Pyramids - Terry Pratchett [115]
The kitchen staff worked around them, recognizing 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 Glwenda 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 rancor. “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 swiveled 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 minimum 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.
The door at the far end of the stable swung open. It