peered closely at the dense hieroglyphics.

'"Thin eagle, eye, wiggly line, man with a stick, bird sitting down, wiggly line»,' he read. Dios winced.

'I believe we must apply ourselves more to the study of modem languages,' he said, recovering a bit. 'His name is Pta-ka-ba. He is king when the Djel Empire extends from the Circle Sea to the Rim Ocean, when almost half the continent pays tribute to us.'

Teppic realised what it was about the man's speech that was strange. Dios would bend any sentence to breaking point if it meant avoiding a past tense. He pointed to another fresco.

'And her?' he said.

'She is Queen Khat-leon-ra-pta,' said Dios. 'She wins the kingdom of Howandaland by stealth. This is the time of the Second Empire.'

'But she is dead?' said Teppic.

'I understand so,' said the high priest, after the slightest of pauses. Yes. The past tense definitely bothered Dios.

'I have learned seven languages,' said Teppic, secure in the knowledge that the actual marks he had achieved in three of them would remain concealed in the ledgers of the Guild.

'Indeed, sire?'

'Oh, yes. Morporkian, Vanglemesht, Ephebe, Laotation and several others . . .' said Teppic.

'Ah.' Dios nodded, smiled, and continued to proceed down the corridor, limping slightly but still measuring his pace like the ticking of centuries. 'The barbarian lands.'

Teppic looked at his father. The embalmers had done a good job. They were waiting for him to tell them so.

Part of him, which still lived in Ankh-Morpork, said: this is a dead body, wrapped up in bandages, surely they can't think that this will help him get better? In Ankh, you die and they bury you or burn you or throw you to the ravens. Here, it just means you slow down a bit and get given all the best food. It's ridiculous, how can you run a kingdom like this? They seem to think that being dead is like being deaf, you just have to speak up a bit.

But a second, older voice said: We've run a kingdom like this for seven thousand years. The humblest melon farmer has a lineage that makes kings elsewhere look like mayflies. We used to own the continent, before we sold it again to pay for pyramids. We don't even think about other countries less than three thousand years old. It all seems to work.

'Hallo, father,' he said.

The shade of Teppicymon XXVII, which had been watching him closely, hurried across the room.

'You're looking well!' he said. 'Good to see you! Look, this is urgent. Please pay attention, it's about death-'

'He says he is pleased to see you,' said Dios.

'You can hear him?' said Teppic. 'I didn't hear anything.'

'The dead, naturally, speak through the priests,' said the priest. 'That is the custom, sire.'

'But he can hear me, can he?'

'Of course.'

'I've been thinking about this whole pyramid business and, look, I'm not certain about it.'

Teppic leaned closer. 'Auntie sends her love,' he said loudly. He thought about this. 'That's my aunt, not yours.' I hope, he added.

'I say? I say? Can you hear me?'

'He bids you greetings from the world beyond the veil,' said Dios.

'Well, yes, I suppose I do, but LOOK, I don't want you to go to a lot of trouble and build-'

'We're going to build you a marvellous pyramid, father. You'll really like it there. There'll be people to look after you and everything.' Teppic glanced at Dios for reassurance. 'He'll like that, won't he?'

'I don't WANT one!' screamed the king. 'There's a whole interesting eternity I haven't seen yet. I forbid you to put me in a pyramid!'

'He says that is very proper, and you are a dutiful son,' said Dios.

'Can you see me? How many fingers am I holding up? Think it's fun, do you, spending the rest of your death under a million tons of rock, watching yourself crumble to bits? Is that your idea of a good epoch?'

'It's rather draughty in here, sire,' said Dios. 'Perhaps we should get on.'

'Anyway, you can't possibly afford it!'

'And we'll put your favourite frescoes and statues in with you. You'll like that, won't you,' said Teppic desperately.

'All your bits and pieces around you.'

'He will like it, won't be?' he asked Dios, as they walked back to the throne room. 'Only, I don't know, I somehow got a feeling he isn't too happy about it.'

'I assure you, sire,' said Dios, 'he can have no other desire.'

Back in the embalming room King Teppicymon XXVII tried to tap Gern on the shoulder, which had no effect. He gave up and sat down beside himself.

'Don't do it, lad,' he said bitterly. 'Never have descendants.'

And then there was the Great Pyramid itself.

Teppic's footsteps echoed on the marble tiles as he walked around the model. He wasn't sure what one was supposed to do here. But kings, he suspected, were often put in that position; there was always the good old fallback, which was known as taking an interest.

'Well, well,' he said. 'How long have you been designing pyramids?'

Ptaclusp, architect and jobbing pyramid builder to the nobility, bowed deeply.

'All my life, O light of noonday.'

'It must be fascinating,' said Teppic. Ptaclusp looked sidelong at the high priest, who nodded.

'It has its points, O fount of waters,' he ventured. He wasn't used to kings talking to him as though he was a human being. He felt obscurely that it wasn't right.

Teppic waved a hand at the model on its podium.

'Yes,' he said uncertainly. 'Well. Good. Four walls and a pointy tip. Jolly good. First class. Says it all, really.' There still seemed to be too much silence around. He plunged on.

'Good show,' he said. 'I mean; there's no doubt about it. This is.. . a. . . pyramid. And what a pyramid it is! Indeed.' This still didn't seem enough. He sought for something else. 'People will look at it in centuries to come and they'll say, they'll say . . . that is a pyramid. Um.'

He coughed. 'The walls slope nicely,' he croaked.

'But,' he said.

Two pairs of eyes swivelled towards his.

'Um,' he said.

Dios raised an eyebrow.

'Sire?'

'I seem to remember once, my father said that, you know, when he died, he'd quite like to, sort of thing, be buried at sea.'

There wasn't the choke of outrage he had expected. 'He meant the delta. It's very soft ground by the delta,' said Ptaclusp. 'It'd take months to get decent footings in. Then there's your risk of sinking. And the damp. Not good, damp, inside a pyramid.'

'No,' said Teppic, sweating under Dios's gaze, 'I think what he meant was, you know, in the sea.'

Ptaclusp's brow furrowed. 'Tricky, that,' he said thoughtfully. 'Interesting idea. I suppose one could build a small one, a million tonner, and float it out on pontoons or something…'

'No,' said Teppic, trying not to laugh, 'I think what he meant was, buried without-'

'Teppicymon XXVII means that he would want to be buried without delay,' said Dios, his voice like greased silk. 'And there is no doubt that he would require to honour the very best you can build, architect.'

'No, I'm sure you've got it wrong,' said Teppic.

Dios's face froze. Ptaclusp's slid into the waxen expression of someone with whom it is, suddenly, nothing to do. He started to stare at the floor as if his very survival depended on his memorising it in extreme detail.

'Wrong?' said Dios.

'No offence. I'm sure you mean well,' said Teppic. 'It's just that, well, he seemed very clear about it at the time and-'

'I mean well?' said Dios, tasting each word as though it was a sour grape. Ptaclusp coughed. He had finished with the floor. Now he started on the ceiling.

Dios took a deep breath. 'Sire,' he said, 'we have always been pyramid builders. All our kings are buried in pyramids. It is how we do things, sire. It is how things are done.'

'Yes, but-'

'It does not admit of dispute,' said Dios. 'Who could wish for anything else? Sealed with all artifice against the desecrations of Time-' now the oiled silk of his voice became armour, hard as steel, scornful as spears — 'Shielded for all Time against the insults of Change.'

Teppic glanced down at the high priest's knuckles. They were white, the bone pressing through the flesh as though in a rage to escape.

His gaze slid up the grey-clad arm to Dios's face. Ye gods, he thought, it's really true, he does look like they got tired of waiting for him to die and pickled him anyway. Then his eyes met those of the priest, more or less with a clang.

He felt as though his flesh was being very slowly blown off his bones. He felt that he was no more significant than a mayfly. A necessary mayfly, certainly, a mayfly that would be accorded all due respect, but still an insect with all the rights thereof. And as much free will, in the fury of that gaze, as a scrap of papyrus in a hurricane.

'The king's will is that he be interred in a pyramid,' said Dios, in the tone of voice the Creator must have used to sketch out the moon and stars.

'Er,' said Teppic.

'The finest of pyramids for the king,' said Dios.

Teppic gave up.

'Oh,' he said. 'Good. Fine. Yes. The very best, of course.' Ptaclusp beamed with relief, produced his wax tablet with a flourish, and took a stylus from the recesses of his wig. The important thing, he knew, was to clinch the deal as soon as possible. Let things slip in a situation like this' and a man could find himself with 1,500,000 tons of bespoke limestone on his hands.

'Then that will be the standard model, shall we say, O water in the desert?'

Teppic looked at Dios, who was standing and glaring at nothing now, staring the bulldogs of Entropy into submission by willpower alone.

'I think something larger,' he ventured hopelessly.

'That's the Executive,' said Ptaclusp. 'Very exclusive, O base of the eternal column. Last you a perpetuality. Also our special offer this aeon is various measurements of paracosmic significance built into the very fabric at no extra cost.'

He gave Teppic an expectant look.

'Yes. Yes. That will be fine,' said Teppic.

Dios took a deep breath. 'The king requires far more than that,' be said.

'I do?' said Teppic, doubtfully.

'Indeed, sire. It is your express wish that the greatest of monuments is erected for your father,' said Dios smoothly. This was a contest, Teppic knew, and he didn't know the rules or how to play and he was going to lose.

'It is? Oh. Yes. Yes. I suppose it is, really. Yes.'

'A pyramid unequalled along the Djel,' said Dios. 'That is the command of the king. It is only right and proper.'

'Yes, yes, something like that. Er. Twice the normal size,' said Teppic desperately, and had the brief satisfaction of seeing Dios look momentarily disconcerted.

'Sire?' he said.

'It is only right and proper,' said Teppic. Dios opened his mouth to protest, saw Teppic's expression, and shut it again.

Ptaclusp scribbled busily, his adam's apple bobbing. Something like this only happened once in a business career.

'Can do you a very nice black marble facing on the outside,' he said, without looking up. 'We may have just enough in the quarry. O king of the celestial orbs,' he added hurriedly.

'Very good,' said Teppic.

Ptaclusp picked up a fresh tablet. 'Shall we say the capstone picked out in electrum? It's cheaper to have built in right from the start, you don't want to use just silver and then say later, I wish I'd had a-'

'Electrum, yes.'

'And the usual offices?'

'What?'

'The burial chamber, that is, and the outer chamber. I'd recommend the Memphis, very select, that comes with a matching extra large treasure room, so handy for all those little things one cannot bear to leave behind.' Ptaclusp turned the tablet over and started on the other side. 'And of course a similar suite for the Queen, I take it? O King who shall live forever.'

'Eh? Oh, yes. Yes. I suppose so,' said Teppic, glancing at Dios. 'Everything. You know.'

'Then there's mazes,' said Ptaclusp, trying to keep his voice steady. 'Very popular this era. Very important, your maze, it's no good deciding you ought to have put a maze in after the robbers have been. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I'd go for the Labrys every time. Like we say, they may get in all right, but they'll never get out. It costs that little bit extra, but what's money at a time like this? O master of the waters.'

Something we don't have, said a warning voice in the back of Teppic's head. He ignored it. He was in the grip of destiny.

'Yes,' he said, straightening up. 'The Labrys. Two of them.'

Ptaclusp's stylus went through his tablet.

'His 'n' hers, O stone of stones,' he croaked. 'Very handy, very convenient. With selection of traps from stock? We can offer deadfalls, pitfalls, sliders, rolling balls, dropping spears, arrows-'

'Yes, yes,' said Teppic. 'We'll have them. We'll have them all. All of them.'

The architect took a deep breath.

'And of course you'll require all the usual steles, avenues, ceremonial sphinxes-' he began.

'Lots,' said Teppic. 'We leave it entirely up to you.'

Ptaclusp mopped his brow.

'Fine,' he said. 'Marvellous.' He blew his nose. 'Your father, if I may make so bold, O sower of the seed, is extremely fortunate in having such a dutiful son. I may add-'

'You may go,' said Dios. 'And we will expect work to start imminently.'

'Without delay, I assure you,' said Ptaclusp. 'Er.'

He seemed to be wrestling with some huge philosophical problem.

'Yes?' said Dios coldly.

'It's uh. There's the matter of uh. Which is not to say uh. Of course, oldest client, valued customer, but the fact is that uh. Absolutely no doubt about credit worthiness uh. Would not wish to suggest in any way whatsoever that uh.'

Dios gave him a stare that would have caused a sphinx to blink and look away.

'You wish to say something?' he said. 'His majesty's time is extremely limited.'

Ptaclusp worked his jaw silently, but the result was a foregone conclusion. Even gods had been reduced to sheepish mumbling in the face of Dios's face. And the carved snakes on his staff seemed to be watching him too.

'Uh. No, no. Sorry. I was just, uh, thinking aloud. I'll depart, then, shall I? Such a lot of work to be done. Uh.' He bowed low.

He was halfway to the archway before Dios added: 'Completion in three months. In time for Inundation11.'

'What?'

'You are talking to the 1,398th monarch,' said Dios icily. Ptaclusp swallowed. 'I'm sorry,' he whispered, 'I mean, what?, O great king. I mean, block haulage alone will take. Uh.' The architect's lips trembled as he tried out various comments and, in his imagination, ran them full tilt into Dios's stare. 'Tsort wasn't built in a day,' he mumbled.

'We do not believe we laid the specifications for that job,' said Dios. He gave Ptaclusp a smile. In some ways it was worse than everything else. 'We will, of course,' he said, 'pay extra.'

'But you never pa-' Ptaclusp began, and then sagged.

'The penalties for not completing on time will, of course, be terrible,' said Dios. 'The usual clause.'

Ptaclusp hadn't the nerve left to argue. 'Of course,' he said, utterly defeated. 'It is an honour. Will your eminences excuse me? There are still some hours of daylight left.'

Teppic nodded.

'Thank you,' said the architect. 'May your loins be truly fruitful. Saving your presence, Lord Dios.'

They heard him running down the steps outside.

'It will be magnificent. Too big, but — magnificent,' said Dios. He looked out between the pillars at the necropolic panorama on the far bank of the Djel.

'Magnificent,' he repeated. He winced once more at the stab of pain in his leg. Ah. He'd have to cross the river again tonight, no doubt of it. He'd been foolish, putting it off for days. But it would be unthinkable not to be in a position to serve the kingdom properly.

'Something wrong, Dios?' said Teppic.

'Sire?'

'You looked a bit pale, I thought.' A look of panic flickered over Dios's wrinkled features. He pulled himself upright.

'I assure you, sire, I am in the best of health. The best of health, sire!'

'You don't think you've been overdoing it, do you?'

This time there was no mistaking the expression of terror.

'Overdoing what, sire?'

