Pyramids - Terry Pratchett [59]
He prodded her in what looked like the least embarrassing area of her skin. She opened her eyes.
“Oh,” she said. “It’s you.” And she yawned.
“I’ve come to take you away,” said Teppic. “You’ve been asleep all day.”
“I heard someone talking,” she said, stretching in a fashion that made Teppic look away hurriedly. “It was that priest, the one with the face like a bald eagle. He’s really horrible.”
“He is, isn’t he?” agreed Teppic, intensely relieved to hear it said.
“So I just kept quiet. And there was the king. The new king.”
“Oh. He was down here, was he?” said Teppic weakly. The bitterness in her voice was like a Number Four stabbing knife in his heart.
“All the girls say he’s really weird,” she added, as he helped her out of the case. “You can touch me, you know. I’m not made of china.”
He steadied her arm, feeling in sore need of a cold bath and a quick run around the rooftops.
“You’re an assassin, aren’t you,” she went on. “I remembered that after you’d gone. An assassin from foreign parts. All that black. Have you come to kill the king?”
“I wish I could,” said Teppic. “He’s really beginning to get on my nerves. Look, could you take your bangles off?”
“Why?”
“They make such a noise when you walk.” Even Ptraci’s earrings appeared to chime the hours when she moved her head.
“I don’t want to,” she said. “I’d feel naked without them.”
“You’re nearly naked with them,” hissed Teppic. “Please!”
“She can play the dulcimer,” said the ghost of Teppicymon XXVII, apropos of nothing much. “Not very well, mind you. She’s up to page five of ‘Little Pieces for Tiny Fingers.’”
Teppic crept to the passage leading out of the embalming room and listened hard. Silence ruled in the palace, broken only by heavy breathing and the occasional clink behind him as Ptraci stripped herself of her jewelry. He crept back.
“Please hurry up,” he said, “we haven’t got ajot of—” Ptraci was crying.
“Er,” said Teppic. “Er.”
“Some of these were presents from my granny,” sniffed Ptraci. “The old king gave me some, too. These earrings have been in my family for ever such a long time. How would you like it if you had to do it?”
“You see, jewelry isn’t just something she wears,” said the ghost of Teppicymon XXVII. “It’s part of who she is.” My word, he added to himself, that’s probably an Insight. Why is it so much easier to think when you’re dead?
“I don’t wear any,” said Teppic.
“You’ve got all those daggers and things.”
“Well, I need them to do my job.”
“Well then.”
“Look, you don’t have to leave them here, you can put them in my pouch,” he said. “But we must be going. Please!”
“Goodbye,” said the ghost sadly, watching them sneak out to the courtyard. He floated back to his corpse, who wasn’t the best of company.
The breeze was stronger when they reached the roof. It was hotter, too, and dry.
Across the river one or two of the older pyramids were already sending up their flares, but they were weak and looked wrong.
“I feel itchy,” said Ptraci. “What’s wrong?”
“It feels like we’re in for a thunderstorm,” said Teppic, staring across the river at the Great Pyramid. Its blackness had intensified, so that it was a triangle of deeper darkness in the night. Figures were running around its base like lunatics watching their asylum burn.
“What’s a thunderstorm?”
“Very hard to describe,” he said, in a preoccupied voice. “Can you see what they’re doing over there?”
Ptraci squinted across the river.
“They’re very busy,” she said.
“Looks more like panic to me.”
A few more pyramids flared, but instead of roaring straight up the flames flickered and lashed backward and forward, driven by intangible winds.
Teppic shook himself. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you away from here.”
“I said we should have capped it this evening,” shouted Ptaclusp IIb above the screaming of the pyramid. “I can’t float it up now, the turbulence up there must be terrific!”
The ice of day was boiling off the black marble, which was already warm to the touch. He stared distractedly at the capstone on its cradle