Pyramids - Terry Pratchett [78]
“You haven’t fought each other for thousands of years,” he said. “You were tiny countries in those days. It was just a scrap. Now you’re huge. People could get hurt. Doesn’t that worry you?”
“It’s a matter of pride,” said Ibid, but his voice was tinged with uncertainty. “I don’t think there’s much choice.”
“It was that bloody wooden cow or whatever,” said Xeno. “They’ve never forgiven us for it.”
“If we don’t attack them, they’ll attack us first,” said Ibid.
“‘S’right,” said Xeno. “So we’d better retaliate before they have a chance to strike.”
The two philosophers stared uncomfortably at one another.
“On the other hand,” said Ibid, “war makes it very difficult to think straight.”
“There is that,” Xeno agreed. “Especially for dead people.”
There was an embarrassed silence, broken only by Ptraci’s voice singing to the tortoise and the occasional squeak of stricken seagulls.
“What day is it?” said Ibid.
“Tuesday,” said Teppic.
“I think,” said Ibid, “that it might be a good idea if you came to the symposium. We have one every Tuesday,” he added. “All the greatest minds in Ephebe will be there. All this needs thinking about.”
He glanced at Ptraci.
“However,” he said, “your young woman cannot attend, naturally. Females are absolutely forbidden. Their brains overheat.”
King Teppicymon XXVII opened his eyes. It’s bloody dark in here, he thought.
And he realized that he could hear his own heart beating, but muffled, and some way off.
And then he remembered.
He was alive. He was alive again. And, this time, he was in bits.
Somehow, he’d assumed that you got assembled again once you got to the Netherworld, like one of Grinjer’s kits.
Get a grip on yourself, man, he thought.
It’s up to you to pull yourself together.
Right, he thought. There were at least six jars. So my eyes are in one of them. Getting the lid off would be favorite, so we can see what we’re at.
That’s going to involve arms and legs and fingers.
This is going to be really tricky.
He reached out, tentatively, with stiff joints, and located something heavy. It felt as though it might give, so he moved his other arm into position, with a great deal of awkwardness, and pushed.
There was a distant thump, and a definite feeling of openness above him. He sat up, creaking all the way.
The sides of the ceremonial casket still hemmed him in, but to his surprise he found that one slow arm movement brushed them out of the way like paper. Must be all the pickle and stuffing, he thought. Gives you a bit of weight.
He felt his way to the edge of the slab, lowered his heavy legs to the ground and, after a pause out of habit to wheeze a bit, took the first tottering lurch of the newly un-dead.
It is astonishingly difficult to walk with legs full of straw when the brain doing the directing is in a pot ten feet away, but he made it as far as the wall and felt his way along it until a crash indicated that he’d reached the shelf of jars. He fumbled the lids of the first one and dipped his hand gently inside.
It must be brains, he thought manically, because semolina doesn’t squidge like that. I’ve collected my own thoughts, haha.
He tried one or two more jars until an explosion of daylight told him he’d found the one with his eyes in it. He watched his own bandaged hand reach down, growing gigantic, and scoop them up carefully.
That seems to be the important bits, he thought. The rest can wait until later. Maybe when I need to eat something, and so forth.
He turned around, and realized that he was not alone. Dil and Gern were watching him. To squeeze any further into the far corner of the room, they would have needed triangular backbones.
“Ah. Ho there, good people,” said the king, aware that his voice was a little hollow. “I know so much about you, I’d like to shake you by the hand.” He looked down. “Only they’re rather full at the moment,” he added.
“Gkkk,” said Gern.
“You couldn’t do a bit of reassembly, could you?” said the king,