Around them doors were being thrown open, curses were being cursed, there was the sound of furniture being dragged up to first-floor rooms.
“Must have been a hell of a storm up in the mountains,” said Arthur. “It doesn’t usually flood like this even in the spring.”
“Maybe we should burn some feathers under his nose,” suggested Chidder.
“That bloody seagull would be favorite,” Arthur growled.
“What seagull?”
“You saw it.”
“Well, what about it?”
“You
did
see it, didn’t you?” Uncertainty flickered its dark flame in Arthur’s eyes. The seagull had disappeared in all the excitement.
“My attention was a bit occupied,” said Chidder diffidently. “It must have been those mint wafers they served with the coffee. I thought they were a bit off.”
“Definitely a touch eldritch, that bird,” said Arthur. “Look, let’s put him down somewhere while I empty the water out of my boots, can we?”
There was a bakery nearby, its doors thrown open so that the trays of new loaves could cool in the early morning. They propped Teppic against the wall.
“He looks as though someone hit him on the head,” said Chidder. “No-one did, did they?”
Arthur shook his head. Teppic’s face was locked in a gentle grin. Whatever his eyes were focused on wasn’t occupying the usual set of dimensions.
“We ought to get him back to the Guild and into the san—”
He stopped. There was a peculiar rustling sound behind him. The loaves of bread were bouncing gently on their trays. One or two of them vibrated onto the floor, where they spun around like overturned beetles.
Then, their crusts cracking open like eggshells, they sprouted hundreds of green shoots.
Within a few seconds the trays were waving stands of young corn, their heads already beginning to fill out and bend over. Through them marched Chidder and Arthur, poker-faced, doing the 100-meter nonchalant walk with Teppic held rigidly between them.
“Is it him doing all this?”
“I’ve got a feeling that—” Arthur looked behind them, just in case any angry bakers had come out and spotted such aggressively wholemeal produce, and stopped so suddenly that the other two swung around him, like a rudder.
They looked thoughtfully at the street.
“Not something you see every day, that,” said Chidder at last.
“You mean the way there’s grass and stuff growing up everywhere he puts his feet?”
“Yes.”
Their eyes met. As one, they looked down at Teppic’s shoes. He was already ankle-deep in greenery, which was cracking the centuries-old cobbles in its urgency.
Without speaking a word, they gripped his elbows and lifted him into the air.
“The san,” said Arthur.
“The san,” agreed Chidder.
But they both knew, even then, that this was going to involve more than a hot poultice.
The doctor sat back.
“Fairly straightforward,” he said, thinking quickly. “A case of
mortis portalis tackulatum
with complications.”
“What’s that mean?” said Chidder.
“In layman’s terms,” the doctor sniffed, “he’s as dead as a doornail.”
“What are the complications?”
The doctor looked shifty. “He’s still breathing,” he said. “Look, his pulse is nearly humming and he’s got a temperature you could fry eggs on.” He hesitated, aware that this was probably too straightforward and easily understood; medicine was a new art on the Disc, and wasn’t going to get anywhere if people could understand it.
“
Pyrocerebrum ouerf culinaire
,” he said, after working it out in his head.
“Well, what can you do about it?” said Arthur.
“Nothing. He’s dead. All the medical tests prove it. So, er…bury him, keep him nice and cool, and tell him to come and see me next week. In daylight, for preference. But he’s still breathing!”
“These are just reflex actions that might easily confuse the layman,” said the doctor airily.
Chidder sighed. He suspected that the Guild, who after all had an unrivalled experience of sharp knives and complex organic compounds, was much better at elementary diagnostics than were the doctors. The Guild might kill people, but at least it didn’t expect them to be grateful for it.
Teppic opened his eyes.
“I must go home,” he said.
“Dead, is he?” said Chidder.
The doctor was a credit to his profession. “It’s not unusual for a corpse to make distressing noises after death,” he said valiantly, “which can upset relatives and—”
Teppic sat bolt upright.
“Also, muscular spasms in the stiffening body can in certain circumstances—” the doctor began, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. Then an idea occurred to him.
