'I took the liberty of attending to that myself, O Dios,' he purred.

Dios tapped his fingers on his staff. 'Yes,' he said, 'I have no doubt that you did.'

It was widely expected by the priesthood that Koomi would be the one to succeed Dios in the event of Dios ever actually dying, although hanging around waiting for Dios to die had never seemed to be a rewarding occupation. The only dissenting opinion was that of Dios himself, who, if he had any friends, would probably have confided in them certain conditions that would need to apply first, viz., blue moons, aerial pigs and he, Dios, being seen in Hell. He would probably have added that the only difference between Koomi and a sacred crocodile was the crocodile's basic honesty of purpose.

'Very well,' he said.

'If I may remind your lordship?' said Koomi. The faces of the other priests went a nice safe blank as Dios glared.

'Yes, Koomi?'

'The prince, O Dios. Has he been summoned?'

'No,' said Dios.

'Then how will he know?' said Koomi.

'He will know,' said Dios firmly.

'How will this be?'

'He will know. And now you are all dismissed. Go away. See to your gods!'

They scurried out, leaving Dios alone on the steps. It had been his accustomed position for so long that he'd polished a groove in the stonework, into which he fitted exactly.

Of course the prince would know. It was part of the neatness of things. But in the grooves of his mind, ground deep by the years of ritual and due observance, Dios detected a certain uneasiness. It was not at home in there. Uneasiness was something that happened to other people. He hadn't got where he was today by allowing room for doubt. Yet there was a tiny thought back there, a tiny certainty, that there was going to be trouble with this new king.

Well. The boy would soon learn. They all learned.

He shifted position, and winced. The aches and pains were back, and he couldn't allow that. They got in the way of his duty, and his duty was a sacred trust.

He'd have to visit the necropolis again. Tonight.

'He's not himself, you can see that.'

'Who is he, then?' said Chidder.

They splashed unsteadily down the street, not drunkenly this time, but with the awkward gait of two people trying to do the steering for three. Teppic was walking, but not in a way that gave them any confidence that his mind was having any part of it.

Around them doors were being thrown open, curses were being cursed, there was the sound of furniture being dragged up to first-floor rooms.

'Must have been a hell of a storm up in the mountains,' said Arthur. 'It doesn't usually flood like this even in the spring.'

'Maybe we should burn some feathers under his nose,' suggested Chidder.

'That bloody seagull would be favourite,' Arthur growled.

'What seagull?'

'You saw it.'

'Well, what about it?'

'You did see it, didn't you?' Uncertainty flickered its dark flame in Arthur's eyes. The seagull had disappeared in all the excitement.

'My attention was a bit occupied,' said Chidder diffidently. 'It must have been those mint wafers they served with the coffee. I thought they were a bit off.'

'Definitely a touch eldritch, that bird,' said Arthur. 'Look, let's put him down somewhere while I empty the water out of my boots, can we?'

There was a bakery nearby, its doors thrown open so that the trays of new loaves could cool in the early morning. They propped Teppic against the wall.

'He looks as though someone hit him on the head,' said Chidder. 'No-one did, did they?'

Arthur shook his head. Teppic's face was locked in a gentle grin. Whatever his eyes were focused on wasn't occupying the usual set of dimensions.

'We ought to get him back to the Guild and into the san-' He stopped. There was a peculiar rustling sound behind him. The loaves of bread were bouncing gently on their trays. One or two of them vibrated on to the floor, where they spun around like overturned beetles.

Then, their crusts cracking open like eggshells, they sprouted hundreds of green shoots.

Within a few seconds the trays were waving stands of young corn, their heads already beginning to fill out and bend over. Through them marched Chidder and Arthur, poker-faced, doing the 100-metre nonchalant walk with Teppic held rigidly between them.

'Is it him doing all this?'

'I've got a feeling that-' Arthur looked behind them, just in case any angry bakers had come out and spotted such aggressively wholemeal produce, and stopped so suddenly that the other two swung around him, like a rudder.

They looked thoughtfully at the street.

'Not something you see every day, that,' said Chidder at last.

'You mean the way there's grass and stuff growing up everywhere he puts his feet?'

'Yes.'

Their eyes met. As one, they looked down at Teppic's shoes. He was already ankle-deep in greenery, which was cracking the centuries-old cobbles in its urgency.

Without speaking a word, they gripped his elbows and lifted him into the air.

'The san,' said Arthur.

'The san,' agreed Chidder.

But they both knew, even then, that this was going to involve more than a hot poultice.

The doctor sat back.

'Fairly straightforward,' he said, thinking quickly. 'A case of mortis portalis tackulatum with complications.'

'What's that mean?' said Chidder.

'In layman's terms,' the doctor sniffed, 'he's as dead as a doornail.'

'What are the complications?'

The doctor looked shifty. 'He's still breathing,' he said. 'Look, his pulse is nearly humming and he's got a temperature you could fry eggs on.' He hesitated, aware that this was probably too straightforward and easily understood; medicine was a new art on the Disc, and wasn't going to get anywhere if people could understand it.

'Pyrocerebrum ouerf culinaire,' he said, after working it out in his head.

'Well, what can you do about it?' said Arthur.

'Nothing. He's dead. All the medical tests prove it. So, er . . . bury him, keep him nice and cool, and tell him to come and see me next week. In daylight, for preference.'

'But he's still breathing!'

'These are just reflex actions that might easily confuse the layman,' said the doctor airily.

Chidder sighed. He suspected that the Guild, who after all had an unrivalled experience of sharp knives and complex organic compounds, was much better at elementary diagnostics than were the doctors. The Guild might kill people, but at least it didn't expect them to be grateful for it.

Teppic opened his eyes.

'I must go home,' he said.

'Dead, is he?' said Chidder.

The doctor was a credit to his profession. 'It's not unusual for a corpse to make distressing noises after death,' he said valiantly, 'which can upset relatives and-'

Teppic sat bolt upright.

'Also, muscular spasms in the stiffening body can in certain circumstances-' the doctor began, but his heart wasn't in it any more. Then an idea occurred to him.

'It's a rare and mysterious ailment,' he said, 'which is going around a lot at the moment. It's caused by a - a - by some- thing so small it can't be detected in any way whatsoever,' he finished, with a self-congratulatory smile on his face. It was a good one, he had to admit. He'd have to remember it.

'Thank you very much,' said Chidder, opening the door and ushering him through. 'Next time we're feeling really well, we'll definitely call you in.'

'It's probably a walrus,' said the doctor, as he was gently but firmly propelled out of the room. 'He's caught a walrus, there's a lot of it going-'

The door slammed shut.

Teppic swung his legs off the bed and clutched at his head.

'I've got to go home,' he repeated.

'Why?' said Arthur.

'Don't know. The kingdom wants me.'

'You seemed to be taken pretty bad there-' Arthur began. Teppic waved his hands dismissively.

'Look,' he said, 'please, I don't want anyone sensibly pointing out things. I don't want anyone telling me I should rest. None of it matters. I will be back in the kingdom as soon as possible. It's not a case of must, you understand. I will. And you can help me, Chiddy.'

'How?'

'Your father has an extremely fast vessel he uses for smuggling,' said Teppic flatly. 'He will lend it to me, in exchange for favourable consideration of future trading opportunities. If we leave inside the hour, it will do the journey in plenty of time.'

'My father is an honest trader!'

'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.