‘Why the sparks?’ said Ptaclusp.
‘It’s a bit like flarelight, I think.’
Ptaclusp hadn’t got where he was today – no, he’d have to correct himself – hadn’t got to where he had been last night without eventually seeing the advantages in the Unlikeliest situations.
‘He’ll save on clothing,’ he said slowly. ‘I mean, he can just paint it on.’
‘I don’t think you’ve quite got the idea, dad,’ said IIb wearily. He sat down beside his father and stared across the river to the palace.
‘Something going on over there,’ said Ptaclusp. ‘Do you think they’ve noticed the pyramid?’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s moved around ninety degrees, after all.’
Ptaclusp looked over his shoulder, and nodded slowly.
‘Funny, that,’ he said. ‘Bit of structural instability there.’
‘Dad, it’s a pyramid! We should have flared it! I told you! The forces involved, well, it’s just too-‘
A shadow fell across them. They looked around. They looked up. They looked up a bit more.
‘Oh, my,’ said Ptaclusp. ‘It’s Hat, the Vulture-Headed God…’
Ephebe lay beyond them, a classical poem of white marble lazing around its rock on a bay of brilliant blue-
‘What’s that?’ said Ptraci, after studying it critically for some time.
‘It’s the sea,’ said Teppic. ‘I told you, remember. Waves and things.’
‘You said it was all green and rough.’
‘Sometimes it is.’
‘Hmm.’ The tone of voice suggested that she disapproved of the sea but, before she could explain why, they heard the sound of voices raised in anger. They were coming from behind a nearby sand dune.
There was a notice on the dune.
It said, in several languages: AXIOM TESTING STATION.
Below it, in slightly smaller writing, it added: CAUTION – UNRESOLVED POSTULATES.
As they read it, or at least as Teppic read it and Ptraci didn’t, there was a twang from behind the dune, followed by a click, followed by an arrow zipping overhead. You Bastard glanced up at it briefly and then turned his head and stared fixedly at a very small area of sand.
A second later the arrow thudded into it.
Then he tested the weight on his feet and did a small calculation which revealed that two people had been subtracted from his back. Further summation indicated that they had been added to the dune.
‘What did you do that for?’ said Ptraci, spitting out sand.
‘Someone fired at us!’
‘I shouldn’t think so. I mean, they didn’t know we were here, did they? You needn’t have pulled me off like that.’
Teppic conceded this, rather reluctantly, and eased himself cautiously up the sliding surface of the dune. The voices were arguing again
‘Give in?’
‘We simply haven’t got all the parameters right.’
‘I know what we haven’t got all right.’
‘What is that, pray?’
‘We haven’t got any more bloody tortoises. That’s what we haven’t got.’
Teppic carefully poked his head over the top of the dune. He saw a large cleared area, surrounded by complicated ranks of markers and flags. There were one or two buildings in it, mostly consisting of cages, and several other intricate constructions he could not recognise. In the middle of it all were two men – one small, fat and florid, the other tall and willowy and with an indefinable air of authority. They were wearing sheets. Clustered around them, and not wearing very much at all, was a group of slaves. One of them was holding a bow.
Several of them were holding tortoises on sticks. They looked a bit pathetic, like tortoise lollies.
‘Anyway, it’s cruel,’ said the tall man. ‘Poor little things. They look so sad with their little legs waggling.’
‘It’s logically impossible for the arrow to hit them!’ The fat man threw up his hands. ‘It shouldn’t do it! You must be giving me the wrong type of tortoise,’ he added accusingly.
‘We ough to try again with faster tortoises.’
‘Or slower arrows?’
‘Possibly, possibly.’
Teppic was aware of a faint scuffling by his chin. There was a small tortoise scurrying past him. It had several ricochet marks on its shell.
‘We’ll have one last try,’ said the fat man. He turned to the slaves. ‘You lot – go and find that tortoise.’
The little reptile gave Teppic a look of mingled pleading and hope. He stared at it, and then lifted it up carefully and tucked it behind a rock.
He slid back down the dune to Ptraci.
‘There’s something really weird going on over there,’ he said. ‘They’re shooting tortoises.’
‘Why?’
‘Search me. They seem to think the tortoise ought to be able to run away.