“It’s a rare and mysterious ailment,” he said, “which is going around a lot at the moment. It’s caused by a—a—by something so small it can’t be detected in any way whatsoever,” he finished, with a self-congratulatory smile on his face. It was a good one, he had to admit. He’d have to remember it.
“Thank you very much,” said Chidder, opening the door and ushering him through. “Next time we’re feeling really well, we’ll definitely call you in.”
“It’s probably a walrus,” said the doctor, as he was gently but firmly propelled out of the room. “He’s caught a walrus, there’s a lot of it going—”
The door slammed shut.
Teppic swung his legs off the bed and clutched at his head.
“I’ve got to go home,” he repeated.
“Why?” said Arthur.
“Don’t know. The kingdom wants me.”
“You seemed to be taken pretty bad there—” Arthur began. Teppic waved his hands dismissively.
“Look,” he said, “please, I don’t want anyone sensibly pointing out things. I don’t want anyone telling me I should rest. None of it matters. I will be back in the kingdom as soon as possible. It’s not a case of
must
, you understand. I
will
. And you can help me, Chiddy.”
“How?”
“Your father has an extremely fast vessel he uses for smuggling,” said Teppic flatly. “He will lend it to me, in exchange for favorable consideration of future trading opportunities. If we leave inside the hour, it will do the journey in plenty of time.”
“My father is an honest trader!”
“On the contrary. Seventy percent of his income last year was from undeclared trading in the following commodities—” Teppic’s eyes stared into nothingness—“From illegal transport of gullanes and leuchars, nine percent. From night-running of untaxed—”
“Well, thirty percent honest,” Chidder admitted, “which is a lot more honest than most. You’d better tell me how you know. Extremely quickly.”
“I—don’t know,” said Teppic. “When I was…asleep, it seemed I knew everything. Everything about everything. I think my father is dead.”
“Oh,” said Chidder. “Gosh, I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no. It’s not like that. It’s what he would have wanted. I think he was rather looking forward to it. In our family, death is when you really start to, you know, enjoy life. I expect he’s rather enjoying it.”
In fact the pharaoh was sitting on a spare slab in the ceremonial preparation room watching his own soft bits being carefully removed from his body and put into the special Canopic jars.
This is not a sight often seen by people—at least, not by people in a position to take a thoughtful interest.
He was rather upset. Although he was no longer officially inhabiting his body he was still attached to it by some sort of occult bond, and it is hard to be very happy at seeing two artisans up to the elbows in bits of you.
The jokes aren’t funny, either. Not when you are, as it were, the butt.
“Look, master Dil,” said Gern, a plump, red-faced young man who the king had learned was the new apprentice. “Look…right…watch this, watch this…look…your name in lights. Get it? Your name in lights, see?”
“Just put them in the jar, boy,” said Dil wearily. “And while we’re on the subject I didn’t think much of the Gottle of Geer routine, either.”
“Sorry, master.”
“And pass me over a number three brain hook while you’re up that end, will you?”
“Coming right up, master,” said Gern.
“And don’t jog me. This is a fiddly bit.”
“Sure thing.”
The king craned nearer.
Gern rummaged around at his end of the job and then gave a long, low whistle.
“Will you look at the color of this!” he said. “You wouldn’t think so, would you? Is it something they eat, master?”
Dil sighed. “Just put it in the pot, Gern.”
“Right you are, master. Master?”
“Yes, lad?”
“Which bit’s got the god in it, master?”
Dil squinted up the king’s nostril, trying to concentrate.
“That gets sorted out before he comes down here,” he said patiently.
“I wondered,” said Gern, “because there’s not a jar for it, see.”
“No. There wouldn’t be. It’d have to be a rather strange jar, Gern.”
Gern looked a bit disappointed. “Oh,” he said, “so he’s just ordinary, then, is he?”
“In a strictly organic sense,” said Dil, his voice slightly muffled.
“Our mum said he was all right as a king,” said Gern. “What do you think?”
Dil paused with ajar in his hand, and seemed to give the conversation some thought for the first time.