'You're always bustling, Dios. First one up, last one to bed. You should take it easy.'

'I exist only to serve, sire,' said Dios, firmly. 'I exist only to serve.'

Teppic joined him on the balcony. The early evening sun glowed on a man-made mountain range. This was only the central massif; the pyramids stretched from the delta all the way up to the second cataract, where the Djel disappeared into the mountains. And the pyramids occupied the best land, near the river. Even the farmers would have considered it sacrilegious to suggest anything different.

Some of the pyramids were small, and made of rough-hewn blocks that contrived to look far older than the mountains that fenced the valley from the high desert. After all, mountains had always been there. Words like 'young' and 'old' didn't apply to them. But those first pyramids had been built by human beings, little bags of thinking water held up briefly by fragile accumulations of calcium, who had cut rocks into pieces and then painfully put them back together again in a better shape. They were old.

Over the millennia the fashions had fluctuated. Later pyramids were smooth and sharp, or flattened and tiled with mica. Even the steepest of them, Teppic mused, wouldn't rate more than 1.O on any edificeer's scale, although some of the stelae and temples, which flocked around the base of the pyramids like tugboats around the dreadnoughts of eternity, could be worthy of attention.

Dreadnoughts of eternity, he thought, sailing ponderously through the mists of Time with every passenger travelling first class . . .

A few stars had been let out early. Teppic looked up at them. Perhaps, he thought, there is life somewhere else. On the stars, maybe. If it's true that there are billions of universes stacked alongside one another, the thickness of a thought apart, then there must be people elsewhere.

But wherever they are, no matter how mightily they try, no matter how magnificent the effort, they surely can't manage to be as godawfully stupid as us. I mean, we work at it. We were given a spark of it to start with, but over hundreds of thousands of years we've really improved on it.

He turned to Dios, feeling that he ought to repair a little bit of the damage.

'You can feel the age radiating off them, can't you,' he said conversationally.

'Pardon, sire?'

'The pyramids, Dios. They're so old.'

Dios glanced vaguely across the river. 'Are they?' he said. 'Yes, I suppose they are.'

'Will you get one?' said Teppic.

'A pyramid?' said Dios. 'Sire, I have one already. It pleased one of your forebears to make provision for me.'

'That must have been a great honour,' said Teppic. Dios nodded graciously. The staterooms of forever were usually reserved for royalty.

'It is, of course, very small. Very plain. But it will suffice for my simple needs.'

'Will it?' said Teppic, yawning. 'That's nice. And now, if you don't mind, I think I'll turn in. It's been a long day.'

Dios bowed as though he was hinged in the middle. Teppic had noticed that Dios had at least fifty finely-tuned ways of bowing, each one conveying subtle shades of meaning. This one looked like No.3, I Am Your Humble Servant.

'And a very good day it was too, if I may say so, sire. Teppic was lost for words. 'You thought so?' he said.

'The cloud effects at dawn were particularly effective.'

'They were? Oh. Do I have to do anything about the sunset?'

'Your majesty is pleased to joke,' said Dios. 'Sunsets happen by themselves, sire. Haha.'

'Haha,' echoed Teppic.

Dios cracked his knuckles. 'The trick is in the sunrise,' he said.

The crumbling scrolls of Knot said that the great orange sun was eaten every evening by the sky goddess, What, who saved one pip in time to grow a fresh sun for next morning. And Dios knew that this was so.

The Book of Staying in The Pit said that the sun was the Eye of Yay, toiling across the sky each day in His endless search for his toenails12. And Dios knew that this was so.

The secret rituals of the Smoking Mirror held that the sun was in fact a round hole in the spinning blue soap bubble of the goddess Nesh, opening into the fiery real world beyond, and the stars were the holes that the rain comes through. And Dios knew that this, also, was so.

Folk myth said the sun was a ball of fire which circled the world every day, and that the world itself was carried through the everlasting void on the back of an enormous turtle. And Dios also knew that this was so, although it gave him a bit of trouble.

And Dios knew that Net was the Supreme God, and that Fon was the Supreme God, and so were Hast, Set, Bin, Sot, Ic, Dhek, and Ptooie; that Herpetine Triskeles alone ruled the world of the dead, and so did Syncope, and Silur the Catfish-Headed God, and Orexis-Nupt.

Dios was maximum high priest to a national religion that had fermented and accreted and bubbled for more than seven thousand years and never threw a god away in case it turned out to be useful. He knew that a great many mutually-contradictory things were all true. If they were not, then ritual and belief were as nothing, and if they were nothing, then the world did not exist. As a result of this sort of thinking, the priests of the Djel could give mind room to a collection of ideas that would make even a quantum mechanic give in and hand back his toolbox.

Dios's staff knocked echoes from the stones as he limped along in the darkness down little-frequented passages until he emerged on a small jetty. Untying the boat there, the high priest climbed in with difficulty, unshipped the oars and pushed himself out into the turbid waters of the dark Djel.

His hands and feet felt too cold. Foolish, foolish. He should have done this before.

The boat jerked slowly into midstream as full night rolled over the valley. On the far bank, in response to the ancient laws, the pyramids started to light the sky.

Lights also burned late in the house of Ptaclusp Associates, Necropolitan Builders to the Dynasties. The father and his twin Sons were hunched over the huge wax designing tray, arguing.

'It's not as if they ever pay,' said Ptaclusp IIa. 'I mean it's not just a case of not being able to, they don't seem to have grasped the idea. At least dynasties like Tsort pay up within a hundred years or so. Why didn't you-'

'We've built pyramids along the Djel for the last three thousand years,' said his father stiffly, 'and we haven't lost by it, have we? No, we haven't. Because the other kingdoms look to the Djel, they say there's a family that really knows its pyramids, connysewers, they say we'll have what they're having, if you please, with knobs on. Anyway, they're real royalty,' he added, 'not like some of the ones you get these days — here today, gone next millennium. They're half gods, too. You don't expect real royalty to pay its way. That's one of the signs of real royalty, not having any money.'

'You don't get more royal than them, then. You'd need a new word,' said IIa. We're nearly royal in that case.'

'You don't understand business, my son. You think it's all book-keeping. Well, it isn't.'

'It's a question of mass. And the power to weight ratio.' They both glared at Ptaclusp IIb, who was sitting staring at the sketches. He was turning his stylus over and over in his hands, which were trembling with barely-suppressed excitement.

'We'll have to use granite for the lower slopes,' he said, talking to himself, 'the limestone wouldn't take it. Not with all the power flows. Which will be, whooeee, they'll be big. I mean we're not talking razor blades here. This thing could put an edge on a rolling pin.'

Ptaclusp rolled his eyes. He was only one generation into a dynasty and already it was trouble. One son a born accountant, the other in love with this new-fangled cosmic engineering. There hadn't been any such thing when he was a lad, there was just architecture. You drew the plans, and then got in ten thousand lads on time-and-a-half and double bubble at weekends. They just had to pile the stuff up. You didn't have to be cosmic about it.

Descendants! The gods had seen fit to give him one son who charged you for the amount of breath expended in saying 'Good morning', and another one who worshipped geometry and stayed up all night designing aqueducts. You scrimped and saved to send them to the best schools, and then they went and paid you back by getting educated.

'What are you talking about?' he snapped.

'The discharge alone . . .' He pulled his abacus towards him and rattled the pottery beads along the wires. 'Let's say we're talking twice the height of the Executive model, which gives us a mass of. . . plus additional coded dimensions of occult significance as per spec. . . we couldn't do this sort of thing even a hundred years ago, you realise, not with the primitive techniques we had then…' His finger became a blur.

IIa gave a snort and grabbed his own abacus.

'Limestone at two talents the ton. . .' he said. 'Wear and tear on tools . . . masonry charges . . . demurrage . . . breakages . . . oh dear, oh dear . . . on-cost . . . black marble at replacement prices . . .'

Ptaclusp sighed. Two abaci rattling in tandem the whole day long, one changing the shape of the world and the other one deploring the cost. Whatever happened to the two bits of wood and a plumbline?

The last beads clicked against the stops.

'It'd be a whole quantum leap in pyramidology,' said IIb, sitting back with a messianic grin on his face.

'It'd be a whole kwa-' IIa began.

'Quantum,' said IIb, savouring the word.

'It'd be a whole quantum leap in bankruptcy,' said IIa.

'They'd have to invent a new word for that too.'

'It'd be worth it as a loss leader,' said IIb.

'Sure enough. When it comes to making a loss, we'll be in the lead,' said IIa sourly.

'It'd practically glow! In millennia to come people will look at it and say «That Ptaclusp, he knew his pyramids all right».'

'They'll call it Ptaclusp's Folly, you mean!'

By now the brothers were both standing up, their noses a few inches apart.

'The trouble with you, sibling, is that you know the cost of everything and the value of nothing!'

'The trouble with you is — is — is that you don't!'

'Mankind must strive ever upwards!'

'Yes, on a sound financial footing, by Khuft!'

'The search for knowledge-'

'The search for probity-'

Ptaclusp left them to it and stood staring out at the yard, where, under the glow of torches, the staff were doing a feverish stocktaking.

It'd been a small business when father passed it on to him — just a yard full of blocks and various sphinxes, needles, steles and other stock items, and a thick stack of unpaid bills, most of them addressed to the palace and respectfully pointing out that our esteemed account presented nine hundred years ago appeared to have been overlooked and prompt settlement would oblige. But it had been fun in those days. There was just him, five thousand labourers, and Mrs Ptaclusp doing the books.

You had to do pyramids, dad said. All the profit was in mastabas, small family tombs, memorial needles and general jobbing necropoli, but if you didn't do pyramids, you didn't do anything. The meanest garlic farmer, looking for something neat and long lasting with maybe some green marble chippings but within a budget, wouldn't go to a man without a pyramid to his name.

So he'd done pyramids, and they'd been good ones, not like some you saw these days, with the wrong number of sides and walls you could put your foot through. And yes, somehow they'd gone from strength to strength.

To build the biggest pyramid ever..

In three months.

With terrible penalties if it wasn't done on time. Dios hadn't specified how terrible, but Ptaclusp knew his man and they probably involved crocodiles. They'd be pretty terrible, all right…

He stared at the flickering light on the long avenues of statues, including the one of bloody Hat the Vulture-Headed God of Unexpected Guests, bought on the offchance years ago and turned down by the client owing to not being up to snuff in the beak department and unshiftable ever since even at a discount.

The biggest pyramid ever . . .

And after you'd knocked your pipes out seeing to it that the nobility had their tickets to eternity, were you allowed to turn your expertise homeward, i.e., a bijou pyramidette for self and Mrs Ptaclusp, to ensure safe delivery into the Netherworld? Of course not. Even dad had only been allowed to have a mastaba, although it was one of the best on the river, he had to admit, that red-veined marble had been ordered all the way from Howonderland, a lot of people had asked for the same, it had been good for business, that's how dad would have liked it. . .

The biggest pyramid ever . . .

And they'd never remember who was under it.

It didn't matter if they called it Ptaclusp's Folly or Ptaclusp's Glory. They'd call it Ptaclusp's.

He surfaced from this pool of thought to hear his sons still arguing.

If this was his posterity, he'd take his chances with 600-ton limestone blocks. At least they were quiet.

'Shut up, the pair of you,' he said.

They stopped, and sat down, grumbling.

'I've made up my mind,' he said.

IIb doodled fitfully with his stylus. IIa strummed his abacus.

'We're going to do it,' said Ptaclusp, and strode out of the room. 'And any son who doesn't like it will be cast into the outer darkness where there is a wailing and a crashing of teeth,' he called over his shoulder.

The two brothers, left to themselves, glowered at each other.

At last IIa said, 'What does «quantum» mean, anyway?'

IIb shrugged. 'It means add another nought,' he said.

'Oh,' said IIa, 'is that all?'

All along the river valley of the Djel the pyramids were flaring silently into the night, discharging the accumulated power of the day.

Great soundless flames erupted from their capstones and danced upwards, jagged as lightning, cold as ice.

For hundreds of miles the desert glittered with the constellations of the dead, the aurora of antiquity. But along the valley of the Djel the lights ran together in one solid ribbon of fire.

It was on the floor and it had a pillow at one end. It had to be a bed.

Teppic found he was doubting it as he tossed and turned, trying to find some part of the mattress that was prepared to meet him halfway. This is stupid, he thought, I grew up on beds like this. And pillows carved out of rock. I was born in this palace, this is my heritage, I must be prepared to accept it . . .

I must order a proper bed and a feather pillow from Ankh, first thing in the morning. I, the king, have said this shall be done.

He turned over, his head hitting the pillow with a thud.

And plumbing. What a great idea that was. It was amazing what you could do with a hole in the ground.

Yes, plumbing. And bloody doors. Teppic definitely wasn't used to having several attendants waiting on his will all the time, so performing his ablutions before bed had been extremely embarrassing. And the people, too. He was definitely going to get to know the people. It was wrong, all this skulking in palaces.

And how was a fellow supposed to sleep with the sky over the river glowing like a firework?

Eventually sheer exhaustion wrestled his body into some zone between sleeping and waking, and mad images stalked across his eyeballs.

There was the shame of his ancestors when future archaeologists translated the as-yet unpainted frescoes of his reign: '"Squiggle, constipated eagle, wiggly line, hippo's bottom, squiggle»: And in the year of the Cycle of Cephnet the Sun God Teppic had Plumbing Installed and Scorned the Pillows of his Forebears.'

He dreamed of Khuft — huge, bearded, speaking in thunder and lightning, calling down the wrath of the heavens on this descendant who was betraying the noble past.

Dios floated past his vision, explaining that as a result of an edict passed several thousand years ago it was essential that he marry a cat.

Various-headed gods vied for his attention, explaining details of godhood, while in the background a distant voice tried to attract his attention and screamed something about not wanting to be buried under a load of stone. But he had no time to concentrate on this, because he saw seven fat cows and seven thin cows, one of them playing a trombone.

But that was an old dream, he dreamt that one nearly every night.

And then there was a man firing arrows at a tortoise . . .

And then he was walking over the desert and found a tiny pyramid, only a few inches high. A wind sprang up and blew away the sand, only now it wasn't a wind, it was the pyramid rising, sand tumbling down its gleaming sides .

And it grew bigger and bigger, bigger than the world, so that at last the pyramid was so big that the whole world was a speck in the centre.

And in the centre of the pyramid, something very strange happened.

And the pyramid grew smaller, taking the world with it. and vanished . . .

Of course, when you're a pharaoh, you get a very high class of obscure dream.

Another day dawned, courtesy of the king, who was curled up on the bed and using his rolled-up clothes as a pillow. Around the stone maze of the palace the servants of the kingdom began to wake up.

