“No! Dad, we ought—”
“But you’re sure you can work out where these loops will occur, are you?”
“Yes, I expect so, but—”
“Good.” Ptaclusp was trembling with excitement. Maybe they’d have to pay the men more, but it would be worth it, and IIa would be bound to think up some sort of scheme, finance was nearly as good as magic. The lads would have to accept it. After all, they’d complained about working with free men, they’d complained about working with Howondanians, they’d complained about working with everyone except proper paid-up Guild members. So they could hardly complain about working with themselves.
IIb stepped back, and gripped the abacus for reassurance.
“Dad,” he said cautiously, “what are you thinking about?”
Ptaclusp beamed at him. “
Doppelgangs
,” he said.
Politics was more interesting. Teppic felt that here, at least, he could make a contribution.
Djelibeybi was old. It was respected. But it was also small and in the sword-edged sense, which was what seemed to matter these days, had no power. It wasn’t always thus, as Dios told it. Once it had ruled the world by sheer force of nobility, hardly needing the standing army of twenty-five thousand men it had in those high days.
Now it wielded a more subtle power as a narrow state between the huge and thrusting empires of Tsort and Ephebe, each one both a threat and a shield. For more than a thousand years the kings along the Djel had, with extreme diplomacy, exquisite manners and the footwork of a centipede on adrenaline, kept the peace along the whole widdershins side of the continent. Merely having existed for seven thousand years can be a formidable weapon, if you use it properly.
“You mean we’re neutral ground?” said Teppic.
“Tsort is a desert culture like us,” said Dios, steepling his hands. “We have helped to shape it over the years. As for Ephebe—” He sniffed. “They have some very strange beliefs.”
“How do you mean?”
“They believe the world is run by geometry, sire. All lines and angles and numbers. That sort of thing, sire—” Dios frowned—“can lead to some very unsound ideas.”
“Ah,” said Teppic, resolving to learn more about unsound ideas as soon as possible. “So we’re secretly on the side of Tsort, yes?”
“No. It is important that Ephebe remains strong.”
“But we’ve more in common with Tsort?”
“So we allow them to believe, sire.”
“But they
are
a desert culture?”
Dios smiled. “I am afraid they don’t take pyramids seriously, sire.”
Teppic considered all this.
“So whose side are we really on?”
“Our own, sire. There is always a way. Always remember, sire, that your family was on its third dynasty before our neighbors had worked out, sire, how babies are made.”
The Tsort delegation did indeed appear to have studied Djeli culture assiduously, almost frantically. It was also clear that they hadn’t begun to understand it; they’d merely borrowed as many bits as seemed useful and then put them together in subtly wrong ways. For example, to a man they employed the Three-Turning-Walk, as portrayed on friezes, and only used by the Djeli court on certain occasions. Occasional grimaces crossed their faces as their vertebrae protested.
They were also wearing the Khruspids of Morning and the bangles of Going Forth, as well as the kilt of Yet with, and no wonder even the maidens on fan duty were hiding their smiles, matching greaves!
*
Even Teppic had to cough hurriedly. But then, he thought, they don’t know any better. They’re like children.
And this thought was followed by another one which added, These children could wipe us off the map in one hour.
Hot on the synapses of the other two came a third thought, which said: It’s only clothes, for goodness sake, you’re beginning to take it all seriously.
The group from Ephebe were more sensibly dressed in white togas. They had a certain sameness about them, as if somewhere in the country there was a little press that stamped out small bald men with curly white beards.
The two parties halted before the throne, and bowed.
“Hallo,” said Teppic.
“His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King, bids you welcome and commands you to take wine with him,” said Dios, clapping his hands for a butler.
“Oh yes,” said Teppic. “Do sit down, won’t you?”
“His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King, commands you to be seated,” said Dios.
Teppic racked his brains for a suitable speech. He’d heard plenty in Ankh-Morpork. They were probably the same the whole world over.
“I’m sure we shall get on—”
“His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Hail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King, bids you harken!” Dios boomed.
“—long history of friendship—”
“Harken to the wisdom of His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Hail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King!”
The echoes died away.
“Could I have a word with you a moment, Dios?”
The high priest leaned down.
“Is all this necessary?” hissed Teppic.
Dios’s aquiline features took on the wooden expression of one who is wrestling with an unfamiliar concept.
“Of course, sire. It is traditional,” he said, at last.
“I thought I was supposed to talk to these people. You know, about boundaries and trade and so on. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about it and I’ve got several ideas. I mean, it’s going to be a little difficult if you’re going to keep shouting.”
Dios gave him a polite smile.
“Oh no, sire. That has all been sorted out, sire. I met with them this morning.”
“What am I supposed to do, then?”
Dios made a slight circling motion with one hand.
“Just as you wish, sire. It is normal to smile a little, and put them at their ease.”
“Is that
all
?”
“Sire could ask them whether they enjoy being diplomats, sire,” said Dios. He met Teppic’s glare with eyes as expressionless as mirrors.
“I am the
king
,” Teppic hissed.
“Certainly, sire. It would not do to sully the office with mere matters of leaden state, sire. Tomorrow, sire, you will be holding supreme court. A very fit office for a monarch, sire.”
