‘On the contrary. Seventy per cent of his income last year was from undeclared trading in the following commodities-‘ Teppic’s eyes stared into nothingness – ‘From illegal transport of gullanes and leuchars, nine per cent. From night-running of untaxed-‘
‘Well, thirty per cent honest,’ Chidder admitted, ‘which is a lot more honest than most. You’d better tell me how you know. Extremely quickly.’
‘I – don’t know,’ said Teppic. ‘When I was . . . asleep, it seemed I knew everything. Everything about everything. I think my father is dead.’
‘Oh,’ said Chidder. ‘Gosh, I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, no. It’s not like that. It’s what he would have wanted. I think he was rather looking forward to it. In our family, death is when you really start to, you know, enjoy life. I expect he’s rather enjoying it.’
In fact the pharaoh was sitting on a spare slab in the ceremonial preparation room watching his own soft bits being carefully removed from his body and put into the special Canopic jars.
This is not a sight often seen by people – at least, not by people in a position to take a thoughtful interest.
He was rather upset. Although he was no longer officially inhabiting his body he was still attached to it by some sort of occult bond, and it is hard to be very happy at seeing two artisans up to the elbows in bits of you.
The jokes aren’t funny, either. Not when you are, as it were, the butt.
‘Look, master Dil,’ said Gern, a plump, red-faced young man who the king had learned was the new apprentice. uk… hght… watch this, watch this.. . hgk.. your name in lights. Get it? Your name in lights, see?’
‘Just put them in the jar, boy,’ said Dil wearily. ‘And while we’re on the subject I didn’t think much of the Gottle of Geer routine, either.’
‘Sorry, master.’
‘And pass me over a number three brain hook while you’re up that end, will you?’
‘Coming right up, master,’ said Gern.
‘And don’t jog me. This is a fiddly bit.’
‘Sure thing.’
The king craned nearer.
Gern rummaged around at his end of the job and then gave a long, low whistle.
‘Will you look at the colour of this!’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t think so, would you? Is it something they eat, master?’
Dil sighed. ‘Just put it in the pot, Gern.’
‘Right you are, master. Master?’
‘Yes, lad?’
‘Which bit’s got the god in it, master?’
Dil squinted up the king’s nostril, trying to concentrate. ‘That gets sorted out before he comes down here,’ he said patiently.
‘I wondered,’ said Gern, ‘because there’s not a jar for it, see.’
‘No. There wouldn’t be. It’d have to be a rather strange jar, Gern.’
Gern looked a bit disappointed. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘so he’s just ordinary, then, is he?’
‘In a strictly organic sense,’ said Dil, his voice slightly muffled.
‘Our mum said he was all right as a king,’ said Gern. ‘What do you think?’
Dil paused with a jar in his hand, and seemed to give the conversation some thought for the first time.
‘Never think about it until they come down here,’ he said. ‘I suppose he was better than most. Nice pair of lungs. Clean kidneys. Good big sinuses, which is what I always look for in a king.’ He looked down, and delivered his professional judgement. ‘Pleasure to work with, really.’
‘Our mum said his heart was in the right place,’ said Gern. The king, hovering dismally in the corner, gave a gloomy nod. Yes, he thought. Jar three, top shelf.
Dil wiped his hands on a rag, and sighed. Possibly thirty-five years in the funeral business, which had given him a steady hand, a philosophic manner and a keen interest in vegetarianism, had also granted him powers of hearing beyond the ordinary. Because he was almost persuaded that, right beside his ear, someone else sighed too.
The king wandered sadly over to the other side of the room, and stared at the dull liquid of the preparation vat.
Funny, that. When he was alive it had all seemed so sensible, so obvious. Now he was dead it looked a huge waste of effort.
It was beginning to annoy him. He watched Dil and his apprentice tidy up, burn some ceremonial resins, lift him – it – up, carry it respectfully across the room and slide it gently into the oily embrace of the preservative. Teppicymon XXVII gazed into the murky depths at his own body lying sadly on the bottom, like the last pickled gherkin in the jar.
He raised his eyes to the sacks in the corner. They were full of straw. He didn’t need telling what was going to be done with it.
The boat didn’t glide. It insinuated itself through the water, dancing across the waves on the tips of the twelve oars, spreading like an oil slick, gliding like a bird. It was man black and shaped like a shark.
There was no drummer to beat the rhythm. The boat didn’t want the weight. Anyway, he’d have needed the full kit, including snares.
Teppic sat between the lines of silent rowers, in the narrow gully that was the cargo hold. Better not to speculate what cargoes. The boat looked designed to move very small quantities of things very quickly and without anyone noticing, and he doubted whether even the Smugglers’ Guild was aware of its existence. Commerce was more interesting than he thought.
They found the delta with suspicious ease – how many times had this whispering shadow slipped up the river, he wondered – and above the exotic smells from the mysterious former cargo he could detect the scents of home. Crocodile dung. Reed pollen. Waterlily blossoms. Lack of plumbing. The rank of lions and reek of hippos.
The leading oarsman tapped him gently on the shoulder and motioned him up, steadied him as he stepped overboard into a few feet of water. By the time he’d waded ashore the boat had turned and was a mere suspicion of a shadow downstream.
Because he was naturally curious, Teppic wondered where it would lie up during the day, since it had the look about it of a boat designed to travel only under cover of darkness, and decided that it’d probably lurk somewhere in the high reed marshes on the delta.
And because he was now a king, he made a mental note to have the marshes patrolled periodically from now on. A king should know things.
He stopped, ankle deep in river ooze. He had known everything.
Arthur had rambled on vaguely about seagulls and rivers and loaves of bread sprouting, which suggested he’d drunk too much. All Teppic could remember was waking up with a terrible sense of loss, as his memory failed to hold and leaked away its new treasures. It was like the tremendous insights that come in dreams and vanish on waking. He’d known everything, but as soon as he tried to remember what it was it poured out of his head, as from a leaky bucket.
But it had left him with a new sensation. Before, his life had been ambling along, bent by circumstance. Now it was clicking along on bright rails. Perhaps he hadn’t got it in him to be an assassin, but he knew he could be a king.
His feet found solid ground. The boat had dropped him off a little way downstream of the palace and, blue in the moonlight, the pyramid flares on the far bank were filling the night with their familiar glow.
The abodes of the happy dead came in all sizes although not, of course, in all shapes. They clustered thickly nearer the city, as though the dead like company.
And even the oldest ones were all complete. No-one had borrowed any of the stones to build houses or make roads. Teppic felt obscurely proud of that. No-one had unsealed the doors and wandered around inside to see if the dead had any old treasures they weren’t using any more. And every day, without fail, food was left in the little antechambers; the commissaries of the dead occupied a large part of the palace.
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.