Dios's boat slid gently through the water and bumped into the jetty. Dios climbed out and hurried into the palace, bounding up the steps three at a time and rubbing his hands together at the thought of a fresh day laid out before him, every hour and ritual ticking neatly into place. So much to organise, so much to be needed for . . .

The chief sculptor and maker of mummy cases folded up his measure.

'You done a good job there, Master Dil,' he said.

Dil nodded. There was no false modesty between craftsmen. The sculptor gave him a nudge. 'What a team, eh?' he said. 'You pickle 'em, I crate 'em.'

Dil nodded, but rather more slowly. The sculptor looked down at the wax oval in his hands.

'Can't say I think much of the death mask, mind,' he said. Gern, who was working hard on the corner slab on one of the Queen's late cats, which he had been allowed to do all by himself, looked up in horror.

'I done it very careful,' he said sulkily.

'That's the whole point,' said the sculptor.

'I know,' said Dil sadly, 'it's the nose, isn't it.'

'It was more the chin.'

'And the chin.'

'Yes.'

'Yes.'

They looked in gloomy silence at the waxen visage of the pharaoh. So did the pharaoh.

'Nothing wrong with my chin.'

'You could put a beard on it,' said Dil eventually. 'It'd cover a lot of it, would a beard.'

'There's still the nose.'

'You could take half an inch off that. And do something with the cheekbones.'

'Yes.'

'Yes.'

Gern was horrified. 'That's the face of our late king you're talking about,' he said. 'You can't do that sort of thing! Anyway, people would notice.' He hesitated. 'Wouldn't they?'

The two craftsmen eyed one another.

'Gern,' said Dil patiently, 'certainly they'll notice. But they won't say anything. They expect us to, er, improve matters.'

'After all,' said the chief sculptor cheerfully, 'you don't think they're going to step up and say «It's all wrong, he really had a face like a short-sighted chicken», do you?'

'Thank you very much. Thank you very much indeed, I must say.' The pharaoh went and sat by the cat. It seemed that people only had respect for the dead when they thought the dead were listening.

'I suppose,' said the apprentice, with some uncertainty, 'he did look a bit ugly compared to the frescoes.'

'That's the point, isn't it,' said Dil meaningfully. Gern's big honest spotty face changed slowly, like a cratered landscape with clouds passing across it. It was dawning on him that this came under the heading of initiation into ancient craft secrets.

'You mean even the painters change the-' he began.

Dil frowned at him.

'We don't talk about it,' he said.

Gern tried to force his features into an expression of worthy seriousness.

'Oh,' he said. 'Yes. I see, master.'

The sculptor clapped him on the back.

'You're a bright lad, Gern,' he said. 'You catch on. After all, it's bad enough being ugly when you're alive. Think how terrible it would be to be ugly in the netherworld.'

King Teppicymon XXVII shook his head. We all have to look alike when we're alive, he thought, and now they make sure we're identical when we're dead. What a kingdom. He looked down and saw the soul of the late cat, which was washing itself. When he was alive he'd hated the things, but just now it seemed positively companionable. He patted it gingerly on its flat head. It purred for a moment, and then attempted to strip the flesh from his hand. It was on a definite hiding to nothing there.

He was aware with growing horror that the trio was now discussing a pyramid. His pyramid. It was going to be the biggest one ever. It was going to go on a highly fertile piece of sloping ground on a prime site in the necropolis. It was going to make even the biggest existing pyramid look like something a child might construct in a sand tray. It was going to be surrounded by marble gardens and granite obelisks. It was going to be the greatest memorial ever built by a son for his father.

The king groaned.

Ptaclusp groaned.

It had been better in his father's day. You just needed a bloody great heap of log rollers and twenty years, which was useful because it kept everyone out of trouble during Inundation, when all the fields were flooded. Now you just needed a bright lad with a piece of chalk and the right incantations.

Mind you, it was impressive, if you liked that kind of thing.

Ptaclusp IIb walked around the great stone block, tidying an equation here, highlighting a hermetic inscription there. He glanced up and gave his father a brief nod.

Ptaclusp hurried back to the king, who was standing with his retinue on the cliff overlooking the quarry, the sun gleaming off the mask. A royal visit, on top of everything else 'We're ready, if it please you, O arc of the sky,' he said, breaking into a sweat, hoping against hope that Oh gods. The king was going to Put Him at his Ease again.

He looked imploringly at the high priest, who with the merest twitch of his features indicated that there was nothing he proposed to do about it. This was too much, he wasn't the only one to object to this, Dil the master embalmer had been subjected to half an hour of having to Talk about his Family only yesterday, it was wrong, people expected the king to stay in the palace, it was too . . .

The king ambled towards him in a nonchalant way designed to make the master builder feel he was among friends. Oh no, Ptaclusp thought, he's going to Remember my Name.

'I must say you've done a tremendous amount in nine weeks, it's a very good start. Er. It's Ptaclusp, isn't it?' said the king.

Ptaclusp swallowed. There was no help for it now.

'Yes, O hand upon the waters,' he said, 'O fount of-'

'I think «your majesty» or «sire» will do,' said Teppic. Ptaclusp panicked and glanced fearfully at Dios, who winced but nodded again.

'The king wishes you to address him-' a look of pain crossed his face — 'informally. In the fashion of the barba — of foreign lands.'

'You must consider yourself a very fortunate man to have such talented and hard-working sons,' said Teppic, staring down at the busy panorama of the quarry.

'I . . . will, O . . . sire,' mumbled Ptaclusp, interpreting this as an order. Why couldn't kings order people around like in the old days? You knew where you were then, they didn't go round being charming and treating you as some sort of equal, as if you could make the sun rise too.

'It must be a fascinating trade,' Teppic went on.

'As your sire wishes, sire,' said Ptaclusp. 'If your majesty would just give the word-'

'And how exactly does all this work?'

'Your sire?' said Ptaclusp, horrified.

'You make the blocks fly, do you?'

'Yes, O sire.'

'That is very interesting. How do you do it?'

Ptaclusp nearly bit through his lip. Betray Craft secrets? He was horrified. Against all expectation, Dios came to his aid.

'By means of certain secret signs and sigils, sire,' he said, 'into the origin of which it is not wise to inquire. It is the wisdom of-' he paused '-the modems.'

'So much quicker than all that heaving stuff around, I expect,' said Teppic.

'It had a certain glory, sire,' said Dios. 'Now, if I may suggest . . .

'Oh. Yes. Press on, by all means.'

Ptaclusp wiped his forehead, and ran to the edge of the quarry.

He waved a cloth.

All things are defined by names. Change the name, and you change the thing. Of course there is a lot more to it than that, but paracosmically that is what it boils down to.

Ptaclusp IIb tapped the stone lightly with his staff. The air above it wavered in the heat and then, shedding a little dust, the block rose gently until it bobbed a few feet off the ground, held in check by mooring ropes.

That was all there was to it. Teppic had expected some thunder, or at least a gout of flame. But already the workers were clustering around another block, and a couple of men were towing the first block down towards the site.

'Very impressive,' he said sadly.

'Indeed, sire,' said Dios. 'And now, we must go back to the palace. It will soon be time for the Ceremony of the Third Hour.

'Yes, yes, all right,' snapped Teppic. 'Very well done, Ptaclusp. Keep up the good work.'

Ptaclusp bowed like a seesaw in flustered excitement and confusion.

'Very good, your sire,' he said, and decided to go for the big one. 'May I show your sire the latest plans?'

'The king has approved the plans already,' said Dios. 'And, excuse me if I am mistaken, but it seems that the pyramid is well under construction.'

'Yes, yes, but,' said Ptaclusp, 'it occurred to us, this avenue here, you see, overlooking the entrance, what a place, we thought, for a statue of for instance Hat the Vulture-Headed God of Unexpected Guests at practically cost-'

Dios glanced at the sketches.

'Are those supposed to be wings?' he said.

'Not even cost, not even cost, tell you what I'll do-' said Ptaclusp desperately.

'Is that a nose?' said Dios.

'More a beak, more a beak,' said Ptaclusp. 'Look, O priest, how about-'

'I think not,' said Dios. 'No. I really think not.' He scanned the quarry for Teppic, groaned, thrust the sketches into the builder's hands and started to run.

Teppic had strolled down the path to the waiting chariots, looking wistfully at the bustle around him, and paused to watch a group of workers who were dressing a corner piece. They froze when they felt his gaze on them, and stood sheepishly watching him.

'Well well,' said Teppic, inspecting the stone, although all he knew about stonemasonry could have been chiselled on a sand grain. 'What a splendid piece of rock.'

He turned to the nearest man, whose mouth fell open.

'You're a stonemason, are you?' he said. 'That must be a very interesting job.'

The man's eyes bulged. He dropped his chisel. 'Erk,' he said.

A hundred yards away Dios's robes flapped around his legs as he pounded down the path. He grasped the hem and galloped along, sandals flapping.

'What's your name?' said Teppic. 'Aaaargle,' said the man, terrified.

'Well, jolly good,' said Teppic, and took his unresisting hand and shook it.

'Sire!' Dios bellowed. 'No!'

And the mason spun away, holding his right hand by the wrist, fighting it, screaming . . .

Teppic gripped the arms of the throne and glared at the high priest.

'But it's a gesture of fellowship, nothing more. Where I come from-'

'Where you come from, sire, is here!' thundered Dios.

'But, good grief, cutting it off? It's too cruel!'

Dios stepped forward. Now his voice was back to its normal oil-smooth tones.

'Cruel, sire? But it will be done with precision and care, with drugs to take away the pain. He will certainly live.

'But why?'

'I did explain, sire. He cannot use the hand again without defiling it. He is a devout man and knows this very well. You see, sire, you are a god, sire.'

'But you can touch me. So can the servants!'

'I am a priest, sire,' said Dios gently. 'And the servants have special dispensation.'

Teppic bit his lip.

'This is barbaric,' he said.

Dios's features did not move.

'It will not be done,' Teppic said. 'I am the king. I forbid it to be done, do you understand?'

Dios bowed. Teppic recognised No.49, Horrified Disdain.

'Your wish will certainly be done, O fountain of all wisdom. Although, of course, the man himself may take matters into, if you will excuse me, his own hands.'

'What do you mean?' snapped Teppic.

'Sire, if his colleagues had not stopped him he would have done it himself. With a chisel, I understand.'

Teppic stared at him and thought, I am a stranger in a familiar land.

'I see,' he said eventually.

He thought a little further.

'Then the — operation is to be done with all care, and the man is to be given a pension afterwards, d'you see?'

'As you wish, sire.'

'A proper one, too.'

'Indeed, sire. A golden handshake, sire,' said Dios impassively.

'And perhaps we can find him some light job around the palace?'

'As a one-handed stonemason, sire?' Dios's left eyebrow arched a fraction.

'As whatever, Dios.'

'Certainly, sire. As you wish. I will undertake to see if we are currently short-handed in any department.'

Teppic glared at him. 'I am the king, you know,' he said sharply.

'The fact attends me with every waking hour, sire.'

'Dios?' said Teppic, as the high priest was leaving.

'Sire?'

'I ordered a feather bed from Ankh-Morpork some weeks ago. I suppose you would not know what became of it?'

Dios waved his hands in an expressive gesture. 'I gather, sire, that there is considerable pirate activity off the Khalian coast,' he said.

'Doubtless the pirates are also responsible for the non— appearance of the expert from the Guild of Plumbers and Dunnikindivers13?' Teppic said sourly.

'Yes, sire. Or possibly bandits, sire.'

'Or perhaps a giant two-headed bird swooped down and carried him off,' said Teppic.

'All things are possible, sire,' said the high priest, his face radiating politeness.

'You may go, Dios.'

'Sire. May I remind you, sire, that the emissaries from Tsort and Ephebe will be attending you at the fifth hour.'

'Yes. You may go.'

Teppic was left alone, or at least as alone as he ever was, which meant that he was all by himself except for two fan wavers, a butler, two enormous Howonder guards by the door, and a couple of handmaidens.

Oh, yes. Handmaidens. He hadn't quite come to terms with the handmaidens yet. Presumably Dios chose them, as he seemed to oversee everything in the palace, and he had shown surprisingly good taste in the matter of, for example, olive skins, bosoms and legs. The clothing these two wore would between them have covered a small saucer. And this was odd, because the net effect was to turn them into two attractive and mobile pieces of furniture, as sexless as pillars. Teppic sighed with the recollection of women in Ankh-Morpork who could be clothed from neck to ankle in brocade and still cause a classroom full of boys to blush to the roots of their hair.

He reached down for the fruit bowl. One of the girls immediately grasped his hand, moved it gently aside, and took a grape.

'Please don't peel it,' said Teppic. 'The peel's the best part. Full of nourishing vitamins and minerals. Only I don't suppose you've heard about them, have you, they've only been invented recently,' he added, mainly to himself. 'I mean, within the last seven thousand years,' he finished sourly.

So much for time flowing past, he thought glumly. It might do that everywhere else, but not here. Here it just piles up, like snow. It's as though the pyramids slow us down, like those things they used on the boat, whatd'youcallem, sea anchors. Tomorrow here is just like yesterday, warmed over.

She peeled the grape anyway, while the snowflake seconds drifted down.

At the site of the Great Pyramid the huge blocks of stone floated into place like an explosion in reverse. They were flowing between the quarry and the site, drifting silently across the landscape above deep rectangular shadows.

'I've got to hand it to you,' said Ptaclusp to his son, as they stood side by side in the observation tower. 'It's astonishing. One day people will wonder how we did it.'

'All that business with the log rollers and the whips is old hat,' said IIb. 'You-can throw them away.' The young architect smiled, but there was a manic hint to the rictus.

It was astonishing. It was more astonishing than it ought to be. He kept getting the feeling that the pyramid was . . .

He shook himself mentally. He should be ashamed of that sort of thinking. You could get superstitious if you weren't careful, in this job.

It was natural for things to form a pyramid — well, a cone, anyway. He'd experimented this morning. Grain, salt, . . . not water, though, that'd been a mistake. But a pyramid was only a neat cone, wasn't it, a cone which had decided to be a bit tidier.

Perhaps he'd overdone it just a gnat on the paracosmic measurements?

His father slapped him on the back.

'Very well done,' he repeated. 'You know, it almost looks as though it's building itself.'

IIb yelped and bit his wrist, a childish trait that he always resorted to when he was nervous. Ptaclusp didn't notice, because at that moment one of the foremen was running to the foot of the tower, waving his ceremonial measuring rod.

Ptaclusp leaned over.

'What?' he demanded.

'I said, please to come at once, O master!'

On the pyramid itself, on the working surface about halfway up, where some of the detailed work on the inner chambers was in progress, the word 'impressive' was no longer appropriate. The word 'terrifying' seemed to fit the bill.