‘What, from an arrow?’
‘Like I said. Really weird. You stay here. I’ll whistle if it’s safe to follow me.’
‘What will you do if it isn’t safe?’
‘Scream.’
He climbed the dune again and, after brushing as much sand as possible off his clothing, stood up and waved his cap at the little crowd. An arrow took it out of his hands.
‘Oops!’ said the fat man. ‘Sorry!’
He scurried across the trampled sand to where Teppic was standing and staring at his stinging fingers.
‘Just had it in my hand,’ he panted. ‘Many apologies, didn’t realise it was loaded. Whatever will you think of me?’
Teppic took a deep breath.
‘Xeno’s the name,’ gasped the fat man, before he could speak. ‘Are you hurt? We did put up warning signs, I’m sure. Did you come in over the desert? You must be thirsty. Would you like a drink? Who are you? You haven’t seen a tortoise up there, have you? Damned fast things, go like greased thunderbolts, there’s no stopping the little buggers.’
Teppic deflated again.
‘Tortoises?’ he said. ‘Are we talking about those, you know, stones on legs?’
‘That’s right, that’s right,’ said Xeno. ‘Take your eyes off them for a second, and vazoom!’
‘Vazoom?’ said Teppic. He knew about tortoises. There were tortoises in the Old Kingdom. They could be called a lot of things – vegetarians, patient, thoughtful, even extremely diligent and persistent sex-maniacs – but never, up until now, fast. Fast was a word particularly associated with tortoises because they were not it.
‘Are you sure?’ he said.
‘Fastest animal on the face of the Disc, your common tortoise,’ said Xeno, but he had the grace to look shifty.
‘Logically, that is,’ he added[25].
The tall man gave Teppic a nod.
‘Take no notice of him, boy,’ he said. ‘He’s just covering himself because of the accident last week.’
‘The tortoise did beat the hare,’ said Xeno sulkily.
‘The hare was dead, Xeno,’ said the tall man patiently.
‘Because you shot it.’
‘I was aiming at the tortoise. You know, trying to combine two experiments, cut down on expensive research time, make full use of available-‘ Xeno gestured with the bow, which now had another arrow in it.
‘Excuse me,’ said Teppic. ‘Could you put it down a minute? Me and my friend have come a long way and it would be nice not to be shot at again.’
These two seem harmless, he thought, and almost believed it.
He whistled. On cue, Ptraci came around the dune, leading You Bastard. Teppic doubted the capability of her costume to hold any pockets whatsoever, but she seemed to have been able to repair her make-up, re-kohl her eyes and put up her hair. She undulated towards the group like a snake in a skid, determined to hit the strangers with the full force of her personality. She was also holding something in her other hand.
‘She’s found the tortoise!’ said Xeno. ‘Well done!’
The reptile shot back into its shell. Ptraci glared. She didn’t have much in the world except herself, and didn’t like to be hailed as a mere holder of testudinoids.
The tall man sighed. ‘You know, Xeno,’ he said, ‘I can’t help thinking you’ve got the wrong end of the stick with this whole tortoise-and-arrow business.’
The little man glared at him.
‘The trouble with you, Ibid,’ he said, ‘is that you think you’re the biggest bloody authority on everything.’
The Gods of the Old Kingdom were awakening.
Belief is a force. It’s a weak force, by comparison with gravity; when it comes to moving mountains, gravity wins every time. But it still exists, and now that the Old Kingdom was enclosed upon itself, floating free of the rest of the universe, drifting away from the general consensus that is dignified by the name of reality, the power of belief was making itself felt.
For seven thousand years the people of Djelibeybi had believed in their gods.
Now their gods existed. They had, as it were, the complete Set.
And the people of the Old Kingdom were learning that, for example, Vut the Dog-Headed God of the Evening looks a lot better painted on a pot than he does when all seventy feet of him, growling and stinking, is lurching down the Street outside.
Dios sat in the throne room, the gold mask of the king on his knees, staring out across the sombre air. The cluster of lesser priests around the door finally plucked up the courage to approach him, in the same general frame of mind as you would approach a growling lion. No-one is more worried by the actual physical manifestation of a god than his priests; it’s like having the auditors in unexpectedly.