Pyramids - Terry Pratchett [3]
“But if it were the other way up, sir,” he went on, “it would be thiefsign for ‘Noisy dogs in this house.’”
There was absolute silence for a moment. Then, right by his shoulder, the old assassin’s voice said, “Is the killing rope permitted to all categories?”
“Sir, the rules call for three questions, sir,” Teppic protested.
“Ah. And that is your answer, is it?”
“Sir, no, sir. It was an observation, sir. Sir, the answer you are looking for is that all categories may bear the killing rope, but only assassins of the third grade may use it as one of the three options, sir.”
“You are sure of that, are you?”
“Sir.”
“You wouldn’t like to reconsider?” You could have used the examiner’s voice to grease a wagon.
“Sir, no, sir.”
“Very well.” Teppic relaxed. The back of his tunic was sticking to him, chilly with sweat.
“Now, I want you to proceed at your own pace toward the Street of Bookkeepers,” said Mericet evenly, “obeying all signs and so forth. I will meet you in the room under the gong tower at the junction with Audit Alley. And—take this, if you please.”
He handed Teppic a small envelope.
Teppic handed over a receipt. Then Mericet stepped into the pool of shade beside a chimney pot, and disappeared.
So much for the ceremony.
Teppic took a few deep breaths and tipped the envelope’s contents into his hand. It was a Guild bond for ten thousand Ankh-Morpork dollars, made out to “Bearer.” It was an impressive document, surmounted with the Guild seal of the double-cross and the cloaked dagger.
Well, no going back now. He’d taken the money. Either he’d survive, in which case of course he’d traditionally donate the money to the Guild’s widows and orphans fund, or it would be retrieved from his dead body. The bond looked a bit dog-eared, but he couldn’t see any bloodstains on it.
He checked his knives, adjusted his swordbelt, glanced behind him, and set off at a gentle trot.
At least this was a bit of luck. The student lore said there were only half a dozen routes used during the test, and on summer nights they were alive with students tackling the roofs, towers, eaves and colls of the city. Edificing was a keen inter-house sport in its own right; it was one of the few things Teppic was sure he was good at—he’d been captain of the team that beat Scorpion House in the Wall-game finals. And this was one of the easier courses.
He dropped lightly over the edge of the roof, landed on a ridge, ran easily across the sleeping building, jumped a narrow gap onto the tiled roof of the Young Men’s Reformed-Cultists-of-the-Ichor-God-Bel-Shamharoth Association gym, jogged gently over the gray slope, swarmed up a twelve foot wall without slowing down, and vaulted onto the wide flat roof of the Temple of Blind Io.
A full, orange moon hung on the horizon. There was a real breeze up here, not much, but as refreshing as a cold shower after the stifling heat of the streets. He speeded up, enjoying the coolness on his face, and leapt accurately off the end of the roof onto the narrow plank bridge that led across Tinlid Alley.
And which someone, in defiance of all probability, had removed.
At times like this one’s past life flashes before one’s eyes…
His aunt had wept, rather theatrically, Teppic had thought, since the old lady was as tough as a hippo’s instep. His father had looked stern and dignified, whenever he could remember to, and tried to keep his mind free of beguiling images of cliffs and fish. The servants had been lined up along the hall from the foot of the main stairway, handmaidens on one side, eunuchs and butlers on the other. The women bobbed a curtsey as he walked by, creating a rather nice sine wave effect which the greatest mathematician on the Disc, had he not at this moment been occupied by being hit with a stick and shouted at by a small man wearing what appeared to be a nightshirt, might well have appreciated.
“But,” Teppic’s aunt blew her nose, “it’s trade, after all.”
His father patted her hand. “Nonsense, flower of the desert,” he said, “it is a profession,