Blocks were stacking up in the sky overhead in a giant, slow dance, passing and re-passing, their mahouts yelling at one another and at the luckless controllers down on the pyramid top, who were trying to shout instructions above the noise.

Ptaclusp waded into the cluster of workers around the centre. Here, at least, there was silence. Dead silence.

'All right, all right,' he said. 'What's going . . . oh.' Ptaclusp IIb peered over his father's shoulder, and stuck his wrist in his mouth.

The thing was wrinkled. It was ancient. It clearly had once been a living thing. It lay on the slab like a very obscene prune.

'It was my lunch,' said the chief plasterer. 'It was my bloody lunch. I was really looking forward to that apple.'

'But it can't start yet,' whispered IIb. 'It can't form temporal nodes yet, I mean, how does it know it's going to be a pyramid?'

'I put my hand down for it, and it felt just like . . . it felt pretty unpleasant,' the plasterer complained.

'And it's a negative node, too,' added IIb. 'We shouldn't be getting them at all.'

'Is it still there?' said Ptaclusp, and added, 'Tell me yes.' 'If more blocks have been set into position it won't be,' said his son, looking around wildly. 'As the centre of mass changes, you see, the nodes will be pulled around.'

Ptaclusp pulled the young man to one side.

'What are you telling me now?' he demanded, in a camel whisper14.

'We ought to put a cap on it,' mumbled IIb. 'Flare off the trapped time. Wouldn't be any problems then . . .'

'How can we cap it? It isn't damn well finished,' said Ptaclusp. 'What have you been and gone and done? Pyramids don't start accumulating until they're finished. Until they're pyramids, see? Pyramid energy, see? Named after pyramids. That's why it's called pyramid energy.'

'It must be something to do with the mass, or something,' the architect hazarded, 'and the speed of construction. The time is getting trapped in the fabric. I mean, in theory you could get small nodes during construction, but they'd be so weak you wouldn't notice; if you went and stood in one maybe you'd become a few hours older or younger or-' he began to gabble.

'I recall when we did Kheneth XIV's tomb the fresco painter said it took him two hours to do the painting in the Queen's Room, and we said it was three days and fined him,' said Ptaclusp, slowly. 'There was a lot of Guild fuss, I remember.'

'You just said that,' said IIb.

'Said what?'

'About the fresco painter. Just a moment ago.

'No, I didn't. You couldn't have been listening,' said Placlusp.

'Could have sworn you did. Anyway, this is worse than that business,' said his son. 'And it's probably going to happen again.'

'We can expect more like it?'

'Yes,' said IIb. 'We shouldn't get negative nodes, but it looks as though we will. We can expect fast flows and reverse flows and probably even short loops. I'm afraid we can expect all kinds of temporal anomalies. We'd better get the men off.'

'I suppose you couldn't work out a way we could get them to work in fast time and pay them for slow time?' said Ptaclusp. 'It's just a thought. Your brother's bound to suggest it.'

'No! Keep everyone off! We'll get the blocks in and cap it first!'

'All right, all right. I was just thinking out loud. As if we didn't have enough problems . . .'

Ptaclusp waded into the cluster of workers around the centre. Here, at least, there was silence. Dead silence.

'All right, all right,' he said. 'What's going . . . oh.' Ptaclusp IIb peered over his father's shoulder, and stuck his wrist in his mouth.

The thing was wrinkled. It was ancient. It clearly had once been a living thing. It lay on the slab like a very obscene prune.

'It was my lunch,' said the chief plasterer. 'It was my bloody lunch. I was really looking forward to that apple.' Ptaclusp hesitated. This all seemed very familiar. He'd had this feeling before. An overwhelming sensation of reja vu15. He met the horrified gaze of his son. Together, dreading what they might see, they turned around slowly. They saw themselves standing behind themselves, bickering over something IIb was swearing that he had already heard.

He has, too, Ptaclusp realised in dread. That's me over there. I look a lot different from the outside. And it's me over here, too. As well. Also.

It's a loop. Just like in the river, a tiny whirlpool, only it's in the flow of time. And I've just gone round it twice.

The other Ptaclusp looked up at him.

There was a long, agonising moment of temporal strain, a noise like a mouse blowing bubblegum, and the loop broke, and the figure faded.

'I know what's causing it,' muttered IIb indistinctly, because of his wrist. 'I know the pyramid isn't complete, but it will be, so the effects are sort of echoing backwards, dad, we ought to stop right now, it's too big, I was wrong— 'Shut up. Can you work out where the nodes will form?' said Ptaclusp. 'And come away over here, all the lads are staring. Pull yourself together, son.'

IIb instinctively put his hand to his belt abacus.

'Well, yes, probably,' he said. 'It's just a function of mass distribution and-'

'Right,' said the builder firmly. 'Start doing it. And then get all the foremen to come and see me.'

There was a glint like mica in Ptaclusp's eye. His jaw was squared like a block of granite. Maybe it's the pyramid that's got me thinking like this, he said, I'm thinking fast, I know it.

'And get your brother up here, too,' he added.

It is the pyramid effect. I'm remembering an idea I'm going to have.

Best not to think too hard about that. Be practical.

He stared around at the half-completed site. The gods knew we couldn't do it in time, he said. Now we don't have to. We can take as long as we like!

'Are you all right?' said IIb. 'Dad, are you all right?'

'Was that one of your time loops?' said Ptaclusp dreamily. What an idea! No-one would ever beat them on a contract ever again, they'd win bonuses for completion and it didn't matter how long it took!

'No! Dad, we ought-'

'But you're sure you can work out where these loops will occur, are you?'

'Yes, I expect so, but-'

'Good.' Ptaclusp was trembling with excitement. Maybe they'd have to pay the men more, but it would be worth it, and IIa would be bound to think up some sort of scheme, finance was nearly as good as magic. The lads would have to accept it. After all, they'd complained about working with free men, they'd complained about working with Howondanians, they'd complained about working with everyone except proper paid-up Guild members. So they could hardly complain about working with themselves. IIb stepped back, and gripped the abacus for reassurance. 'Dad,' he said cautiously, 'what are you thinking about?' Ptaclusp beamed at him. 'Doppelgangs,' he said.

Politics was more interesting. Teppic felt that here, at least, he could make a contribution.

Djelibeybi was old. It was respected. But it was also small and in the sword-edged sense, which was what seemed to matter these days, had no power. It wasn't always thus, as Dios told it. Once it had ruled the world by sheer force of nobility, hardly needing the standing army of twenty-five thousand men it had in those high days.

Now it wielded a more subtle power as a narrow state between the huge and thrusting empires of Tsort and Ephebe, each one both a threat and a shield. For more than a thousand years the kings along the Djel had, with extreme diplomacy, exquisite manners and the footwork of a centipede on adrenaline, kept the peace along the whole widdershins side of the continent. Merely having existed for seven thousand years can be a formidable weapon, if you use it properly.

'You mean we're neutral ground?' said Teppic.

'Tsort is a desert culture like us,' said Dios, steepling his hands. 'We have helped to shape it over the years. As for Ephebe-' He sniffed. 'They have some very strange beliefs.'

'How do you mean?'

'They believe the world is run by geometry, sire. All lines and angles and numbers. That sort of thing, sire-' Dios frowned — 'can lead to some very unsound ideas.'

'Ah,' said Teppic, resolving to learn more about unsound ideas as soon as possible. 'So we're secretly on the side of Tsort, yes?'

'No. It is important that Ephebe remains strong.'

'But we've more in common with Tsort?'

'So we allow them to believe, sire.'

'But they are a desert culture?'

Dios smiled. 'I am afraid they don't take pyramids seriously, sire.'

Teppic considered all this.

'So whose side are we really on?'

'Our own, sire. There is always a way. Always remember, sire, that your family was on its third dynasty before our neighbours had worked out, sire, how babies are made.'

The Tsort delegation did indeed appear to have studied Djeli culture assiduously, almost frantically. It was also clear that they hadn't begun to understand it; they'd merely borrowed as many bits as seemed useful and then put them together in subtly wrong ways. For example, to a man they employed the Three-Turning-Walk, as portrayed on friezes, and only used by the Djeli court on certain occasions. Occasional grimaces crossed their faces as their vertebrae protested.

They were also wearing the Khruspids of Morning and the bangles of Going Forth, as well as the kilt of Yet with, and no wonder even the maidens on fan duty were hiding their smiles, matching greaves!16 Even Teppic had to cough hurriedly. But then, he thought, they don't know any better. They're like children.

And this thought was followed by another one which added, These children could wipe us off the map in one hour.

Hot on the synapses of the other two came a third thought, which said: It's only clothes, for goodness sake, you're beginning to take it all seriously.

The group from Ephebe were more sensibly dressed in white togas. They had a certain sameness about them, as if somewhere in the country there was a little press that stamped out small bald men with curly white beards.

The two parties halted before the throne, and bowed.

'Halo,' said Teppic.

'His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King, bids you welcome and commands you to take wine with him,' said Dios, clapping his hands for a butler.

'Oh yes,' said Teppic. 'Do sit down, won't you?'

'His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King, commands you to be seated,' said Dios.

Teppic racked his brains for a suitable speech. He'd heard plenty in Ankh-Morpork. They were probably the same the whole world over.

'I'm sure we shall get on-'

'His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King, bids you harken!' Dios boomed.

'-long history of friendship-'

'Harken to the wisdom of His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King!'

The echoes died away.

'Could I have a word with you a moment, Dios?'

The high priest leaned down.

'Is all this necessary?' hissed Teppic.

Dios's aquiline features took on the wooden expression of one who is wrestling with an unfamiliar concept.

'Of course, sire. It is traditional,' he said, at last.

'I thought I was supposed to talk to these people. You know, about boundaries and trade and so on. I've been doing a lot of thinking about it and I've got several ideas. I mean, it's going to be a little difficult if you're going to keep shouting.'

Dios gave him a polite smile.

'Oh no, sire. That has all been sorted out, sire. I met with them this morning.'

'What am I supposed to do, then?' Dios made a slight circling motion with his hand.

'Just as you wish, sire. It is normal to smile a little, and put them at their ease.'

'Is that all'

'Sire could ask them whether they enjoy being diplomats, sire,' said Dios. He met Teppic's glare with eyes as expressionless as mirrors.

'I am the king,' Teppic hissed.

'Certainly, sire. It would not do to sully the office with mere matters of leaden state, sire. Tomorrow, sire, you will be holding supreme court. A very fit office for a monarch, sire.'

'Ah. Yes.'

It was quite complicated. Teppic listened carefully to the case, which was alleged cattle theft compounded by Djeli's onion-layered land laws. This is what it should be all about, he thought. No-one else can work out who owns the bloody ox, this is the sort of thing kings have to do. Now, let's see, five years ago, he sold the ox to him, but as it turned out— He looked from the face of one worried farmer to the other. They were both clutching their ragged straw hats close to their chests, and both of them wore the paralysed wooden expressions of simple men who, in pursuit of their parochial disagreement, now found themselves on a marble floor in a great room with their god enthroned before their very eyes. Teppic didn't doubt that either one would cheerfully give up all rights to the wretched creature in exchange for being ten miles away.

It's a fairly mature ox, he thought, time it was slaughtered, even if it's his it's been fattening on his neighbour's land all these years, half each would be about right, they're really going to remember this judgement .

He raised the Sickle of Justice.

'His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King, will give judgement! Cower to the justice of His Greatness the King Tep-'

Teppic cut Dios off in mid-intone.

'Having listened to both sides of the case,' he said firmly, the mask giving it a slight boom, 'and, being impressed by the argument and counter-argument, it seems to us only just that the beast in question should be slaughtered without delay and shared with all fairness between both plaintiff and defendant.'

He sat back. They'll call me Teppic the Wise, he thought. The common people go for this sort of thing.

The farmers gave him a long blank stare. Then, as if they were both mounted on turntables, they turned and looked to where Dios was sitting in his place on the steps in a group of lesser priests.

Dios stood up, smoothed his plain robe, and extended the staff.

'Harken to the interpreted wisdom of His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King,' he said. 'It is our divine judgement that the beast in dispute is the property of Rhumusphut. It is our divine judgement that the beast be sacrificed upon the altar of the Concourse of Gods in thanks for the attention of Our Divine Self. It is our further judgement that both Rhumusphut and Ktoffle work a further three days in the fields of the King in payment for this judgement.'

Dios raised his head until he was looking along his fearsome nose right into Teppic's mask. He raised both hands.

'Mighty is the wisdom of His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King!'

The farmers bobbed in terrified gratitude and backed out of the presence, framed between the guards.

'Dios,' said Teppic, levelly.

'Sire?'

'Just attend upon me a moment, please?'

'Sire?' repeated Dios, materialising by the throne.

'I could not help noticing, Dios, excuse me if I am wrong, a certain flourish in the translation there.'

The priest looked surprised.

'Indeed no, sire. I was most precise in relaying your decision, saving only to refine the detail in accordance with precedent and tradition.'

'How was that? The damn creature really belonged to both of them!'

'But Rhumusphut is known to be punctilious in his devotions, sire, seeking every opportunity to laud and magnify the gods, whereas Ktoffle has been known to harbour foolish thoughts.'

'What's that got to do with justice?'

'Everything, sire,' said Dios smoothly.

'But now neither of them has the ox!'

'Quite so, sire. But Ktoffle does not have it because he does not deserve it, while Rhumusphut, by his sacrifice, has ensured himself greater stature in the netherworld.'

'And you'll eat beef tonight, I suppose,' said Teppic. It was like a blow; Teppic might as well have picked up the throne and hit the priest with it. Dios took a step backward, aghast, his eyes two brief pools of pain. When he spoke, there was a raw edge to his voice.

'I do not eat meat, sire,' he said. 'It dilutes and tarnishes the soul. May I summon the next case, sire?'

Teppic nodded. 'Very well.'

The next case was a dispute over the rent of a hundred square yards of riverside land. Teppic listened carefully. Good growing land was at a premium in Djeli, since the pyramids took up so much of it. It was a serious matter.

It was especially serious because the land's tenant was by all accounts hard-working and conscientious, while its actual owner was clearly rich and objectionable17. Unfortunately, however one chose to stack the facts, he was also in the right.

Teppic thought deeply, and then squinted at Dios. The priest nodded at him.

'It seems to me-' said Teppic, as fast as possible but not fast enough.

'Harken to the judgement of His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King!'

'It seems to me — to us,' Teppic repeated, 'that, taking all matters in consideration beyond those of mere mortal artifice, the true and just outcome in this matter-' He paused. This, he thought, isn't how a good king speaks.

'The landlord has been weighed in the balance and found wanting,' he boomed through the mask's mouth slit. 'We find for the tenant.'

