Pyramids

‘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 him 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.

… kkkhheeeeeee …

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.^{30}

‘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 single-handedly 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 goose-feather 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.’