Free Pyramids by Terry Pratchett

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