As one man the court turned to Dios, who held a whispered consultation with the other priests and then stood up.

'Hear now the interpreted word of His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King! Ptorne the farmer will at once pay 18 toons in back rent to Prince Imtebos! Prince Imbetos will at once pay 12 toons into the temple offerings of the gods of the river! Long live the king! Bring on the next case!'

Teppic beckoned to Dios again.

'Is there any point in me being here?' he demanded in an overheated whisper.

'Please be calm, sire. If you were not here, how would the people know that justice had been done?'

'But you twist everything I say!'

'No, sire. Sire, you give the judgement of the man. I interpret the judgement of the king.'

'I see,' said Teppic grimly. 'Well, from now on-'

There was a commotion outside the hall. Clearly there was a prisoner outside who was less than confident in the king's justice, and the king didn't blame him. He wasn't at all happy about it, either.

It turned out to be a dark-haired girl, struggling in the arms of two guards and giving them the kind of blows with fist and heel that a man would blush to give. She wasn't wearing the right kind of costume for the job, either. It would be barely adequate for lying around peeling grapes in.

She saw Teppic and, to his secret delight, flashed him a glance of pure hatred. After an afternoon of being treated like a mentally-deficient statue it was a pleasure to find someone prepared to take an interest in him.

He didn't know what she had done, but judging by the thumps she was landing on the guards it was a pretty good bet that she had done it to the very limits of her ability.

Dios bent down to the level of the mask's ear holes.

'Her name is Ptraci,' he said. 'A handmaiden of your father. She has refused to take the potion.'

'What potion?' said Teppic.

'It is customary for a dead king to take servants with him into the netherworld, sire.'

Teppic nodded gloomily. It was a jealously-guarded privilege, the only way a penniless servant could ensure immortality. He remembered grandfather's funeral, and the discreet clamour of the old man's personal servants. It had made father depressed for days.

'Yes, but it's not compulsory,' he said.

'Yes, sire. It is not compulsory.'

'Father had plenty of servants.'

'I gather she was his favourite, sire.'

'What exactly has she done wrong, then?'

Dios sighed, as one might if one were explaining things to an extremely backward child.

'She has refused to take the potion, sire.'

'Sorry. I thought you said it wasn't compulsory, Dios.'

'Yes, sire. It is not, sire. It is entirely voluntary. It is an act of free will. And she has refused it, sire.'

'Ah. One of those situations,' said Teppic. Djelibeybi was built on those sort of situations. Trying to understand them could drive you mad. If one of his ancestors had decreed that night was day, people would go around groping in the light.

He leaned forward.

'Step forward, young lady,' he said.

She looked at Dios.

'His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII-'

'Do we have to go all through that every time?'

'Yes, sire — Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King, bids you declare your guilt!'

The girl shook herself out of the guards' grip and faced Teppic, trembling with terror.

'He told me he didn't want to be buried in a pyramid,' she said. 'He said the idea of those millions of tons of rock on top of him gave him nightmares. I don't want to die yet!'

'You refuse to gladly take the poison?' said Dios.

'Yes!'

'But, child,' said Dios, 'then the king will have you put to death anyway. Surely it is better to go honourably, to a worthy life in the netherworld?'

'I don't want to be a servant in the netherworld!'

There was a groan of horror from the assembled priests. Dios nodded.

'Then the Eater of Souls will take you,' he said. 'Sire, we look to your judgement.'

Teppic realised he was staring at the girl. There was something hauntingly familiar about her which he couldn't quite put his finger on. 'Let her go,' he said.

'His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King, has spoken! Tomorrow at dawn you will be cast to the crocodiles of the river. Great is the wisdom of the king!'

Ptraci turned and glared at Teppic. He said nothing. He did not dare, for fear of what it might become.

She went away quietly, which was worse than sobbing or shouting.

'That is the last case, sire,' said Dios.

'I will retire to my quarters,' said Teppic coldly. 'I have much to think about.'

'Therefore I will have dinner sent in,' said the priest. 'It will be roast chicken.'

'I hate chicken.'

Dios smiled. 'No, sire. On Wednesdays the king always enjoys chicken, sire.'

The pyramids flared. The light they cast on the landscape was curiously subdued, grainy, almost grey, but over the capstone of each tomb a zigzag flame crackled towards the sky.

A faint click of metal and stone sprang Ptraci from a fitful doze into extreme wakefulness. She stood up very carefully and crept towards the window.

Unlike proper cell windows, which should be large and airy and requiring only the removal of a few inconvenient iron bars to ensure the escape of any captives, this window was a slit six inches wide. Seven thousand years had taught the kings along the Djel that cells should be designed to keep prisoners in. The only way they could get out through this slit was in bits.

But there was a shadow against the pyramid light, and a voice said, 'Psst.'

She flattened herself against the wall and tried to reach up to the slit.

'Who are you?'

'I'm here to help you. Oh damn. Do they call this a window? Look, I'm lowering a rope.'

A thick silken cord, knotted at intervals, dropped past her shoulder. She stared at it for a second or two, and then kicked off her curly-toed shoes and climbed up it.

The face on the other side of the slit was half-concealed by a black hood, but she could just make out a worried expression.

'Don't despair,' it said.

'I wasn't despairing. I was trying to get some sleep.'

'Oh. Pardon me, I'm sure. I'll just go away and leave you, shall I?'

'But in the morning I shall wake up and then I'll despair. What are you standing on, demon?'

'Do you know what a crampon is?'

'No.'

'Well, it's two of them.'

They stared at each other in silence.

'Okay,' said the face at last. 'I'll have to go around and come in through the door. Don't go away.' And with that it vanished upwards.

Ptraci let herself slide back down to the chilly stones of the floor. Come in through the door! She wondered how it could manage that. Humans would need to open it first.

She crouched in the furthest corner of the cell, staring at the small rectangle of wood.

Long minutes went past. At one point she thought she heard a tiny noise, like a gasp.

A little later there was subtle clink of metal, so slight as to be almost beyond the range of hearing.

More time wound on to the spool of eternity and then the silence beyond the cell, which had been the silence caused by absence of sound, very slowly became the silence caused by someone making no noise.

She thought: It's right outside the door.

There was a pause in which Teppic oiled all the bolts and hinges so that, when he made the final assault, the door swished open in heart-gripping noiselessness.

'I say?' said a voice in the darkness.

Ptraci pressed herself still further into the corner.

'Look, I've come to rescue you.'

Now she could make out a blacker shadow in the flarelight. It stepped forward with rather more uncertainty than she would have expected from a demon.

'Are you coming or not?' it said. 'I've only knocked out the guards, it's not their fault, but we haven't got a lot of time.'

'I'm to be thrown to the crocodiles in the morning,' whispered Ptraci. 'The king himself decreed it.'

'He probably made a mistake.'

Ptraci's eyes widened in horrified disbelief.

'The Soul Eater will take me!' she said.

'Do you want it to?'

Ptraci hesitated.

'Well, then,' said the figure, and took her unresisting hand. He led her out of the cell, where she nearly tripped over the prone body of a guard.

'Who is in the other cells?' he said, pointing to the line of doors along the passage.

'I don't know,' said Ptraci.

'Let's find out, shall we?'

The figure touched a can to the bolts and hinges of the next door and pushed it open. The flare from the narrow window illuminated a middle-aged man, seated cross-legged on the floor.

'I'm here to rescue you,' said the demon. The man peered up at him.

'Rescue?' he said.

'Yes. Why are you here?'

The man hung his head. 'I spoke blasphemy against the king.'

'How did you do that?'

'I dropped a rock on my foot. Now my tongue is to be torn out.'

The dark figure nodded sympathetically.

'A priest heard you, did he?' he said.

'No. I told a priest. Such words should not go unpunished,' said the man virtuously.

We're really good at it, Teppic thought. Mere animals couldn't possibly manage to act like this. You need to be a human being to be really stupid. 'I think we ought to talk about this outside,' he said. 'Why not come with me?'

The man pulled back and glared at him.

'You want me to run away?' he said.

'Seems a good idea, wouldn't you say?'

The man stared into his eyes, his lips moving silently. Then he appeared to reach a decision.

'Guards!' he screamed.

The shout echoed through the sleeping palace. His would-be rescuer stared at him in disbelief.

'Mad,' Teppic said. 'You're all mad.'

He stepped out of the room, grabbed Ptraci's hand, and hurried along the shadowy passages. Behind them the prisoner made the most of his tongue while he still had it and used it to scream a stream of imprecations.

'Where are you taking me?' said Ptraci, as they marched smartly around a corner and into a pillar-barred courtyard.

Teppic hesitated. He hadn't thought much beyond this point.

'Why do they bother to bolt the doors?' he demanded, eyeing the pillars. 'That's what I want to know. I'm surprised you didn't wander back to your cell while I was in there.'

'I — I don't want to die,' she said quietly.

'Don't blame you.'

'You mustn't say that! It's wrong not to want to die!' Teppic glanced up at the roof around the courtyard and unslung his grapnel.

'I think I ought to go back to my cell,' said Ptraci, without actually making any move in that direction. 'It's wrong even to think of disobeying the king.'

'Oh? What happens to you, then?'

'Something bad,' she said vaguely.

'You mean, worse than being thrown to the crocodiles or having your soul taken by the Soul Eater?' said Teppic, and caught the grapnel firmly on some hidden ledge on the flat roof.

'That's an interesting point,' said Ptraci, winning the Teppic Award for clear thinking.

'Worth considering, isn't it?' Teppic tested his weight on the cord.

'What you're saying is, if the worst is going to happen to you anyway, you might as well not bother any more,' said Ptraci. 'If the Soul Eater is going to get you whatever you do, you might as well avoid the crocodiles, is that it?'

'You go up first,' said Teppic, 'I think someone's coming.'

'Who are you?'

Teppic fished in his pouch. He'd come back to Djeli an aeon ago with just the clothes he stood up in, but they were the clothes he'd stood up in throughout his exam. He balanced a Number Two throwing knife in his hand, the steel glinting in the flarelight. It was possibly the only steel in the country; it wasn't that Djelibeybi hadn't heard about iron, it was just that if copper was good enough for your great-great-great-great— grandfather, it was good enough for you.

No, the guards didn't deserve knives. They hadn't done anything wrong.

His hand closed over the little mesh bag of caltraps. These were a small model, a mere one inch per spike. Caltraps didn't kill anyone, they just slowed them down a bit. One or two of them in the sole of the foot induced extreme slowness and caution in all except the terminally enthusiastic.

He scattered a few across the mouth of the passage and ran back to the rope, hauling himself up in a few quick swings. He reached the roof just as the leading guards ran under the lintel. He waited until he heard the first curse, and then coiled up the rope and hurried after the girl.

'They'll catch us,' she said.

'I don't think so.'

'And then the king will have us thrown to the crocodiles.'

'Oh no, I don't think-' Teppic paused. It was an intriguing idea.

'He might,' he ventured. 'It's very hard to be sure about anything.'

'So what shall we do now?'

Teppic stared across the river, where the pyramids were ablaze. The Great Pyramid was still under construction, by flarelight; a swarm of blocks, dwarfed by distance, hovered near its tip. The amount of labour Ptaclusp was putting on the job was amazing.

What a flare that will give, he thought. It'll be seen all the way to Ankh.

'Horrible things, aren't they,' said Ptraci, behind him.

'Do you think so?'

'They're creepy. The old king hated them, you know. He said they nailed the Kingdom to the past.'

'Did he say why?'

'No. He just hated them. He was a nice old boy. Very kind. Not like this new one.' She blew her nose and replaced her handkerchief in its scarcely adequate space in her sequinned bra.

'Er, what exactly did you have to do? As a handmaiden, I mean?' said Teppic, scanning the rooftop panorama to hide his embarrassment.

She giggled. 'You're not from around here, are you?'

'No. Not really.'

'Talk to him, mainly. Or just listen. He could really talk, but he always said no-one ever really listened to what he said.'

'Yes,' said Teppic, with feeling. 'And that was all, was it?'

She stared at him, and then giggled again. 'Oh, that? No, he was very kind. I wouldn't of minded, you understand, I had all the proper training. Bit of a disappointment, really. The women of my family have served under the kings for centuries, you know.'

'Oh yes?' he managed.

'I don't know whether you've ever seen a book, it's called The Shuttered-'

'-Palace,' said Teppic automatically.

'I thought a gentleman like you'd know about it,' said Ptraci, nudging him. 'It's a sort of textbook. Well, my great— great-grandmother posed for a lot of the pictures. Not recently,' she added, in case he hadn't fully understood, 'I mean, that would be a bit off-putting, she's been dead for twenty-five years. When she was younger. I look a lot like her, everyone says.'

'Urk,' agreed Teppic.

'She was famous. She could put her feet behind her head, you know. So can I. I've got my Grade Three.'

'Urk?'

'The old king told me once that the gods gave people a sense of humour to make up for giving them sex. I think he was a bit upset at the time.'

'Urk.' Only the whites of Teppic's eyes were showing.

'You don't say much, do you?'

The breeze of the night was blowing her perfume towards him. Ptraci used scent like a battering ram.

'We've got to find somewhere to hide you,' he said, concentrating on each word. 'Haven't you got any parents or anything?' He tried to ignore the fact that in the shadowless flarelight she appeared to glow, and didn't have much success.

'Well, my mother still works in the palace somewhere,' said Ptraci. 'But I don't think she'd be very sympathetic.'

'We've got to get you away from here,' said Teppic fervently. 'If you can hide somewhere today, I can steal some horses or a boat or something. Then you could go to Tsort or Ephebe or somewhere.'

'Foreign, you mean? I don't think I'd like that,' said Ptraci.

'Compared to the netherworld?'

'Well. Put like that, of course . . .' She took his arm. 'Why did you rescue me?'

'Er? Because being alive is better than being dead, I think.'

'I've read up to number 46, Congress of the Five Auspicious Ants,' said Ptraci. 'If you've got some yoghurt, we could-'

'No! I mean, no. Not here. Not now. There must be people looking for us, it's nearly dawn.'

'There's no need to yelp like that! I was just trying to be kind.'

'Yes. Good. Thank you.' Teppic broke away and peered desperately over a parapet into one of the palace's numerous light wells.

'This leads to the embalmers' workshops,' he said. 'There must be plenty of places to hide down here.' He unwound the cord again.

Various rooms led off the well. Teppic found one lined with benches and floored with wood shavings; a doorway led through to another room stacked with mummy cases, each one surmounted by the same golden dolly face he'd come to know and loathe. He tapped on a few, and raised the lid of the nearest.

'No-one at home,' he said. 'You can have a nice rest in here. I can leave the lid open a bit so you can get some air.'

'You can't think I'd risk that? Supposing you didn't come back!'

