Pyramids (2 page)

At least this was a bit of luck. The student lore said there were only half a dozen routes used during the test, and on summer nights they were alive with students tackling the roofs, towers, eaves and colls of the city. Edificing was a keen inter-house sport in its own right; it was one of the few things Teppic was sure he was good at—he’d been captain of the team that beat Scorpion House in the Wall-game finals. And this was one of the easier courses.

He dropped lightly over the edge of the roof, landed on a ridge, ran easily across the sleeping building, jumped a narrow gap onto the tiled roof of the Young Men’s Reformed-Cultists-of-the-Ichor-God-Bel-Shamharoth Association gym, jogged gently over the gray slope, swarmed up a twelve foot wall without slowing down, and vaulted onto the wide flat roof of the Temple of Blind Io.

A full, orange moon hung on the horizon. There was a real breeze up here, not much, but as refreshing as a cold shower after the stifling heat of the streets. He speeded up, enjoying the coolness on his face, and leapt accurately off the end of the roof onto the narrow plank bridge that led across Tinlid Alley.

And which someone, in defiance of all probability, had removed.

At times like this one’s past life flashes before one’s eyes…

His aunt had wept, rather theatrically, Teppic had thought, since the old lady was as tough as a hippo’s instep. His father had looked stern and dignified, whenever he could remember to, and tried to keep his mind free of beguiling images of cliffs and fish. The servants had been lined up along the hall from the foot of the main stairway, handmaidens on one side, eunuchs and butlers on the other. The women bobbed a curtsey as he walked by, creating a rather nice sine wave effect which the greatest mathematician on the Disc, had he not at this moment been occupied by being hit with a stick and shouted at by a small man wearing what appeared to be a nightshirt, might well have appreciated.

“But,” Teppic’s aunt blew her nose, “it’s
trade
, after all.”

His father patted her hand. “Nonsense, flower of the desert,” he said, “it is a profession, at the very least.”

“What is the difference?” she sobbed.

The old man sighed. “The money, I understand. It will do him good to go out into the world and make friends and have a few corners knocked off, and it will keep him occupied and prevent him from getting into mischief.”

“But…
assassination
…he’s so young, and he’s never shown the
least
inclination…” She dabbed at her eyes. “It’s not from our side of the family,” she added accusingly. “That brother-in-law of yours—”

“Uncle Vyrt,” said his father.

“Going all over the world killing people!”

“I don’t believe they use that word,” said his father. “I think they prefer words like conclude, or annul. Or inhume, I understand.”

“Inhume?”

“I think it’s like exhume, O flooding of the waters, only it’s
before
they bury you.”

“I think it’s terrible.” She sniffed. “But I heard from Lady Nooni that only one boy in fifteen actually passes the final exam. Perhaps we’d just better let him get it out of his system.”

King Teppicymon XXVII nodded gloomily, and went by himself to wave goodbye to his son. He was less certain than his sister about the unpleasantness of assassination; he’d been reluctantly in politics for a long time, and felt that while assassination was probably worse than debate it was certainly better than war, which some people tended to think of as the same thing only louder. And there was no doubt that young Vyrt always had plenty of money, and used to turn up at the palace with expensive gifts, exotic suntans and thrilling tales of the interesting people he’d met in foreign parts, in most cases quite briefly.

He wished Vyrt was around to advice. His majesty had also heard that only one student in fifteen actually became an assassin. He wasn’t entirely certain what happened to the other fourteen, but he was pretty sure that if you were a poor student in a school for assassins they did a bit more than throw the chalk at you, and that the school dinners had an extra dimension of uncertainty.

But everyone agreed that the assassins’ school offered the best all-around education in the world. A qualified assassin should be at home in any company, and able to play at least one musical instrument. Anyone inhumed by a graduate of the Guild school could go to his rest satisfied that he had been annulled by someone of taste and discretion.

And, after all, what was there for him at home? A kingdom two miles wide and one hundred and fifty miles long, which was almost entirely under water during the flood season, and threatened on either side by stronger neighbors who tolerated its existence only because they’d be constantly at war if it wasn’t there.

