Free Pyramids by Terry Pratchett Page B

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 agloomy 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 anyonenoticing, 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