'I'll be back tonight,' said Teppic. 'And — and I'll see if I can drop some food and water in some time today. She stood on tiptoe, her ankle bangles jingling all the way down Teppic's libido. He glanced down involuntarily and saw that every toenail was painted. He remembered Cheesewright telling them behind the stables one lunch-hour that girls who painted their toenails were . . . well, he couldn't quite remember now, but it had seemed pretty unbelievable at the time.

'It looks very hard,' she said.

'What?'

'If I've got to lie in it, it'll need some cushions.'

'I'll put some wood shavings in, look!' said Teppic. 'But hurry up! Please!'

'All right. But you will be back, won't you? Promise?'

'Yes, yes! I promise!'

He wedged a splinter of wood on the case to allow an airhole, heaved the lid back on and ran for it.

The ghost of the king watched him go.

The sun rose. As the golden light spilled down the fertile valley of the Djel the pyramid flares paled and became ghost dancers against the lightening sky. They were now accompanied by a noise. It had been there all the time, far too high-pitched for mortal ears, a sound now dropping down from the far ultrasonic KKKkkkkkkhhheeee. . .

It screamed out of the sky, a thin rind of sound like a violin bow dragged across the raw surface of the brain.

kkkkheeeeeee. . .

Or a wet fingernail dragged over an exposed nerve, some said. You could set your watch by it, they would have said, if anyone knew what one was.

. . .keeee. . .

It went deeper and deeper as the sunlight washed over the stones, passing through cat scream to dog growl.

. . .ee. . . ee. . . ee.

The flares collapsed.

. . .ops.

'A fine morning, sire. I trust you slept well?'

Teppic waved a hand at Dios, but said nothing. The barber was working through the Ceremony of Going Forth Shaven.

The barber was trembling. Until recently he had been a one— handed, unemployed stonemason. Then the terrible high priest had summoned him and ordered him to be the king's barber, but it meant you had to touch the king but it was all right because it was all sorted out by the priests and nothing more had to be chopped off. On the whole, it was better than he had thought, and a great honour to be singlehandedly responsible for the king's beard, such as it was.

'You were not disturbed in any way?' said the high priest. His eyes scanned the room on a raster of suspicion; it was surprising that little lines of molten rock didn't drip off the walls.

'Verrr-'

'If you would but hold still, O never-dying one,' said the barber, in the pleading tone of voice employed by one who is assured of a guided tour of a crocodile's alimentary tract if he nicks an ear.

'You heard no strange noises, sire?' said Dios. He stepped back suddenly so that he could see behind the gilded peacock screen at the other end of the room.

'Norr.'

'Your majesty looks a little peaky this morning, sire,' said Dios. He sat down on the bench with the carved cheetahs on either end. Sitting down in the presence of the king, except on ceremonial occasions, was not something that was allowed. It did, however, mean that he could squint under Teppic's low bed.

Dios was rattled. Despite the aches and the lack of sleep, Teppic felt oddly elated. He wiped his chin.

'It's the bed,' he said. 'I think I have mentioned it. Mattresses, you know. They have feathers in them. If the concept is unfamiliar, ask the pirates of Khali. Half of them must be sleeping on goosefeather mattresses by now.'

'His majesty is pleased to joke,' said Dios.

Teppic knew he shouldn't push it any further, but he did so anyway.

'Something wrong, Dios?' he said.

'A miscreant broke into the palace last night. The girl Ptraci is missing.'

'That is very disturbing.'

'Yes, sire.'

'Probably a suitor or a swain or something.'

Dios's face was like stone. 'Possibly, sire.

'The sacred crocodiles will be going hungry, then.' But not for long, Teppic thought. Walk to the end of any of the little jetties down by the bank, let your shadow fall on the river, and the mud-yellow water would become, by magic, mud-yellow bodies. They looked like large, sodden logs, the main difference being that logs don't open at one end and bite your legs off. The sacred crocodiles of the Djel were the kingdom's garbage disposal, river patrol and occasional morgue.

They couldn't simply be called big. If one of the huge bulls ever drifted sideways on to the current, he'd dam the river.

The barber tiptoed out. A couple of body servants tiptoed in.

'I anticipated your majesty's natural reaction, sire,' Dios continued, like the drip of water in deep limestone caverns.

'Jolly good,' said Teppic, inspecting the clothes for the day. 'What was it, exactly?'

'A detailed search of the palace, room by room.'

'Absolutely. Carry on, Dios.'

My face is perfectly open, he told himself. I haven't twitched a muscle out of place. I know I haven't. He can read me like a stele. I can outstare him.

'Thank you, sire.'

'I imagine they'll be miles away by now,' said Teppic. 'Whoever they were. She was only a handmaiden, wasn't she?'

'It is unthinkable that anyone could disobey your judgements! There is no-one in the kingdom that would dare to! Their souls would be forfeit! They will be hunted down, sire! Hunted down and destroyed!'

The servants cowered behind Teppic. This wasn't mere anger. This was wrath. Real, old-time, vintage wrath. And waxing? It waxed like a hatful of moons.

'Are you feeling all right, Dios?'

Dios had turned to look out across the river. The Great Pyramid was almost complete. The sight of it seemed to calm him down or, at least, stabilise him on some new mental plateau.

'Yes, sire,' he said. 'Thank you.' He breathed deeply. 'Tomorrow, sire, you are pleased to witness the capping of the pyramid. A momentous occasion. Of course, it will be some time before the interior chambers are completed.'

'Fine. Fine. And this morning, I think, I should like to visit my father.'

'I am sure the late king will be pleased to see you, sire. It is your wish that I should accompany you.'

'Oh.'

It's a fact as immutable as the Third Law of Sod that there is no such thing as a good Grand Vizier. A predilection to cackle and plot is apparently part of the job spec.

High priests tend to get put in the same category. They have to face the implied assumption that no sooner do they get the funny hat than they're issuing strange orders, e.g., princesses tied to rocks for itinerant sea monsters and throwing little babies in the sea.

This is a gross slander. Throughout the history of the Disc most high priests have been serious, pious and conscientious men who have done their best to interpret the wishes of the gods, sometimes disembowelling or flaying alive hundreds of people in a day in order to make sure they're getting it absolutely right.

King Teppicymon XXVII's casket lay in state. Crafted it was of foryphy, smaradgine, skelsa and delphinet, inlaid it was with pink jade and shode, perfumed and fumed it was with many rare resins and perfumes It looked very impressive but, the king considered, it wasn't worth dying for. He gave up and wandered across the courtyard.

A new player had entered the drama of his death.

Grinjer, the maker of models.

He'd always wondered about the models. Even a humble farmer expected to be buried with a selection of crafted livestock, which would somehow become real in the netherworld. Many a man made do with one cow like a toast rack in this world in order to afford a pedigree herd in the next Nobles and kings got the complete set, including model carts, houses, boats and anything else too big or inconvenient to fit in the tomb. Once on the other side, they'd somehow become the genuine article.

The king frowned. When he was alive he'd known that it was true. Not doubted it for a moment Grinjer stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as, with great care, he tweezered a tiny oar to a perfect 1/80th scale river trireme. Every flat surface in his corner of the workshop was stacked with midget animals and artifacts; some of his more impressive ones hung from wires on the ceiling.

The king had already ascertained from overheard conversation that Grinjer was twenty-six, couldn't find anything to stop the inexorable advance of his acne, and lived at home with his mother. Where, in the evenings, he made models. Deep in the duffel coat of his mind he hoped one day to find a nice girl who would understand the absolute importance of getting every detail right on a ceremonial six-wheeled ox cart, and who would hold his glue-pot, and always be ready with a willing thumb whenever anything needed firm pressure until the paste dried.

He was aware of trumpets and general excitement behind him. He ignored it. There always seemed to be a lot of fuss these days. In his experience it was always about trivial things. People just didn't have their priorities right. He'd been waiting two months for a few ounces of gum varneti, and it didn't seem to bother anyone. He screwed his eyeglass into a more comfortable position and slotted a minute steering oar into place.

Someone was standing next to him. Well, they could make themselves useful .

'Could you just put your finger here,' he said, without glancing around. 'Just for a minute, until the glue sets.'

There seemed to be a sudden drop in temperature. He looked up into a smiling golden mask. Over its shoulder Dios's face was shading, in Grinjer's expert opinion, from No.13 (Pale Flesh) to No.37 (Sunset Purple, Gloss).

'Oh,' he said.

'It's very good,' said Teppic. 'What is it?'

Grinjer blinked at him. Then he blinked at the boat.

'It's an eighty-foot Khali-fashion river trireme with fishtail spear deck and ramming prow,' he said automatically.

He got the impression that more was expected of him. He cast around for something suitable.

'It's got more than five hundred bits,' he added. 'Every plank on the deck is individually cut, look.'

'Fascinating,' said Teppic. 'Well, I won't hold you up. Carry on the good work.'

'The sail really unfurls,' said Grinjer. 'See, if you pull this thread, the-'

The mask had moved. Dios was there instead. He gave Grinjer a short glare which indicated that more would be heard about this later on, and hurried after the king. So did the ghost of Teppicymon XXVII.

Teppic's eyes swivelled behind the mask. There was the open doorway into the room of caskets. He could just make out the one containing Ptraci; the wedge of wood was still under the lid.

'Our father, however, is over here. Sire,' said Dios. He could move as silently as a ghost.

'Oh. Yes.' Teppic hesitated and then crossed to the big case on its trestles. He stared down at it for some time. The gilded face on the lid looked like every other mask.

'A very good likeness, sire,' prompted Dios.

'Ye-ess,' said Teppic. 'I suppose so. He definitely looks happier. I suppose.'

'Hallo, my boy,' said the king. He knew that no-one could hear him, but he felt happier talking to them all the same. It was better than talking to himself. He was going to have more than enough time for that.

'I think it brings out the best in him, O commander of the heavens,' said the head sculptor.

'Makes me look like a constipated wax dolly.'

Teppic cocked his head on one side.

'Yes,' he said, uncertainly. 'Yes. Er. Well done.'

He half-turned to look through the doorway again.

Dios nodded to the guards on either side of the passageway.

'If you will excuse me, sire,' he said urbanely.

'Hmm?'

'The guards will continue their search.'

'Right. Oh-'

Dios bore down on Ptraci's casket, flanked by guards. He gripped the lid, thrust it backwards, and said, 'Behold! What do we find?'

Dil and Gern joined him. They looked inside.

'Wood shavings,' said Dil.

Gern sniffed. 'They smell nice, though,' he said.

Dios's fingers drummed on the lid. Teppic had never seen him at a loss before. The man actually started tapping the sides of the case, apparently seeking any hidden panels.

He closed the lid carefully and looked blankly at Teppic, who for the first time was very glad that the mask didn't reveal his expression.

'She's not in there,' said the old king. 'She got out for a call of nature when the men went to have their breakfast.'

She must have climbed out, Teppic told himself. So where is she now?

Dios scanned the room carefully and then, after swinging slowly backwards and forwards like a compass needle, his eyes fixed on the king's mummy case. It was big. It was roomy. There was a certain inevitability about it.

He crossed the room in a couple of strides and heaved it open.

'Don't bother to knock,' the king grumbled. 'It's not as if I'm going anywhere.'

Teppic risked a look. The mummy of the king was quite alone.

'Are you sure you're feeling all right, Dios?' he said.

'Yes, sire. We cannot be too careful, sire. Clearly they are not here, sire.'

'You look as if you could do with a breath of fresh air,' said Teppic, upbraiding himself for doing this but doing it, nevertheless. Dios at a loss was an awe-inspiring sight, and slightly disconcerting; it made one instinctively fear for the stability of things.

'Yes, sire. Thank you, sire.'

'Have a sit down and someone will bring you a glass of water. And then we will go and inspect the pyramid.'

Dios sat down.

There was a terrible little splintering noise.

'He's sat on the boat,' said the king. 'First humorous thing I've ever seen him do.'

The pyramid gave a new meaning to the word 'massive'. It bent the landscape around it. It seemed to Teppic that its very weight was deforming the shape of things, stretching the kingdom like a lead ball on a rubber sheet.

He knew that was a ridiculous idea. Big though the pyramid was, it was tiny compared to, say, a mountain.

But big, very big, compared to anything else. Anyway, mountains were meant to be big, the fabric of the universe was used to the idea. The pyramid was a made thing, and much bigger than a made thing ought to be.

It was also very cold. The black marble of its sides was shining white with frost in the roasting afternoon sun. He was foolish enough to touch it and left a layer of skin on the surface.

'It's freezing!'

'It's storing already, O breath of the river,' said Ptaclusp, who was sweating. 'It's the wossname, the boundary effect.'

'I note that you have ceased work on the burial chambers,' said Dios.

'The men . . . the temperature . . . boundary effects a bit too much to risk . . .' muttered Ptaclusp. 'Er.'

Teppic looked from one to the other.

'What's the matter?' he said. 'Are there problems?'

'Er,' said Ptaclusp.

'You're way ahead of schedule. Marvellous work,' said Teppic. 'You've put a tremendous amount of labour on the job.'

'Er. Yes. Only.'

There was silence except for the distant sounds of men at work, and the faint noise of the air sizzling where it touched the pyramid.

'It's bound to be all right when we get the capstone on, the pyramid builder managed eventually. 'Once it's flaring properly, no problem. Er.'

He indicated the electrum capstone. It was surprisingly small, only a foot or so across, and rested on a couple of trestles.

'We should be able to put it on tomorrow,' said Ptaclusp. 'Would your sire still be honouring us with the capping-out ceremony?' In his nervousness he gripped the hem of his robe and began to twist it. 'There's drinks,' he stuttered. 'And a silver trowel that you can take away with you. Everyone shouts hurrah and throws their hats in the air.

'Certainly,' said Dios. 'It will be an honour.'

'And for us too, your sire,' said Ptaclusp loyally.

'I meant for you,' said the high priest. He turned to the wide courtyard between the base of the pyramid and the river, which was lined with statues and stelae commemorating King Teppicymon's mighty deeds18, and pointed.

'And you can get rid of that,' he added.

Ptaclusp gave him a look of unhappy innocence.

'That statue,' said Dios, 'is what I am referring to., 'Oh. Ah. Well, we thought once you saw it in place, you see, in the right light, and what with Hat the Vulture-Headed God being very-'

'It goes,' said Dios.

'Right you are, your reverence,' said Ptaclusp miserably. It was, right now, the least of his problems, but on top of everything else he was beginning to think that the statue was following him around.

Dios leaned closer.

'You haven't seen a young woman anywhere on the site, have you?' he demanded.

'No women on the site, my lord,' said Ptaclusp. 'Very bad luck.'

'This one was provocatively dressed,' the high priest said.

'No, no women.'

'The palace is not far, you see. There must be many places to hide over here,' Dios continued, insistently.

