Terry Pratchett - Pyramids

Ptraci sat drumming her fingers on the arms of the throne. Then she took a deep breath. 'I'm going to have a bath,' she said.

Koomi rocked back and forth a bit.

'It is the First Hour,' he repeated, unable to think of anything else. 'Your majesty will wish to conduct-'

'Koomi?'

'Yes, O noble queen?'

'Shut up.'

'The Ritual of the Ibis-' Koomi moaned.

'I'm sure you're capable of doing it yourself. You look like a man who does things himself, if ever I saw one,' she added sourly.

'The commanders of the Tsortean-'

'Tell them,' Ptraci began, and then paused. 'Tell them,' she repeated, 'that they may both cross. Not one or the other, you understand? Both.'

'But-' Koomi 's understanding managed at last to catch up with his ears — 'that means they'll end up on opposite sides.'

'Good. And after that you can order some camels. There's a merchant in Ephebe with a good stock. Check their teeth first. Oh, and then you can ask the captain of the Unnamed to come and see me. He was explaining to me what a «free port» is.'

'In your bath, O queen?' said Koomi weakly. He couldn't help noticing, now, how her voice was changing with each sentence as the veneer of upbringing burned away under the blowlamp of heredity.

'Nothing wrong with that,' she snapped. 'And see about plumbing. Apparently pipes are the thing.'

'For the asses' milk?' said Koomi, who was now totally lost in the desert.

'Shut up, Koomi.'

'Yes, O queen,' said Koomi, miserably.

He'd wanted changes. It was just that he'd wanted things to stay the same, as well.

The sun dropped to the horizon, entirely unaided. For some people, it was turning out to be quite a good day. The reddened light lit up the three male members of the Ptaclusp dynasty, as they pored over plans for— 'It's called a bridge,' said IIb.

'Is that like an aqueduct?' said Ptaclusp.

'In reverse, sort of thing,' said IIb. 'The water goes underneath, we go over the top.'

'Oh. The k— the queen won't like that,' said Ptaclusp.

'The royal family's always been against chaining the holy river with dams and weirs and suchlike.'

IIb gave a triumphant grin. 'She suggested it,' he said. 'And she graciously went on to say, could we see to it there's places for people to stand and drop rocks on the crocodiles.'

'She said that?'

'Large pointy rocks, she said.'

'My word,' said Ptaclusp. He turned to his other son.

'You sure you're all right?' he said.

'Feeling fine, dad,' said IIa.

'No-' Ptaclusp groped 'headaches or anything?'

'Never felt better,' said IIa.

'Only you haven't asked about the cost,' said Ptaclusp. 'I thought perhaps you were still feeling fl— ill.'

'The queen has been pleased to ask me to have a look at the royal finances,' said IIa. 'She said priests can't add up.' His recent experiences had left him with no ill effects other than a profitable tendency to think at right angles to everyone else, and he sat wreathed in smiles while his mind constructed tariff rates, docking fees and a complex system of value added tax which would shortly give the merchant venturers of Ankh-Morpork a nasty shock.

Ptaclusp thought about all the miles of the virgin Djel, totally unbridged. And there was plenty of dressed stone around now, millions of tons of the stuff. And you never knew, perhaps on some of those bridges there'd be room for a statue or two. He had the very thing.

He put his arms around his sons' shoulders.

'Lads,' he said proudly. 'It's looking really quantum.'

The setting sun also shone on Dil and Gern, although in this case it was by a roundabout route through the lightwell of the palace kitchens. They'd ended up there for no very obvious reason. It was just that it was so depressing in the embalming room, all alone.

The kitchen staff worked around them, recognising the air of impenetrable gloom that surrounded the two embalmers. It was never a very sociable job at the best of times and embalmers didn't make friends easily. Anyway, there was a coronation feast to prepare.

They sat amid the bustle, observing the future over a jug of beer.

'I expect,' said Gern, 'that Gwlenda can have a word with her dad.'

'That's it, boy,' said Dil wearily. 'There's a future there. People will always want garlic.'

'Bloody boring stuff, garlic,' said Gern, with unusual ferocity. 'And you don't get to meet people. That's what I liked about our job. Always new faces.'

'No more pyramids,' said Dil, without rancour. 'That's what she said. You've done a good job, Master Dil, she said, but I'm going to drag this country kicking and screaming into the Century of the Fruitbat.'

'Cobra,' said Gern.

'What?'

'It's the Century of the Cobra. Not the Fruitbat.'

'Whatever,' said Dil irritably. He stared miserably into his mug. That was the trouble now, he reflected. You had to start remembering what century it was.

He glared at a tray of canapes. That was the thing these days. Everyone fiddling about .

He picked up an olive and turned it over and over in his fingers.

'Can't say I'd feel the same about the old job, mind,' said Gern, draining the jug, 'but I bet you were proud, master — Dil, I mean. You know, when all your stitching held up like that.'

Dil, his eyes not leaving the olive, reached dreamily down to his belt and grasped one of his smaller knives for intricate jobs.

'I said, you must have felt very sorry it was all over,' said Gern.

Dil swivelled around to get more light, and breathed heavily as he concentrated.

'Still, you'll get over it,' said Gern. 'The important thing is not to let it prey on your mind-'

'Put this stone somewhere,' said Dil.

'Sorry?'

'Put this stone somewhere,' said Dil.

Gern shrugged, and took it out of his fingers.

'Right,' said Dil, his voice suddenly vibrant with purpose.

'Now pass me a piece of red pepper .

And the sun shone on the delta, that little infinity of reed beds and mud banks where the Djel was laying down the silt of the continent. Wading birds bobbed for food in the green maze of stems, and billions of zig-zag midges danced over the brackish water. Here at least time had always passed, as the delta breathed twice daily the cold, fresh water of the tide.

It was coming in now, the foam-crested cusp of it trickling between the reeds.

Here and there soaked and ancient bandages unwound, wriggled for a while like incredibly old snakes and then, with the mininum of fuss, dissolved.

THIS IS MOST IRREGULAR.

We 're sorry. It's not our fault.

HOW MANY OF YOU ARE THERE?

More than 1,300, I'm afraid.

VERY WELL, THEN. PLEASE FORM AN ORDERLY QUEUE.

You Bastard was regarding his empty hay rack.

It represented a sub-array in the general cluster 'hay', containing arbitrary values between zero and K.

It didn't have any hay in it. It might in fact have a negative value of hay in it, but to the hungry stomach the difference between no hay and minus-hay was not of particular interest.

It didn't matter how he worked it out, the answer was always the same. It was an equation of classical simplicity. It had a certain clean elegance which he was not, currently, in a position to admire.

You Bastard felt ill-used and hard done by. There was nothing particularly unusual about this, however, since that is the normal state of mind for a camel. He knelt patiently while Teppic packed the saddlebags.

'We'll avoid Ephebe,' Teppic said, ostensibly to the camel. 'We'll go up the end of the Circle Sea, perhaps to Quirm or over the Ramtops. There's all sorts of places. Maybe we'll even look for a few of those cities, eh? I expect you'd like that.'

It's a mistake trying to cheer up camels. You may as well drop meringues into a black hole.