Pyramids - Terry Pratchett [2]
No assassin ever used the stairs.
In order to establish continuity with later events, this may be the time to point out that the greatest mathematician in the history of the Discworld was lying down and peacefully eating his supper.
It is interesting to note that, owing to this mathematician’s particular species, what he was eating for his supper was his lunch.
Gongs around the Ankh-Morpork sprawl were announcing midnight when Teppic crept along the ornate parapet four stories above Filigree Street, his heart pounding.
There was a figure outlined against the afterglow of the sunset. Teppic paused alongside a particularly repulsive gargoyle to consider his options.
Fairly solid classroom rumor said that if he inhumed his examiner before the test, that was an automatic pass. He slipped a Number Three throwing knife from its thigh sheath and hefted it thoughtfully. Of course, any attempt, any overt move which missed would attract immediate failure and loss of privileges.*
The silhouette was absolutely still. Teppic’s eyes swiveled to the maze of chimneys, gargoyles, ventilator shafts, bridges and ladders that made up the rooftop scenery of the city.
Right, he thought. That’s some sort of dummy. I’m supposed to attack it and that means he’s watching me from somewhere else.
Will I be able to spot him? No.
On the other hand, maybe I’m meant to think it’s a dummy. Unless he’s thought of that as well…
He found himself drumming his fingers on the gargoyle, and hastily pulled himself together. What is the sensible course of action at this point?
A party of revellers staggered through a pool of light in the street far below.
Teppic sheathed the knife and stood up.
“Sir,” he said, “I am here.”
A dry voice by his ear said, rather indistinctly, “Very well.”
Teppic stared straight ahead. Mericet appeared in front of him, wiping gray dust off his bony face. He took a length of pipe out of his mouth and tossed it aside, then pulled a clipboard out of his coat. He was bundled up even in this heat. Mericet was the kind of person who could freeze in a volcano.
“Ah,” he said, his voice broadcasting disapproval, “Mr. Teppic. Well, well.”
“A fine night, sir,” said Teppic. The examiner gave him a chilly look, suggesting that observations about the weather acquired an automatic black mark, and made a note on his clipboard.
“We’ll take a few questions first,” he said.
“As you wish, sir.”
“What is the maximum permitted length of a throwing knife?” snapped Mericet.
Teppic closed his eyes. He’d spent the last week reading nothing but The Cordat; he could see the page now, floating tantalizingly just inside his eyelids—they never ask you lengths and weights, students had said knowingly, they expect you to bone up on the weights and lengths and throwing distances but they never—
Naked terror hotwired his brain and kicked his memory into gear. The page sprang into focus.
“‘Maximum length of a throwing knife may be ten finger widths, or twelve in wet weather,’” he recited. “‘Throwing distance is—’”
“Name three poisons acknowledged for administration by ear.”
A breeze sprang up, but it did nothing to cool the air; it just shifted the heat about.
“Sir, wasp agaric, Achorion purple and Mustick, sir,” said Teppic promptly.
“Why not spime?” snapped Mericet, fast as a snake.
Teppic’s jaw dropped open. He floundered for a while, trying to avoid the gimlet gaze a few feet away from him.
“S-sir, spime isn’t a poison, sir,” he managed. “It is an extremely rare antidote to certain snake venoms, and is obtained—” He settled down a bit, more certain of himself: all those hours idly looking through the old dictionaries had paid off—“is obtained from the liver of the inflatable mongoose, which—”
“What is the meaning of this sign?” said Mericet.
“—is found only in the…” Teppic’s voice trailed off. He squinted down at the complex rune on the card in Mericet’s hand, and then stared straight past the examiner’s ear again.
“I haven’t the faintest idea, sir,” he said. Out of the corner of his ear he thought he heard the faintest intake