'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.
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.