Oh, Djelibeybi
^*
had been great once, when upstarts like Tsort and Ephebe were just a bunch of nomads with their towels on their heads. All that remained of those great days was the ruinously-expensive palace, a few dusty ruins in the desert and—the pharaoh sighed—the pyramids. Always the pyramids.

His ancestors had been keen on pyramids. The pharaoh wasn’t. Pyramids had bankrupted the country, drained it drier than ever the river did. The only curse they could afford to put on a tomb these days was “Bugger Off.”

The only pyramids he felt comfortable about were the very small ones at the bottom of the garden, built every time one of the cats died.

He’d promised the boy’s mother.

He missed Artela. There’d been a terrible row about taking a wife from outside the Kingdom, and some of her foreign ways had puzzled and fascinated even him. Maybe it was from her he’d got the strange dislike of pyramids; in Djelibeybi that was like disliking breathing. But he’d promised that Pteppic could go to school outside the kingdom. She’d been insistent about that. “People never learn anything in this place,” she’d said. “They only remember things.”

If only she’d remembered about not swimming in the river…

He watched two of the servants load Teppic’s trunk onto the back of the coach, and for the first time either of them could remember laid a paternal hand on his son’s shoulder.

In fact he was at a loss for something to say. We’ve never really had time to get to know one another, he thought. There’s so much I could have given him. A few bloody good hidings wouldn’t have come amiss.

“Um,” he said. “Well, my boy.”

“Yes, father?”

“This is, er, the first time you’ve been away from home by yourself—”

“No, father. I spent last summer with Lord Fhem-ptahem, you remember.”

“Oh, did you?” The pharaoh recalled the palace had seemed quieter at the time. He’d put it down to the new tapestries.

“Anyway,” he said, “you’re a young man, nearly thirteen—”

“Twelve, father,” said Teppic patiently.

“Are you sure?”

“It was my birthday last month, father. You bought me a warming pan.”

“Did I? How singular. Did I say why?”

“No, father.” Teppic looked up at his father’s mild, puzzled features. “It was a very
good
warming pan,” he added reassuringly. “I like it a lot.”

“Oh. Good. Er.” His majesty patted his son’s shoulder again, in a vague way, like a man drumming his fingers on his desk while trying to think. An idea appeared to occur to him.

The servants had finished strapping the trunk onto the roof of the coach and the driver was patiently holding open the door.

“When a young man sets out in the world,” said his majesty uncertainly, “there are, well, it’s very important that he remembers…The point is, that it is a very big world after all, with all sorts…And of course, especially so in the city, where there are many additional…” He paused, waving one hand vaguely in the air.

Teppic took it gently.

“It’s quite all right, father,” he said. “Dios the high priest explained to me about taking regular baths, and not going blind.”

His father blinked at him.

“You’re not going blind?” he said.

“Apparently not, father.”

“Oh. Well. Jolly good,” said the king. “Jolly, jolly good. That
is
good news.”

“I think I had better be going, father. Otherwise I shall miss the tide.”

His majesty nodded, and patted his pockets.

“There was something…” he muttered, and then tracked it down, and slipped a small leather bag into Teppic’s pocket. He tried the shoulder routine again.

“A little something,” he murmured. “Don’t tell your aunt. Oh, you can’t, anyway. She’s gone for a lie-down. It’s all been rather too much for her.”

All that remained then was for Teppic to go and sacrifice a chicken at the statue of Khuft, the founder of Djelibeybi, so that his ancestor’s guiding hand would steer his footsteps in the world. It was only a small chicken, though, and when Khuft had finished with it the king had it for lunch.

Djelibeybi really was a small, self-centered kingdom. Even its plagues were half-hearted. All self-respecting river kingdoms have vast supernatural plagues, but the best the Old Kingdom had been able to achieve in the last hundred years was the Plague of Frog.
^*

That evening, when they were well outside the delta of the Djel and heading across the Circle Sea to Ankh-Morpork, Teppic remembered the bag and examined its contents. With love, but also with his normal approach to things, his father had presented him with a cork, half a tin of saddle-soap, a small bronze coin of uncertain denomination, and an extremely elderly sardine.

