A breeze from the sea blew into the kingdom, hinting at, no, positively roaring suggestions of salt, shellfish and sun-soaked tidelines. A few rather puzzled seabirds wheeled over the necropolis, where the wind scurried among the fallen masonry and covered with sand the memorials to ancient kings, and the birds said more with a simple bowel movement than Ozymandias ever managed to say.

The wind had a cool, not unpleasant edge to it. The people out repairing the damage caused by the gods felt an urge to turn their faces towards it, as fish in a pond turn towards an influx of clear, fresh water.

No-one worked in the necropolis. Most of the pyramids had blown their upper levels clean off, and stood smoking gently like recently-extinct volcanoes. Here and there slabs of black marble littered the landscape. One of them had nearly decapitated a fine statue of Hat, the Vulture-Headed God.

The ancestors had vanished. No-one was volunteering to go and look for them.

Around midday a ship came up the Djel under full sail. It was a deceptive ship. It seemed to wallow like a fat and unprotected hippo, and it was only after watching it for some time that anyone would realise that it was also making remarkably fast progress. It dropped anchor outside the palace.

After a while, it let down a dinghy.

Teppic sat on the throne and watched the life of the kingdom reassemble itself, like a smashed mirror that is put together again and reflects the same old light in new and unexpected ways.

No-one was quite sure on what basis he was on the throne, but no-one else was at all keen on occupying it and it was a relief to hear instructions issued in a clear, confident voice. It is amazing what people will obey, if a clear and confident voice is used, and the kingdom was well used to a clear, confident voice.

Besides, giving orders stopped him thinking about things. Like, for example, what would happen next. But at least the gods had gone back to not existing again, which made it a whole lot easier to believe in them, and the grass didn't seem to be growing under his feet any more.

Maybe I can put the kingdom together again, he thought. But then what can I do with it? If only we could find Dios. He always knew what to do, that was the main thing about him.

A guard pushed his way through the milling throng of priests and nobles.

'Excuse me, your sire,' he said. 'There's a merchant to see you. He says it's urgent.'

'Not now, man. There's representatives of the Tsortean and Ephebian armies coming to see me in an hour, and there's a great deal that's got to be done first. I can't go around seeing any salesmen who happen to be passing. What's he selling, anyway?'

'Carpets, your sire.'

'Carpets?'

It was Chidder, grinning like half a watermelon, followed by several of the crew. He walked up the hall staring around at the frescoes and hangings. Because it was Chidder, he was probably costing them out. By the time he reached the throne he was drawing a double line under the total.

'Nice place,' he said, wrapping up thousands of years of architectural accumulation in a mere two syllables. 'You'll never guess what happened, we just happened to be sailing along the coast and suddenly there was this river. One minute cliffs, next minute river. There's a funny thing, I thought. I bet old Teppic's up there somewhere.'

'Where's Ptraci?'

'I knew you were complaining about the lack of the old home comforts, so we brought you this carpet.'

'I said, where's Ptraci?'

The crew moved aside, leaving a grinning Alfonz to cut the strings around the carpet and shake it out.

It uncurled swiftly across the floor in a flurry of dust balls and moths and, eventually, Ptraci, who continued rolling until her head hit Teppic's boot.

He helped her to her feet and tried to pick bits of fluff out of her hair as she swayed backwards and forwards. She ignored him and turned to Chidder, red with breathlessness and fury.

'I could have died in there!' she shouted. 'Lots of other things have, by the smell! And the heat!'

'You said it worked for Queen wossname, Ram-Jam-Hurrah, or whoever,' said Chidder. 'Don't blame me, at home a necklace or something is usually the thing.'

'I bet she had a decent carpet,' snapped Ptraci. 'Not something stuck in a bloody hold for six months.'

'You're lucky we had one at all,' said Chidder mildly. 'It was your idea.'

'Huh,' said Ptraci. She turned to Teppic. 'Hallo,' she said. 'This was meant to be a startling original surprise.'

'It worked,' said Teppic fervently. 'It really worked.'

Chidder lay on a daybed on the palace's veranda, while three handmaidens took turns to peel grapes for him. A pitcher of beer stood cooling in the shade. He was grinning amiably.

On a blanket nearby Alfonz lay on his stomach, feeling extremely awkward. The Mistress of the Women had found out that, in addition to the tattoos on his forearms, his back was a veritable illustrated history of exotic practices, and had brought the girls out to be educated. He winced occasionally as her pointer stabbed at items of particular interest, and stuffed his fingers firmly in his great, scarred ears to shut out the giggles.

At the far end of the veranda, given privacy by unspoken agreement, Teppic sat with Ptraci. Things were not going well.

'Everything changed,' he said. 'I'm not going to be king.'

'You are the king,' she said. 'You can't change things.'

'I can. I can abdicate. It's very simple. If I'm not really the king, then I can go whenever I please. If I am the king, then the king's word is final and I can abdicate. If we can change sex by decree, we can certainly change station. They can find a relative to do the job. I must have dozens.'

'The job? Anyway, you said there was only your auntie.'

Teppic frowned. Aunt Cleph-ptah-re was not, on reflection, the kind of monarch a kingdom needed if it was going to make a fresh start. She had a number of stoutly-held views on a variety of subjects, but most of them involved the flaying alive of people she disapproved of. This meant most people under the age of thirty-five, to start with.

