Pyramids

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

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

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

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

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

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

'All your bits and pieces around you.'

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

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

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

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

And then there was the Great Pyramid itself.

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

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

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

'All my life, O light of noonday.'

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

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

Teppic waved a hand at the model on its podium.

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

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

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

'But,' he said.

Two pairs of eyes swivelled towards his.

'Um,' he said.

Dios raised an eyebrow.

'Sire?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Wrong?' said Dios.

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

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

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

'Yes, but-'

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

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

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