Pyramids

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.

'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 goosefeather 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.

'The sacred crocodiles will be going hungry, then.' But not for long, Teppic thought. Walk to the end of any of the little jetties down by the bank, let your shadow fall on the river, and the mud-yellow water would become, by magic, mud-yellow bodies. They looked like large, sodden logs, the main difference being that logs don't open at one end and bite your legs off. The sacred crocodiles of the Djel were the kingdom's garbage disposal, river patrol and occasional morgue.

They couldn't simply be called big. If one of the huge bulls ever drifted sideways on to the current, he'd dam the river.

The barber tiptoed out. A couple of body servants tiptoed in.

'I anticipated your majesty's natural reaction, sire,' Dios continued, like the drip of water in deep limestone caverns.

'Jolly good,' said Teppic, inspecting the clothes for the day. 'What was it, exactly?'

'A detailed search of the palace, room by room.'

'Absolutely. Carry on, Dios.'

My face is perfectly open, he told himself. I haven't twitched a muscle out of place. I know I haven't. He can read me like a stele. I can outstare him.

'Thank you, sire.'

'I imagine they'll be miles away by now,' said Teppic. 'Whoever they were. She was only a handmaiden, wasn't she?'

'It is unthinkable that anyone could disobey your judgements! There is no-one in the kingdom that would dare to! Their souls would be forfeit! They will be hunted down, sire! Hunted down and destroyed!'

The servants cowered behind Teppic. This wasn't mere anger. This was wrath. Real, old-time, vintage wrath. And waxing? It waxed like a hatful of moons.

'Are you feeling all right, Dios?'

Dios had turned to look out across the river. The Great Pyramid was almost complete. The sight of it seemed to calm him down or, at least, stabilise him on some new mental plateau.

'Yes, sire,' he said. 'Thank you.' He breathed deeply. 'Tomorrow, sire, you are pleased to witness the capping of the pyramid. A momentous occasion. Of course, it will be some time before the interior chambers are completed.'

'Fine. Fine. And this morning, I think, I should like to visit my father.'

'I am sure the late king will be pleased to see you, sire. It is your wish that I should accompany you.'

'Oh.'

It's a fact as immutable as the Third Law of Sod that there is no such thing as a good Grand Vizier. A predilection to cackle and plot is apparently part of the job spec.

High priests tend to get put in the same category. They have to face the implied assumption that no sooner do they get the funny hat than they're issuing strange orders, e.g., princesses tied to rocks for itinerant sea monsters and throwing little babies in the sea.