It is a well-known fact that when one is about to die the senses immediately become excruciatingly sharp and it has always been believed that this is to enable their owner to detect any possible exit from his predicament other than the obvious one.

This is not true. The phenomenon is a classical example of displacement activity. The senses are desperately concentrating on anything apart from the immediate problem—which in Teppic’s case consisted of a broad expanse of cobblestones some eighty feet away and closing—in the hope that it will go away.

The trouble is that it soon will.

Whatever the reason, Teppic was suddenly acutely aware of things around him. The way the moonlight glowed on the rooftops. The smell of fresh bread wafting from a nearby bakery. The whirring of a cockchafer as it barrelled past his ear, upward. The sound of a baby crying, in the distance, and the bark of a dog. The gentle rush of the air, with particular reference to its thinness and lack of handholds…

There had been more than seventy of them enrolling that year. The Assassins didn’t have a very strenuous entrance examination; the school was easy to get into, easy to get out of (the trick was to get out
upright
). The courtyard in the center of the Guild buildings was thronged with boys who all had two things in common—overlarge trunks, which they were sitting on, and clothes that had been selected for them to grow into, and which they were more or less sitting
in
. Some optimists had brought weapons with them, which were confiscated and sent home over the next few weeks.

Teppic watched them carefully. There were distinct advantages to being the only child of parents too preoccupied with their own affairs to worry much about him, or indeed register his existence for days at a time.

His mother, as far as he could remember, had been a pleasant woman and as self-centered as a gyroscope. She’d liked cats. She didn’t just venerate them—everyone in the kingdom did
that
—but she actually liked them, too. Teppic knew that it was traditional in river kingdoms to approve of cats, but he suspected that usually the animals in question were graceful, stately creatures; his mother’s cats were small, spitting, flat-headed, yellow-eyed maniacs.

His father spent a lot of time worrying about the kingdom and occasionally declaring that he was a seagull, although this was probably from general forgetfulness. Teppic had occasionally speculated about his own conception, since his parents were rarely in the same frame of reference, let alone the same state of mind.

But it had apparently happened and he was left to bring himself up on a trial and error basis, mildly hindered and occasionally enlivened by a succession of tutors. The ones hired by his father were best, especially on those days when he was flying as high as he could, and for one glorious winter Teppic had as his tutor an elderly ibis poacher who had in fact wandered into the royal gardens in search of a stray arrow.

That had been a time of wild chases with soldiers, moonlight rambles in the dead streets of the necropolis and, best of all, the introduction to the puntbow, a fearsomely complicated invention which at considerable risk to its operators could turn a slough full of innocent waterfowl into so much floating pâté.

He’d also had the run of the library, including the locked shelves—the poacher had several other skills to ensure gainful employment in inclement weather—which had given him many hours of quiet study; he was particularly attached to
The Shuttered Palace
, Translated from the Khalian by A Gentleman, with Hand-Colored Plates for the Connoisseur in A Strictly Limited Edition. It was confusing but instructive and, when a rather fey young tutor engaged by the priests tried to introduce him to certain athletic techniques favored by the classical Pseudopolitans, Teppic considered the suggestion for some time and then floored the youth with a hatstand.

Teppic hadn’t been educated. Education had just settled on him, like dandruff.

It started to rain, in the world outside his head. Another new experience. He’d heard about it, of course, how water came down out of the sky in small bits. He just hadn’t expected there to be so much of it. It never rained in Djelibeybi.

Masters moved among the boys like damp and slightly scruffy blackbirds, but he was eyeing a group of older students lolling near the pillared entrance to the school. They also wore black—different colors of black.

That was his first introduction to the tertiary colors, the colors on the far side of blackness, the colors that you get if you split blackness with an eight-sided prism. They are also almost impossible to describe in a non-magical environment, but if someone were to try they’d probably start by telling you to smoke something illegal and take a good look at a starling’s wing.