Ptaclusp swallowed. He knew that, all right. Whatever had possessed him.

'I assure you, your reverence,' he said.

Dios gave him a scowl, and then turned to where Teppic, as it turned out, had been.

'Please ask him not to shake hands with anybody,' said the builder, as Dios hurried after the distant glint of sunlight on gold. The king still didn't seem to be able to get alongside the idea that the last thing the people wanted was a man of the people. Those workers who couldn't get out of the way in time were thrusting their hands behind their back.

Alone now, Ptaclusp fanned himself and staggered into the shade of his tent.

Where, waiting to see him, were Ptaclusp IIa, Ptaclusp IIa, Ptaclusp IIa and Ptaclusp IIa. Ptaclusp always felt uneasy in the presence of accountants, and four of them together was very bad, especially when they were all the same person. Three Ptaclusp IIbs were there as well; the other two, unless it was three by now, were out on the site.

He waved his hands in a conciliatory way.

'All right, all right,' he said. 'What are today's problems?'

One of the IIas pulled a stack of wax tablets towards him 'Have you any idea, father,' he began, employing that thin; razor-edged voice that accountants use to preface something unexpected and very expensive, 'what calculus is?'

'You tell me,' said Ptaclusp, sagging on to a stool.

'It's what I've had to invent to deal with the wages bill, father,' said another IIa.

'I thought that was algebra?' said Ptaclusp.

'We passed algebra last week,' said a third IIa. 'It's calculus now. I've had to loop myself another four times to work on it, and there's three of me working on-' he glanced at his brothers — 'quantum accountancy.'

'What's that for?' said his father wearily.

'Next week.' The leading accountant glared at the top slab. 'For example,' he said. 'You know Rthur the fresco painter?'

'What about him?'

'He — that is, they — have put in a bill for two years' work.'

'Oh.'

'They said they did it on Tuesday. On account of how time is fractal in nature, they said.'

'They said that?' said Ptaclusp.

'It's amazing what they pick up,' said one of the accountants, glaring at the paracosmic architects.

Ptaclusp hesitated. 'How many of them are there?'

'How should we know? We know there were fifty-three. Then he went critical. We've certainly seen him around a lot.' Two of the IIas sat back and steepled their fingers, always a bad sign in anyone having anything to do with money. 'The problem is,' one of them continued, 'that after the initial enthusiasm a lot of the workers looped themselves unofficially so that they could stay at home and send themselves out to work.'

'But that's ridiculous,' Ptaclusp protested weakly. 'They're not different people, they're just doing it to themselves.'

'That's never stopped anyone, father,' said IIa. 'How many men have stopped drinking themselves stupid at the age of twenty to save a stranger dying of liver failure at forty?'

There was silence while they tried to work this one out.

'A stranger-?' said Ptaclusp uncertainly.

'I mean himself, when older,' snapped IIa. 'That was philosophy,' he added.

'One of the masons beat himself up yesterday,' said one of the IIbs gloomily. 'He was fighting with himself over his wife. Now he's going mad because he doesn't know whether it's an earlier version of him or someone he hasn't been yet. He's afraid he's going to creep up on him. There's worse than that, too. Dad, we're paying forty thousand people, and we're only employing two thousand.'

'It's going to bankrupt us, that's what you're going to say,' said Ptaclusp. 'I know. It's all my fault. I just wanted something to hand on to you, you know. I didn't expect all this. It seemed too easy to start with.'

One of the IIas cleared his throat.

'It's . . . uh . . . not quite as bad as all that,' he said quietly.

'What do you mean?'

The accountant laid a dozen copper coins on the table.

'Well, er,' he said. 'You see, eh, it occurred to me, since there's all this movement in time, that it's not just people who can be looped, and, er, look, you see these coins?'

One coin vanished.

'They're all the same coin, aren't they,' said one of his brothers.

'Well, yes,' said the IIa, very embarrassed, because interfering with the divine flow of money was alien to his personal religion. 'The same coin at five minute intervals.'

'And you're using this trick to pay the men?' said Ptaclusp dully.

'It's not a trick! I give them the money,' said IIa primly. 'What happens to it afterwards isn't my responsibility, is it?'

'I don't like any of this,' said his father.

'Don't worry. It all evens out in the end,' said one of the IIas. 'Everyone gets what's coming to them.'

'Yes. That's what I'm afraid of,' said Ptaclusp.

'It's just a way of letting your money work for you,' said another son. 'It's probably quantum.'

'Oh, good,' said Ptaclusp weakly.

'We'll get the block on tonight, don't worry,' said one of the IIbs. 'After it's flared the power off we can all settle down.'

'I told the king we'd do it tomorrow.' The Ptaclusp IIbs went pale in unison. Despite the heat, it suddenly seemed a lot colder in the tent.

'Tonight, father,' said one of them. 'Surely you mean tonight?

'Tomorrow,' said Ptaclusp, firmly. 'I've arranged an awning and people throwing lotus blossom. There's going to be a band. Tocsins and trumpets and tinkling cymbals. And speeches and a meat tea afterwards. That's the way we've always done it. Attracts new customers. They like to have a look round.'

'Father, you've seen the way it soaks up. . . you've seen the frost . .

'Let it soak. We Ptaclusps don't go around capping off pyramids as though we were finishing off a garden wall. We don't knock off like a wossname in the night. People expect a ceremony.

'But-'

'I'm not listening. I've listened to too much of this new— fangled stuff. Tomorrow. I've had the bronze plaque made, and the velvet curtains and everything.'

One of the IIas shrugged. 'It's no good arguing with him,' he said. 'I'm from three hours ahead. I remember this meeting. We couldn't change his mind.'

'I'm from two hours ahead,' said one of his clones. 'I remember you saying that, too.'

Beyond the walls of the tent, the pyramid sizzled with accumulated time.

There is nothing mystical about the power of pyramids.

Pyramids are dams in the stream of time. Correctly shaped and orientated, with the proper paracosmic measurements correctly plumbed in, the temporal potential of the great mass of stone can be diverted to accelerate or reverse time over a very small area, in the same way that a hydraulic ram can be induced to pump water against the flow.

The original builders, who were of course ancients and therefore wise, knew this very well and the whole point of a correctly-built pyramid was to achieve absolute null time in the central chamber so that a dying king, tucked up there, would indeed live forever — or at least, never actually die. The time that should have passed in the chamber was stored in the bulk of the pyramid and allowed to flare off once every twenty-four hours.

After a few aeons people forgot this and thought you could achieve the same effect by a) ritual b) pickling people and c) storing their soft inner bits in jars.

This seldom works.

And so the art of pyramid tuning was lost, and all the knowledge became a handful of misunderstood rules and hazy recollections. The ancients were far too wise to build very big pyramids. They could cause very strange things, things that would make mere fluctuations in time look tiny by comparison.

By the way, contrary to popular opinion pyramids don't sharpen razor blades. They just take them back to when they weren't blunt. It's probably because of quantum.

Teppic lay on the strata of his bed, listening intently.

There were two guards outside the door, and another two on the balcony outside, and — he was impressed at Dios's forethought

— one on the roof. He could hear them trying to make no noise.

He'd hardly been able to protest. If black-clad miscreants were getting into the palace, then the person of the king had to be protected. It was undeniable.

He slipped off the solid mattress and glided through the twilight to the statue of Bast the Cat-Headed God in the corner, twisted off the head, and pulled out his assassin's costume. He dressed quickly, cursing the lack of mirrors, and then padded across and lurked behind a pillar.

The only problem, as far as he could see, was not laughing. Being a soldier in Djelibeybi was not a high risk job. There was never a hint of internal rebellion and, since either neighbour could crush the kingdom instantly by force of arms, there was no real point in selecting keen and belligerent warriors. In fact, the last thing the priesthood wanted was enthusiastic soldiers. Enthusiastic soldiers with no fighting to do soon get bored and start thinking dangerous thoughts, like how much better they could run the country.

Instead the job attracted big, solid men, the kind of men who could stand stock still for hours at a time without getting bored, men with the build of an ox and the mental processes to match. Excellent bladder control was also desirable.

He stepped out on to the balcony.

Teppic had learned how not to move stealthily. Millions of years of being eaten by creatures that know how to move stealthily has made humanity very good at spotting stealthy movement. Nor was it enough to make no noise, because little moving patches of silence always aroused suspicion. The trick was to glide through the night with a quiet reassurance, just like the air did.

There was a guard standing just outside the room. Teppic drifted past him and climbed carefully up the wall. It had been decorated with a complex bas relief of the triumphs of past monarchs, so Teppic used his family to give him a leg up.

The breeze was blowing off the desert as he swung his legs over the parapet and walked silently across the roof, which was still hot underfoot. The air had a recently-cooked smell, tinted with spice.

It was a strange feeling, to be creeping across the roof of your own palace, trying to avoid your own guards, engaged on a mission in direct contravention of your own decree and knowing that if you were caught you would have yourself thrown to the sacred crocodiles. After all, he'd apparently already instructed that he was to be shown no mercy if he was captured.

Somehow it added an extra thrill.

There was freedom of a sort up here on the rooftops, the only kind of freedom available to a king of the valley. It occurred to Teppic that the landless peasants down on the delta had more freedom than he did, although the seditious and non-kingly side of him said, yes, freedom to catch any diseases of their choice, starve as much as they wanted, and die of whatever dreadful ague took their fancy. But freedom, of a sort.

A faint noise in the huge silence of the night drew him to the riverward edge of the roof. The Djel sprawled in the moonlight, broad and oily.

There was a boat in midstream, heading back from the far bank and the necropolis. There was no mistaking the figure at the oars. The flarelight gleamed off his bald head.

One day, Teppic thought, I'll follow him. I'll find out what it is he does over there.

If he goes over in daylight, of course.

In daylight the necropolis was merely gloomy, as though the whole universe had shut down for early-closing. He'd even explored it, wandering through streets and alleys that contrived to be still and dusty no matter what the weather was on the other, the living side of the water. There was always a breathless feel about it, which was probably not to be wondered at. Assassins liked the night on general principles, but the night of the necropolis was something else. Or rather, it was the same thing, but a lot more of it. Besides, it was the only city anywhere on the Disc where an assassin couldn't find employment.

He reached the light well that opened on the embalmers' courtyard and peered down. A moment later he landed lightly on the floor and slipped into the room of cases.

'Hallo, lad.'

Teppic opened the lid of the case. It was still empty.

'She's in one of the ones at the back,' said the king. 'Never had much of a sense of direction.'

It was a great big palace. Teppic could barely find his way around it by daylight. He considered his chances of carrying out a search in pitch darkness.

'It's a family trait, you know. Your grandad had to have Left and Right painted on his sandals, it was that bad. It's lucky for you that you take after your mother in that respect.'

It was strange. She didn't talk, she chattered. She didn't seem to be able to hold a simple thought in her head for more than about ten seconds. Her brain appeared to be wired directly to her mouth, so that as soon as a thought entered her head she spoke it out loud. Compared to the ladies he had met at soirees in Ankh, who delighted in entertaining young assassins and fed them expensive delicacies and talked to them of high and delicate matters while their eyes sparkled like carborundum drills and their lips began to glisten compared to them, she was as empty as a, as a, well, as an empty thing. Nevertheless, he found he desperately wanted to find her. The sheer undemandingness of her was like a drug. The memory of her bosom was quite beside the point.

'I'm glad you've come back for her,' said the king vaguely.

'She's your sister, you know. Half sister, that is. Sometimes I wish I'd married her mother, but you see she wasn't royal. Very bright woman, her mother.'

Teppic listened hard. There it was again: a faint breathing noise, only heard at all because of the deep silence of the night. He worked his way to the back of the room, listened again, and lifted the lid of a case.

Ptraci was curled up on the bottom, fast asleep with her head on her arm.

He leaned the lid carefully against the wall and touched her hair. She muttered something in her sleep, and settled into a more comfortable position.

'Er, I think you'd better wake up,' he whispered.

She changed position again and muttered something like: 'Wstflgl.'

Teppic hesitated. Neither his tutors nor Dios had prepared him for this. He knew at least seventy different ways of killing a sleeping person, but none to wake them up first.

He prodded her in what looked like the least embarrassing area of her skin. She opened her eyes.

'Oh,' she said. 'It's you.' And she yawned.

'I've come to take you away,' said Teppic. 'You've been asleep all day.'

'I heard someone talking,' she said, stretching in a fashion that made Teppic look away hurriedly. 'It was that priest, the one with the face like a bald eagle. He's really horrible.'

'He is, isn't he?' agreed Teppic, intensely relieved to hear it said.

'So I just kept quiet. And there was the king. The new king.'

'Oh. He was down here, was he?' said Teppic weakly. The bitterness in her voice was like a Number Four stabbing knife in his heart.

'All the girls say he's really weird,' she added, as he helped her out of the case. 'You can touch me, you know. I'm not made of china.'

He steadied her arm, feeling in sore need of a cold bath and a quick run around the rooftops.

'You're an assassin, aren't you,' she went on. 'I remembered that after you'd gone. An assassin from foreign parts. All that black. Have you come to kill the king?'

'I wish I could,' said Teppic. 'He's really beginning to get on my nerves. Look, could you take your bangles off?'

'Why?'

'They make such a noise when you walk.' Even Ptraci's earrings appeared to chime the hours when she moved her head.

'I don't want to,' she said. 'I'd feel naked without them.'

'You're nearly naked with them,' hissed Teppic. 'Please!'

'She can play the dulcimer,' said the ghost of Teppicymon XXVII, apropos of nothing much. 'Not very well, mind you. She's up to page five of «Little Pieces for Tiny Fingers».'

Teppic crept to the passage leading out of the embalming room and listened hard. Silence ruled in the palace, broken only by heavy breathing and the occasional clink behind him as Ptraci stripped herself of her jewellery. He crept back.

'Please hurry up,' he said, 'we haven't got a lot of-'

Ptraci was crying.

'Er,' said Teppic. 'Er.'

'Some of these were presents from my granny,' sniffed Ptraci. 'The old king gave me some, too. These earrings have been in my family for ever such a long time. How would you like it if you had to do it?'

'You see, jewellery isn't just something she wears,' said the ghost of Teppicymon XXVII. 'It's part of who she is.' My word, he added to himself, that's probably an Insight. Why is it so much easier to think when you're dead?

'I don't wear any,' said Teppic.

'You've got all those daggers and things.'

'Well, I need them to do my job.'

'Well then.'

'Look, you don't have to leave them here, you can put them in my pouch,' he said. 'But we must be going. Please!'

'Goodbye,' said the ghost sadly, watching them sneak out to the courtyard. He floated back to his corpse, who wasn't the best of company.

The breeze was stronger when they reached the roof. It was hotter, too, and dry.

