Pyramids

‘Haven’t you read my Principles of Ideal Government?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Or my Discourse on Historical Inevitability?’

‘No.’

Ibid looked crestfallen. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Ibid is a well-known authority on everything,’ said Xeno. ‘Except for geometry. And interior decorating. And elementary logic.’ Ibid glared at him.

‘What about you, then?’ said Teppic.

Xeno drained his mug. ‘I’m more into the destruct testing of axioms,’ he said. ‘The chap you need is Pthagonal. A very acute man with an angle.’

He was interrupted by the clatter of hooves. Several horsemen galloped with reckless speed past the tavern and on up the winding, cobbled streets of the city. They seemed very excited about something.

Ibid picked a stunned seagull out of his wine cup and laid it on the table. He was looking thoughtful.

‘If the Old Kingdom has really disappeared—’ he said.

‘It has,’ said Teppic firmly. ‘It’s not something you can be mistaken about, really.’

‘Then that means our border is concurrent with that of Tsort,’ said Ibid ponderously.

‘Pardon?’ said Teppic.

‘There’s nothing between us,’ explained the philosopher. ‘Oh, dear. That means we shall be forced to make war.’

‘Why?’

Ibid opened his mouth, stopped, and turned to Xeno.

‘Why does it mean we’ll be forced to make war?’ he said.

‘Historical imperative,’ said Xeno.

‘Ah, yes. I knew it was something like that. I am afraid it is inevitable. It’s a shame, but there you are.’

There was another clatter as another party of horsemen rounded the corner, heading downhill this time. They wore the high plumed helmets of Ephebian soldiery, and were shouting enthusiastically.

Ibid settled himself more comfortably on the bench and folded his hands.

‘That’ll be the Tyrant’s men,’ he said, as the troop galloped through the city gates and out on to the desert. ‘He’s sending them to check, you may depend upon it.’

Teppic knew about the enmity between Ephebe and Tsort, of course. The Old Kingdom had profited mightily by it, by seeing that the merchants of both sides had somewhere discreet in which to trade with one another. He drummed his fingers on the table.

‘You haven’t fought each other for thousands of years,’ he said. ‘You were tiny countries in those days. It was just a scrap. Now you’re huge. People could get hurt. Doesn’t that worry you?’

‘It’s a matter of pride,’ said Ibid, but his voice was tinged with uncertainty. ‘I don’t think there’s much choice.’

‘It was that bloody wooden cow or whatever,’ said Xeno. ‘They’ve never forgiven us for it.’

‘If we don’t attack them, they’ll attack us first,’ said Ibid.

‘’S’right,’ said Xeno. ‘So we’d better retaliate before they have a chance to strike.’

The two philosophers stared uncomfortably at one another.

‘On the other hand,’ said Ibid, ‘war makes it very difficult to think straight.’

‘There is that,’ Xeno agreed. ‘Especially for dead people.’

There was an embarrassed silence, broken only by Ptraci’s voice singing to the tortoise and the occasional squeak of stricken seagulls.

‘What day is it?’ said Ibid.

‘Tuesday,’ said Teppic.

‘I think,’ said Ibid, ‘that it might be a good idea if you came to the symposium. We have one every Tuesday,’ he added. ‘All the greatest minds in Ephebe will be there. All this needs thinking about.’

He glanced at Ptraci.

‘However,’ he said, ‘your young woman cannot attend, naturally. Females are absolutely forbidden. Their brains overheat.’

King Teppicymon XXVII opened his eyes. It’s bloody dark in here, he thought.

And he realized that he could hear his own heart beating, but muffled, and some way off.

And then he remembered.

He was alive. He was alive again. And, this time, he was in bits.

Somehow, he’d assumed that you got assembled again once you got to the Netherworld, like one of Grinjer’s kits.

Get a grip on yourself, man, he thought.

It’s up to you to pull yourself together.

Right, he thought. There were at least six jars. So my eyes are in one of them. Getting the lid off would be favourite, so we can see what we’re at.

That’s going to involve arms and legs and fingers.

This is going to be really tricky.

He reached out, tentatively, with stiff joints, and located something heavy. It felt as though it might give, so he moved his other arm into position, with a great deal of awkwardness, and pushed.

There was a distant thump, and a definite feeling of openness above him. He sat up, creaking all the way.

The sides of the ceremonial casket still hemmed him in, but to his surprise he found that one slow arm movement brushed them out of the way like paper. Must be all the pickle and stuffing, he thought. Give you a bit of weight.

He felt his way to the edge of the slab, lowered his heavy legs to the ground and, after a pause out of habit to wheeze a bit, took the first tottering lurch of the newly undead.