Pyramids - Terry Pratchett [104]
They can’t all be complaining. Not this many of them.
Ptaclusp IIb climbed up alongside him. His mouth dropped open.
“Where are they all coming from?” he said.
“You’re the expert. You tell me.”
“Are they dead?”
Ptaclusp scrutinized some of the approaching marchers.
“If they’re not, some of them are awfully ill,” he said.
“Let’s make a run for it!”
“Where to? Up the pyramid?”
The Great Pyramid loomed up behind them, its throbbing filling the air. Ptaclusp stared at it.
“What’s going to happen tonight?” he said.
“What?”
“Well, is it going to—do whatever it did—again?”
IIb stared at him. “Dunno.”
“Can you find out?”
“Only by waiting. I’m not even sure what it’s done now.”
“Are we going to like it?”
“I shouldn’t think so, dad. Oh, dear.”
“What’s up now?”
“Look over there.”
Heading toward the marching dead, trailing behind Koomi like a tail behind a comet, were the priests.
It was hot and dark inside the horse. It was also very crowded.
They waited, sweating.
Young Autocue stuttered: “What’ll happen now, sergeant?”
The sergeant moved a foot tentatively. The atmosphere would have induced claustrophobia in a sardine.
“Well, lad. They’ll find us, see, and be so impressed they’ll drag us all the way back to their city, and then when it’s dark we’ll leap out and put them to the sword. Or put the sword to them. One or the other. And then we’ll sack the city, burn the walls and sow the ground with salt. You remember, lad, I showed you on Friday.”
“Oh.”
Moisture dripped from a score of brows. Several of the men were trying to compose a letter home, dragging styli across wax that was close to melting.
“And then what will happen, sergeant?”
“Why, lad, then we’ll go home heroes.”
“Oh.”
The older soldiers sat stolidly looking at the wooden walls. Autocue shifted uneasily, still worried about something.
“My mum said to come back with my shield or on it, sergeant,” he said.
“Jolly good, lad. That’s the spirit.”
“We will be all right, though. Won’t we, sergeant?”
The sergeant stared into the fetid darkness.
After a while, someone started to play the harmonica.
Ptaclusp half-turned his head from the scene and a voice by his ear said, “You’re the pyramid builder, aren’t you?”
Another figure had joined them in their bolt-hole, one who was black-clad and moved in a way that made a cat’s tread sound like a one-man band.
Ptaclusp nodded, unable to speak. He had had enough shocks for one day.
“Well, switch it off. Switch it off now.”
IIb leaned over.
“Who’re you?” he said.
“My name is Teppic.”
“What, like the king?”
“Yes. Just like the king. Now turn it off.”
“It’s a pyramid! You can’t turn off pyramids!” said IIb.
“Well, then, make it flare.”
“We tried that last night.” IIb pointed to the shattered capstone. “Unroll Two-Ay, dad.”
Teppic regarded the flat brother.
“It’s some sort of wall poster, is it?” he said eventually.
IIb looked down. Teppic saw the movement, and looked down also; he was ankle-deep in green sprouts.
“Sorry,” he said. “I can’t seem to shake it off.”
“It can be dreadful,” said IIb frantically. “I know how it is, I had this verruca once, nothing would shift it.”
Teppic hunkered down by the cracked stone.
“This thing,” he said. “What’s the significance? I mean, it’s coated with metal. Why?”
“There’s got to be a sharp point for the flare,” said IIb.
“Is that all? This is gold, isn’t it?”
“It’s electrum. Gold and silver alloy. The capstone has got to be made of electrum.”
Teppic peeled back the foil.
“This isn’t all metal,” he said mildly.
“Yes. Well,” said Ptaclusp. “We found, er, that foil works just as well.”
“Couldn’t you use something cheaper? Like steel?”
Ptaclusp sneered. It hadn’t been a good day, sanity was a distant memory, but there were certain facts he knew for a fact.
“Wouldn’t last for more than a year or two,” he said. “What with the dew and so forth. You’d lose the point. Wouldn’t last more than two or three hundred times.”
Teppic