“Ah. Yes.”
It was quite complicated. Teppic listened carefully to the case, which was alleged cattle theft compounded by Djeli’s onion-layered land laws. This is what it should be all about, he thought. No one else can work out who owns the bloody ox, this is the sort of thing kings have to do. Now, let’s see, five years ago,
he
sold the ox to
him
, but as it turned out—
He looked from the face of one worried farmer to the other. They were both clutching their ragged straw hats close to their chests, and both of them wore the paralyzed wooden expressions of simple men who, in pursuit of their parochial disagreement, now found themselves on a marble floor in a great room with their god enthroned before their very eyes. Teppic didn’t doubt that either one would cheerfully give up all rights to the wretched creature in exchange for being ten miles away.
It’s a fairly mature ox, he thought, time it was slaughtered, even if it’s
his
it’s been fattening on his neighbor’s land all these years, half each would be about right, they’re really going to remember this judgment…
He raised the Sickle of Justice.
“His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King, will give judgment! Cower to the justice of His Greatness the King Tep—”
Teppic cut Dios off in mid-intone.
“Having listened to both sides of the case,” he said firmly, the mask giving it a slight boom, “and, being impressed by the argument and counterargument, it seems to us only just that the beast in question should be slaughtered without delay and shared with all fairness between both plaintiff and defendant.”
He sat back. They’ll call me Teppic the Wise, he thought. The common people go for this sort of thing.
The farmers gave him a long blank stare. Then, as if they were both mounted on turntables, they turned and looked to where Dios was sitting in his place on the steps in a group of lesser priests.
Dios stood up, smoothed his plain robe, and extended the staff.
“Harken to the interpreted wisdom of His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King,” he said. “It is our divine judgment that the beast in dispute is the property of Rhumusphut. It is our divine judgment that the beast be sacrificed upon the altar of the Concourse of Gods in thanks for the attention of Our Divine Self. It is our further judgment that both Rhumusphut and Ktoffle work a further three days in the fields of the King in payment for this judgment.”
Dios raised his head until he was looking along his fearsome nose right into Teppic’s mask. He raised both hands.
“Mighty is the wisdom of His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King!”
The farmers bobbed in terrified gratitude and backed out of the presence, framed between the guards.
“Dios,” said Teppic, levelly.
“Sire?”
“Just attend upon me a moment, please?” “Sire?” repeated Dios, materializing by the throne.
“I could not help noticing, Dios, excuse me if I am wrong, a certain flourish in the translation there.”
The priest looked surprised.
“Indeed no, sire. I was most precise in relaying your decision, saving only to refine the detail in accordance with precedent and tradition.”
“How was that? The damn creature really belonged to both of them!”
“But Rhumusphut is known to be punctilious in his devotions, sire, seeking every opportunity to laud and magnify the gods, whereas Ktoffle has been known to harbor foolish thoughts.”
“What’s that got to do with justice?”
“Everything, sire,” said Dios smoothly.
“But now neither of them has the ox!”
“Quite so, sire. But Ktoffle does not have it because he does not deserve it, while Rhumusphut, by his sacrifice, has ensured himself greater stature in the Netherworld.”
“And you’ll eat beef tonight, I suppose,” said Teppic.
It was like a blow; Teppic might as well have picked up the throne and hit the priest with it. Dios took a step backward, aghast, his eyes two brief pools of pain. When he spoke, there was a raw edge to his voice.
“I do not eat meat, sire,” he said. “It dilutes and tarnishes the soul. May I summon the next ease, sire?”
Teppic nodded. “Very well.”
The next case was a dispute over the rent of a hundred square yards of riverside land. Teppic listened carefully. Good growing land was at a premium in Djeli, since the pyramids took up so much of it. It was a serious matter.
It was especially serious because the land’s tenant was by all accounts hard-working and conscientious, while its actual owner was clearly rich and objectionable.
*
Unfortunately, however one chose to stack the facts, he was also in the right.
Teppic thought deeply, and then squinted at Dios. The priest nodded at him.
“It seems to me—” said Teppic, as fast as possible but not fast enough.
“Harken to the judgment of His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King!”
“It seems to me—to
us
,” Teppic repeated, “that, taking all matters in consideration beyond those of mere mortal artifice, the true and just outcome in this matter—” He paused. This, he thought, isn’t how a good king speaks.
“The landlord has been weighed in the balance and found wanting,” he boomed through the mask’s mouth slit. “We find for the tenant.”
As one man the court turned to Dios, who held a whispered consultation with the other priests and then stood up.
“Hear now the interpreted word of His Greatness the King Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King! Ptorne the farmer will at once pay 18
toons
in back rent to Prince Imtebos! Prince Imtebos will at once pay 12
toons
into the temple offerings of the gods of the river! Long live the king! Bring on the next case!”
Teppic beckoned to Dios again.
“Is there any point in me being here?” he demanded in an overheated whisper.
“Please be calm, sire. If you were not here, how would the people know that justice had been done?”
“But you twist everything I say!”
“No, sire. Sire, you give the judgment of the man. I interpret the judgment of the king.”