Pyramids - Terry Pratchett [27]
Sometimes the food went, sometimes it didn’t. The priests, however, were very clear on this point. Regardless of whether the food was consumed or not, it had been eaten by the dead. Presumably they enjoyed it; they never complained, or came back for seconds.
Look after the dead, said the priests, and the dead would look after you. After all, they were in the majority.
Teppic pushed aside the reeds. He straightened his clothing, brushed some mud off his sleeve and set off for the palace.
Ahead of him, dark against the flarelight, stood the great statue of Khuft. Seven thousand years ago Khuft had led his people out of—Teppic couldn’t remember, but somewhere where they hadn’t liked being, probably, and for thoroughly good reasons; it was at times like this he wished he knew more history—and had prayed in the desert and the gods of the place had shown him the Old Kingdom. And he had entered, yea, and taken possession thereof, that it should ever be the dwelling place of his seed. Something like that, anyway. There were probably more yeas and a few verilys, with added milk and honey. But the sight of that great patriarchal face, that outstretched arm, that chin you could crack stones on, bold in the flarelight, told him what he already knew.
He was home, and he was never going to leave again.
The sun began to rise.
The greatest mathematician alive on the Disc, and in fact the last one in the Old Kingdom, stretched out in his stall and counted the pieces of straw in his bedding. Then he estimated the number of nails in the wall. Then he spent a few minutes proving that an automorphic resonance field has a semi-infinite number of irresolute prime ideals. After that, in order to pass the time, he ate his breakfast again.
PART II
The Book of the Dead
Two weeks went past. Ritual and ceremony in their due times kept the world under the sky and the stars in their courses. It was astonishing what ritual and ceremony could do.
The new king examined himself in the mirror, and frowned.
“What’s it made of?” he said. “It’s rather foggy.”
“Bronze, sire. Polished bronze,” said Dios, handing him the Flail of Mercy.
“In Ankh-Morpork we had glass mirrors with silver on the back. They were very good.”
“Yes, sire. Here we have bronze, sire.”
“Do I really have to wear this gold mask?”
“The Face of the Sun, sire. Handed down through all the ages. Yes, sire. On all public occasions, sire.”
Teppic peered out through the eye slots. It was certainly a handsome face. It smiled faintly. He remembered his father visiting the nursery one day and forgetting to take it off; Teppic had screamed the place down.
“It’s rather heavy.”
“It is weighted with the centuries,” said Dios, and passed over the obsidian Reaping Hook of Justice.
“Have you been a priest long, Dios?”
“Many years, sire, man and eunuch. Now—”
“Father said you were high priest even in grandad’s time. You must be very old.”
“Well-preserved, sire. The gods have been kind to me,” said Dios, in the face of the evidence. “And now, sire, if we could just hold this as well…”
“What is it?”
“The Honeycomb of Increase, sire. Very important.”
Teppic juggled it into position.
“I expect you’ve seen a lot of changes,” he said politely.
A look of pain passed over the old priest’s face, but quickly, as if it was in a hurry to get away. “No, sire,” he said smoothly, “I have been very fortunate.”
“Oh. What’s this?”
“The Sheaf of Plenty, sire. Extremely significant, very symbolic.”
“If you could just tuck it under my arm, then…Have you ever heard of plumbing, Dios?”
The priest snapped his fingers at one of the attendants. “No, sire,” he said, and leaned forward. “This is the Asp of Wisdom. I’ll just tuck it in here, shall I?”
“It’s like buckets, but not as, um, smelly.”