“Never think about it until they come down here,” he said. “I suppose he was better than most. Nice pair of lungs. Clean kidneys. Good big sinuses, which is what I always look for in a king.” He looked down, and delivered his professional judgment. “Pleasure to work with, really.”
“Our mum said his heart was in the right place,” said Gern. The king, hovering dismally in the corner, gave a gloomy nod. Yes, he thought. Jar three, top shelf.
Dil wiped his hands on a rag, and sighed. Possibly thirty-five years in the funeral business, which had given him a steady hand, a philosophic manner and a keen interest in vegetarianism, had also granted him powers of hearing beyond the ordinary. Because he was almost persuaded that, right beside his ear, someone else sighed too.
The king wandered sadly over to the other side of the room, and stared at the dull liquid of the preparation vat.
Funny, that. When he was alive it had all seemed so sensible, so
obvious
. Now he was dead it looked a huge waste of effort.
It was beginning to annoy him. He watched Dil and his apprentice tidy up, burn some ceremonial resins, lift him—it—up, carry it respectfully across the room and slide it gently into the oily embrace of the preservative.
Teppicymon XXVII gazed into the murky depths at his own body lying sadly on the bottom, like the last pickled gherkin in the jar.
He raised his eyes to the sacks in the corner. They were full of straw. He didn’t need telling what was going to be done with it.
The boat didn’t glide. It
insinuated
itself through the water, dancing across the waves on the tips of the twelve oars, spreading like an oil slick, gliding like a bird. It was matt black and shaped like a shark.
There was no drummer to beat the rhythm. The boat didn’t want the weight. Anyway, he’d have needed the full kit, including snares.
Teppic sat between the lines of silent rowers, in the narrow gully that was the cargo hold. Better not to speculate what cargoes. The boat looked designed to move very small quantities of things very quickly and without anyone noticing, and he doubted whether even the Smugglers’ Guild was aware of its existence. Commerce was more interesting than he thought.
They found the delta with suspicious ease—how many times had this whispering shadow slipped up the river, he wondered—and above the exotic smells from the mysterious former cargo he could detect the scents of home. Crocodile dung. Reed pollen. Waterlily blossoms. Lack of plumbing. The rank of lions and reek of hippos.
The leading oarsman tapped him gently on the shoulder and motioned him up, steadied him as he stepped overboard into a few feet of water. By the time he’d waded ashore the boat had turned and was a mere suspicion of a shadow downstream.
Because he was naturally curious, Teppic wondered where it would lie up during the day, since it had the look about it of a boat designed to travel only under cover of darkness, and decided that it’d probably lurk somewhere in the high reed marshes on the delta.
And because he was now a king, he made a mental note to have the marshes patrolled periodically from now on. A king should know things.
He stopped, ankle deep in river ooze. He had known
everything
.
Arthur had rambled on vaguely about seagulls and rivers and loaves of bread sprouting, which suggested he’d drunk too much. All Teppic could remember was waking up with a terrible sense of loss, as his memory failed to hold and leaked away its new treasures. It was like the tremendous insights that come in dreams and vanish on waking. He’d known everything, but as soon as he tried to remember what it was it poured out of his head, as from a leaky bucket.
But it had left him with a new sensation. Before, his life had been ambling along, bent by circumstance. Now it was clicking along on bright rails. Perhaps he hadn’t got it in him to be an assassin, but he knew he could be a king.
His feet found solid ground. The boat had dropped him off a little way downstream of the palace and, blue in the moonlight, the pyramid flares on the far bank were filling the night with their familiar glow.
The abodes of the happy dead came in all sizes although not, of course, in all shapes. They clustered thickly nearer the city, as though the dead like company.
And even the oldest ones were all complete. No one had borrowed any of the stones to build houses or make roads. Teppic felt obscurely proud of that. No one had unsealed the doors and wandered around inside to see if the dead had any old treasures they weren’t using anymore. And every day, without fail, food was left in the little antechambers; the commissaries of the dead occupied a large part of the palace.
Sometimes the food went, sometimes it didn’t. The priests, however, were very clear on this point. Regardless of whether the food was consumed or not,
it had been eaten by the dead
. Presumably they enjoyed it; they never complained, or came back for seconds.