'Well, someone else, then,' he said. 'It shouldn't be difficult, we've always seemed to have more nobles than really necessary. We'll just have to find one who has the dream about the cows.'

'Oh, the one where there's fat cows and thin cows?' said Ptraci.

'Yes. It's sort of ancestral.'

'It's a nuisance, I know that much. One of them's always grinning and playing a wimblehorn.'

'It looks like a trombone to me,' said Teppic.

'It's a ceremonial wimblehorn, if you look closely,' she said.

'Well, I expect everyone sees it a bit differently. I don't think it matters.' He sighed, and watched the Unnamed unloading. It seemed to have more than the expected number of feather mattresses, and several of the people wandering bemusedly down the gangplank were holding toolboxes and lengths of pipe.

'I think you're going to find it difficult,' said Ptraci. 'You can't say “All those who dream about cows please step forward”. It'd give the game away.'

'I can't just hang around until someone happens to mention it, can I? Be reasonable,' he snapped. 'How many people are likely to say, hey, I had this funny dream about cows last night? Apart from you, I mean.'

They stared at one another.

'And she's my sister?' said Teppic.

The priests nodded. It was left to Koomi to put it into words. He'd just spent ten minutes going through the files with the Mistress of the Women.

'Her mother was, er, your late father's favourite,' he said.

'He took a great deal of interest in her upbringing, as you know, and, er, it would appear that . . . yes. She may be your aunt, of course. The concubines are never very good at paperwork. But most likely your sister.'

She looked at him with tear-filled eyes.

'That doesn't make any difference, does it?' she whispered.

Teppic stared at his feet.

'Yes,' he said. 'I think it does, really.' He looked up at her. 'But you can be queen,' he added. He glared at the priests. 'Can't she,' he stated firmly.

The high priests looked at one another. Then they looked at Ptraci, who stood alone, her shoulders shaking. Small, palace trained, used to taking orders . . . They looked at Koomi.

'She would be ideal,' he said. There was a murmur of suddenly-confident agreement.

'There you are then,' said Teppic, consolingly.

She glared at him. He backed away.

'So I'll be off,' he said, 'I don't need to pack anything, it's all right.'

'Just like that?' she said. 'Is that all? Isn't there anything you're going to say?'

He hesitated, halfway to the door. You could stay, he told himself. It wouldn't work, though. It'd end up a terrible mess; you'd probably end up splitting the kingdom between you. Just because fate throws you together doesn't mean fate's got it right. Anyway, you've been forth.

'Camels are more important than pyramids,' he said slowly. 'It's something we should always remember.'

He ran for it while she was looking for something to throw.

The sun reached the peak of noon without beetles, and Koomi hovered by the throne like Hat, the Vulture-Headed God.

'It will please your majesty to confirm my succession as high priest,' he said.

'What?' Ptraci was sitting with her chin cupped in one hand. She waved the other hand at him. 'Oh. Yes. All right. Fine.'

'No trace has, alas, been found of Dios. We believe he was very close to the Great Pyramid when it . . . flared.'

Ptraci stared into space. 'You carry on,' she said. Koomi preened.

'The formal coronation will take some time to arrange,' he said, taking the golden mask. 'However, your graciousness will be pleased to wear the mask of authority now, for there is much formal business to be concluded.'

She looked at the mask.

'I'm not wearing that,' she said flatly.

Koomi smiled. 'Your majesty will be pleased to wear the mask of authority,' he said.

'No,' said Ptraci.

Koomi's smile crazed a little around the edges as he attempted to get to grips with this new concept. He was sure Dios had never had this trouble.

He got over the problem by sidling round it. Sidling had stood him in good stead all his life; he wasn't going to desert it now. He put the mask down very carefully on a stool.

'It is the First Hour,' he said. 'Your majesty will wish to conduct the Ritual of the Ibis, and then graciously grant an audience to the military commanders of the Tsortean and Ephebian armies. Both are seeking permission to cross the kingdom. Your majesty will forbid this. At the Second Hour, there will-'

Ptraci sat drumming her fingers on the arms of the throne. Then she took a deep breath. 'I'm going to have a bath,' she said.

Koomi rocked back and forth a bit.

'It is the First Hour,' he repeated, unable to think of anything else. 'Your majesty will wish to conduct-'

'Koomi?'

'Yes, O noble queen?'

'Shut up.'

'The Ritual of the Ibis-' Koomi moaned.

'I'm sure you're capable of doing it yourself. You look like a man who does things himself, if ever I saw one,' she added sourly.

'The commanders of the Tsortean-'

'Tell them,' Ptraci began, and then paused. 'Tell them,' she repeated, 'that they may both cross. Not one or the other, you understand? Both.'

'But-' Koomi 's understanding managed at last to catch up with his ears - 'that means they'll end up on opposite sides.'

'Good. And after that you can order some camels. There's a merchant in Ephebe with a good stock. Check their teeth first. Oh, and then you can ask the captain of the Unnamed to come and see me. He was explaining to me what a “free port” is.'

'In your bath, O queen?' said Koomi weakly. He couldn't help noticing, now, how her voice was changing with each sentence as the veneer of upbringing burned away under the blowlamp of heredity.