Across the river one or two of the older pyramids were already sending up their flares, but they were weak and looked wrong.

'I feel itchy,' said Ptraci. 'What's wrong?'

'It feels like we're in for a thunderstorm,' said Teppic, staring across the river at the Great Pyramid. Its blackness had intensified, so that it was a triangle of deeper darkness in the night. Figures were running around its base like lunatics watching their asylum burn.

'What's a thunderstorm?'

'Very hard to describe,' he said, in a preoccupied voice. 'Can you see what they're doing over there?'

Ptraci squinted across the river.

'They're very busy,' she said.

'Looks more like panic to me.'

A few more pyramids flared, but instead of roaring straight up the flames flickered and lashed backwards and forwards, driven by intangible winds.

Teppic shook himself. 'Come on,' he said. 'Let's get you away from here.'

'I said we should have capped it this evening,' shouted Ptaclusp IIb above the screaming of the pyramid. 'I can't float it up now, the turbulence up there must be terrific!'

The ice of day was boiling off the black marble, which was already warm to the touch. He stared distractedly at the capstone on its cradle and then at his brother, who was still in his nightshirt.

'Where's father?' he said.

'I sent one of us to go and wake him up,' said IIa.

'Who?'

'One of you, actually.'

'Oh.' IIb stared again at the capstone. 'It's not that heavy,' he said. 'Two of us could manhandle it up there.' He gave his brother an enquiring look.

'You must be mad. Send some of the men to do it.'

'They've all run away-'

Down river another pyramid tried to flare, spluttered, and then ejected a screaming, ragged flame that arched across the sky and grounded near the top of the Great Pyramid itself.

'It's interfering with the others now!' shouted IIb. 'Come on. We've got to flare it off, it's the only way!'

About a third of the way up the pyramid's flanks a crackling blue zigzag arced out and struck itself on a stone sphinx. The air above it boiled.

The two brothers slung the stone between them and staggered to the scaffolding, while the dust around them whirled into strange shapes.

'Can you hear something?' said IIb, as they stumbled on to the first platform.

'What, you mean the fabric of time and space being put through the wringer?' said IIa.

The architect gave his brother a look of faint admiration. It was an unusual remark for an accountant. Then his face returned to its previous look of faint terror.

'No, not that,' he said.

'Well, the sound of the very air itself being subjected to horrible tortures?'

'Not that, either,' said IIb, vaguely annoyed. 'I mean the creaking noise.'

Three more pyramids struck their discharges, which fizzled through the roiling clouds overhead and poured into the black marble above them.

'Can't hear anything like that,' said IIa.

'I think it's coming from the pyramid.'

'Well, you can put your ear against it if you like, but I'm not going to.'

The scaffolding swayed in the storm as they eased their way up another ladder, the heavy capstone rocking between them.

'I said we shouldn't do it,' muttered the accountant, as the stone slid gently on to his toes. 'We shouldn't have built this.'

'Just shut up and lift your end, will you?'

And so, one rocking ladder after another, the brothers Ptaclusp eased their bickering way up the flanks of the Great Pyramid, while the lesser tombs along the Djel fired one after another, and the sky streamed with lines of sizzling time.

It was around about this point that the greatest mathematician in the world, lying in cosy flatulence in his stall below the palace, stopped chewing the cud and realised that something very wrong was happening to numbers. All the numbers.

The camel looked along its nose at Teppic. Its expression made it clear that of all the riders in all the world it would least like to ride it, he was right at the top of the list. However, camels look like that at everyone. Camels have a very democratic approach to the human race. They hate every member of it, without making any distinctions for rank or creed.

This one appeared to be chewing soap.

Teppic looked distractedly down the shadowy length of the royal stables, which had once contained a hundred camels. He'd have given the world for a horse, and a moderately-sized continent for a pony. But the stables now held only a handful of rotting war chariots, relics of past glories, an elderly elephant whose presence was a bit of a mystery, and this camel. It looked an extremely inefficient animal. It was going threadbare at the knees.

'Well, this is it,' he said to Ptraci. 'I don't dare try the river during the night. I could try and get you over the border.'

'Is that saddle on right?' said Ptraci. 'It looks awfully funny.'

'It's on an awfully odd creature,' said Teppic. 'How do we climb on to it?'

'I've seen the camel drivers at work,' she replied. 'I think they just hit them very hard with a big stick.'

The camel knelt down and gave her a smug look.

Teppic shrugged, pulled open the doors to the outside world, and stared into the faces of five guards.

He backed away. They advanced. Three of them were holding the heavy Djel bows, which could propel an arrow through a door or turn a charging hippo into three tons of mobile kebab. The guards had never had to fire them at a fellow human, but looked as though they were prepared to entertain the idea.

The guard captain tapped one of the men on the shoulder, and said, 'Go and inform the high priest.'

He glared at Teppic.

'Throw down all your weapons,' he said.

'What, all of them?'

'Yes. All of them.'

'It might take some time,' said Teppic cautiously.

'And keep your hands where I can see them,' the captain added.

'We could be up against a real impasse here,' Teppic ventured. He looked from one guard to another. He knew a variety of methods of unarmed combat, but they all rather relied on the opponent not being about to fire an arrow straight through you as soon as you moved. But he could probably dive sideways, and once he had the cover of the camel stalls he could bide his time And that would leave Ptraci exposed. Besides, he could hardly go around fighting his own guards. That wasn't acceptable behaviour, even for a king.

There was a movement behind the guards and Dios drifted into view, as silent and inevitable as an eclipse of the moon. He was holding a lighted torch, which reflected wild highlights on his bald head.

'Ah,' he said. 'The miscreants are captured. Well done.' He nodded to the captain. 'Throw them to the crocodiles.'

'Dios?' said Teppic, as two of the guards lowered their bows and bore down on him.

'Did you speak?'

'You know who I am, man. Don't be silly.'

The high priest raised the torch.

'You have the advantage of me, boy,' he said. 'Metaphorically speaking.'

'This is not funny,' said Teppic. 'I order you to tell them who I am.'

'As you wish. This assassin,' said Dios, and the voice had the cut and sear of a thermic lance, 'has killed the king.'

'I am the king, damn it,' said Teppic. 'How could I kill myself?'

'We are not stupid,' said Dios. 'These men know the king does not skulk the palace at night, or consort with condemned criminals. All that remains for us to find out is how you disposed of the body.'

His eyes fixed on Teppic's face, and Teppic realised that the high priest was, indeed, truly mad. It was the rare kind of madness caused by being yourself for so long that habits of sanity have etched themselves into the brain. I wonder how old he really is? he thought.

'These assassins are cunning creatures,' said Dios. 'Have a care of him.'

There was a crash beside the priest. Ptraci had tried to throw a camel prod, and missed.

When everyone looked back Teppic had vanished. The guards beside him were busy collapsing slowly to the floor, groaning.

Dios smiled.

'Take the woman,' he snapped, and the captain darted forward and grabbed Ptraci, who hadn't made any attempt to run away. Dios bent down and picked up the prod.

'There are more guards outside,' he said. 'I'm sure you will realise that. It will be in your interests to step forward.'

'Why?' said Teppic, from the shadows. He fumbled in his boot for his blowpipe.

'You will then be thrown to the sacred crocodiles, by order of the king,' said Dios.

'Something to look forward to, eh?' said Teppic, feverishly screwing bits together.

'It would certainly be preferable to many alternatives,' said Dios.

In the darkness Teppic ran his fingers over the little coded knobs on the darts. Most of the really spectacular poisons would have evaporated or dissolved into harmlessness by now, but there were a number of lesser potions designed to give their clients nothing more than a good night's sleep. An assassin might have to work his way to an inhume past a number of alert bodyguards. It was considered impolite to inhume them as well.

'You could let us go,' said Teppic. 'I suspect that's what you want, isn't it? For me to go away and never come back? That suits me fine.'

Dios hesitated.

'You're supposed to say «And let the girl go»,' he said.

'Oh, yes. And that, too,' said Teppic.

'No. I would be failing in my duty to the king,' said Dios.

'For goodness sake, Dios, you know I am the king!'

'No. I have a very clear picture of the king. You are not the king,' said the priest.

Teppic peered over the edge of the camel stall. The camel peered over his shoulder.

And then the world went mad.

All right, madder.

All the pyramids were blazing now, filling the sky with their sooty light as the brothers Ptaclusp struggled to the main working platform.

IIa collapsed on the planking, wheezing like an elderly bellows. A few feet away the sloping side was hot to the touch, and there was no doubt in his mind now that the pyramid was creaking, like a sailing ship in a gale. He had never paid much attention to the actual mechanics as opposed to the cost of pyramid construction, but he was pretty certain that the noise was as wrong as II and II making V.

His brother reached out to touch the stone, but drew his hand back as small sparks flashed around his fingers.

'You can feel the warmth,' he said. 'It's astonishing!'

'Why?'

'Heating up a mass like this. I mean, the sheer tonnage…'

'I don't like it, Two-bee,' IIa quavered. 'Let's just leave the stone here, shall we? I'm sure it'll be all right, and in the morning we can send a gang up here, they'll know exactly what-'

His words were drowned out as another flare crackled across the sky and hit the column of dancing air fifty feet above them. He grabbed part of the scaffolding.

'Sod take this,' he said. 'I'm off.'

'Hang on a minute,' said IIb. 'I mean, what is creaking? Stone can't creak.'

'The whole bloody scaffolding is moving, don't be daft!' He stared goggle-eyed at his brother. 'Tell me it's the scaffolding,' he pleaded.

'No, I'm certain this time. It's coming from inside.' They stared at one another, and then at the rickety ladder leading up to the tip, or to where the tip should be.

'Come on!' said IIb. 'It can't flare off, it's trying to find ways of discharging-'

There was a sound as loud as the groaning of continents.

Teppic felt it. He felt that his skin was several sizes too small. He felt that someone was holding his ears and trying to twist his head off.

He saw the guard captain sag to his knees, fighting to get his helmet off, and he leapt the stall.

Tried to leap the stall. Everything was wrong, and he landed heavily on a floor that seemed undecided about becoming a wall. He managed to get to his feet and was pulled sideways, dancing awkwardly across the stable to keep his balance.

The stables stretched and shrank like a picture in a distorting mirror. He'd gone to see some once in Ankh, the three of them hazarding a half-coin each to visit the transient marvels of Dr Mooner's Travelling Take Your Breath Away Emporium. But you knew then that it was only twisted glass that was giving you a head like a sausage and legs like footballs. Teppic wished he could be so certain that what was happening around him would allow of such a harmless explanation. You'd probably need a wobbly glass mirror to make it look normal.

He ran on taffy legs towards Ptraci and the high priest as the world was expanded and squeezed around him, and was momentarily gratified to see the girl squirm in Dios's grip and fetch him a tidy thump on the ear.

He moved as though in a dream, with the distances changing as though reality was an elastic thing. Another step sent him cannoning into the pair of them. He grabbed Ptraci's arm and staggered back to the camel stall, where the creature was still cudding and watching the scene with the nearest thing a camel will ever get to mild interest, and snatched its halter.

No-one seemed to be interested in stopping them as they helped each other through the doorway and out into the mad night.

'It helps if you shut your eyes,' said Ptraci.

Teppic tried it. It worked. A stretch of courtyard that his eyes told him was a quivering rectangle whose sides twanged like bowstrings became, well, just a courtyard under his feet.

'Gosh, that was clever,' he said. 'How did you think of that?'

'I always shut my eyes when I'm frightened,' said Ptraci.

'Good plan.'

'What's happening?'

'I don't know. I don't want to find out. I think going away from here could be an amazingly sensible idea. How do you make a camel kneel, did you say? I've got any amount of sharp things.'

The camel, who had a very adequate grasp of human language as it applied to threats, knelt down graciously. They scrambled aboard and the landscape lurched again as the beast jacked itself back on to its feet.

The camel knew perfectly well what was happening. Three stomachs and a digestive system like an industrial distillation plant gave you a lot of time for sitting and thinking.

It's not for nothing that advanced mathematics tends to be invented in hot countries. It's because of the morphic resonance of all the camels, who have that disdainful expression and famous curled lip as a natural result of an ability to do quadratic equations.

It's not generally realised that camels have a natural aptitude for advanced mathematics, particularly where they involve ballistics. This evolved as a survival trait, in the same way as a human's hand and eye co-ordination, a chameleon's camouflage and a dolphin's renowned ability to save drowning swimmers if there's any chance that biting them in half might be observed and commented upon adversely by other humans.

The fact is that camels are far more intelligent than dolphins19.

They are so much brighter that they soon realised that the most prudent thing any intelligent animal can do, if it would prefer its descendants not to spend a lot of time on a slab with electrodes clamped to their brains or sticking mines on the bottom of ships or being patronised rigid by zoologists, is to make bloody certain humans don't find out about it. So they long ago plumped for a lifestyle that, in return for a certain amount of porterage and being prodded with sticks, allowed them adequate food and grooming and the chance to spit in a human's eye and get away with it.

And this particular camel, the result of millions of years of selective evolution to produce a creature that could count the grains of sand it was walking over, and close its nostrils at will, and survive under the broiling sun for many days without water, was called You Bastard.

And he was, in fact, the greatest mathematician in the world.

You Bastard was thinking: there seems to be some growing dimensional instability here, swinging from zero to nearly forty— five degrees by the look of it. How interesting. I wonder what's causing it? Let V equal 3. Let Tau equal Chi/4. cudcudcud Let Kappa/y be an Evil-Smelling-Bugger20 differential tensor domain with four imaginary spin co-efficients…

Ptraci hit him across the head with her sandal. 'Come on, get a move on!' she yelled. You Bastard thought: Therefore H to the enabling power equals V/s. cudcudcud Thus in hypersyllogic notation . . .

Teppic looked behind him. The strange distortions in the landscape seemed to be settling down, and Dios was . . .

Dios was striding out of the palace, and had actually managed to find several guards whose fear of disobedience overcame the terror of the mysteriously distorted world.

You Bastard stood stoically chewing. . . cudcudcud which gives us an interesting shortening oscillation. What would be the period of this? Let period = x. cudcudcud Let t = time. Let initial period . . .

Ptraci bounced up and down on his neck and kicked hard with her heels, an action which would have caused any anthropoid male to howl and bang his head against the wall.

'It won't move! Can't you hit it?'

Teppic brought his hand down as hard as he could on You Bastard's hide, raising a cloud of dust and deadening every nerve in his fingers. It was like hitting a large sack full of coathangers.

'Come on,' he muttered.

Dios raised a hand.

'Halt, in the name of the king!' he shouted.

An arrow thudded into You Bastard's hump.

. . . equals 6.3 recurring. Reduce. That gives us ouch . . . 314 seconds . . .