Pyramids

‘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 memorizing 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,’ he 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.’