3, maybe a 3.2. You and old Chiddy used to go up walls like this rather than stroll down the street, it's just a matter of perspective.
Perspective. He glanced down, at seventy feet of infinity. Splat City, man, get a grip on yourself. On the wall. His right foot found a worn section of mortar, into which his toes planted themselves with barely a conscious instruction from a brain now feeling too fragile to take more than a distant interest in the proceedings.
He took a breath, tensed, and then dropped one hand to his belt, seized a dagger, and thrust it between the bricks beside him before gravity worked out what was happening. He paused, panting, waiting for gravity to lose interest in him again, and then swung his body sideways and tried the same thing a second time.
Down below one of the bakers told a suggestive joke, and brushed a speck of mortar from his ear. As his colleagues laughed Teppic stood up in the moonlight, balancing on two slivers of Klatchian steel, and gently walked his palms up the wall to the window whose sill had been his brief salvation.
It was wedged shut. A good blow would surely open it, but only at about the same moment as it sent him reeling back into empty air. Teppic sighed and, moving with the delicacy of a watchmaker, drew his diamond compasses from their pouch and dragged a slow, gentle circle on the dusty glass…
'You carry it yourself,' said Chidder. 'That's the rule around here.'
Teppic looked at the trunk. It was an intriguing notion. 'At home we've people who do that,' he said. 'Eunuchs and so on.
'You should of brought one with you.'
'They don't travel well,' said Teppic. In fact he'd adamantly refused all suggestions that a small retinue should accompany him, and Dios had sulked for days. That was not how a member of the royal blood should go forth into the world, he said. Teppic had remained firm. He was pretty certain that assassins weren't expected to go about their business accompanied by handmaidens and buglers. Now, however, the idea seemed to have some merit. He gave the trunk an experimental heave, and managed to get it across his shoulders.
'Your people are pretty rich, then?' said Chidder, ambling along beside him.
Teppic thought about this. 'No, not really,' he said. 'They mainly grow melons and garlic and that kind of thing. And stand in the streets and shout «hurrah».'
'This is your parents you're talking about?' said Chidder, puzzled.
'Oh, them? No, my father's a pharaoh. My mother was a concubine. I think.'
'I thought that was some sort of vegetable.'
'I don't think so. We've never really discussed it. Anyway, she died when I was young.
'How dreadful,' said Chidder cheerfully.
'She went for a moonlight swim in what turned out to be a crocodile.' Teppic tried politely not to be hurt at the boy's reaction.
'My father's in commerce,' said Chidder, as they passed through the archway.
'That's fascinating,' said Teppic dutifully. He felt quite broken by all these new experiences, and added, 'I've never been to Commerce, but I understand they're very fine people.'
Over the next hour or two Chidder, who ambled gently through life as though he'd already worked it all out, introduced Teppic to the various mysteries of the dormitories, the classrooms and the plumbing. He left the plumbing until last, for all sorts of reasons.
'Not any?' he said.
'There's buckets and things,' said Teppic vaguely, 'and lots of servants.'
'Bit old fashioned, this kingdom of yours?'
Teppic nodded. 'It's the pyramids,' he said. 'They take all the money.'
'Expensive things, I should imagine.'
'Not particularly. They're just made of stone.' Teppic sighed. 'We've got lots of stone,' he said, 'and sand. Stone and sand. We're really big on them. If you ever need any stone and sand, we're the people for you. It's fitting out the insides that is really expensive. We're still avoiding paying for grandfather's, and that wasn't very big. Just three chambers.' Teppic turned and looked out of the window; they were back in the dormitory at this point.
'The whole kingdom's in debt,' he said, quietly. 'I mean even our debts are in debt. That's why I'm here, really. Someone in our house needs to earn some money. A royal prince can't hang around looking ornamental any more. He's got to get out and do something useful in the community.'
Chidder leaned on the window sill.
'Couldn't you take some of the stuff out of the pyramids, then?' he said.
'Don't be silly.'
'Sorry.'
Teppic gloomily watched the figures below.
'There's a lot of people here,' he said, to change the subject. 'I didn't realise it would be so big.' He shivered. 'Or so cold,' he added.
'People drop out all the time,' said Chidder. 'Can't stand the course. The important thing is to know what's what and who's who. See that fellow over there?'
Teppic followed his pointing finger to a group of older students, who were lounging against the pillars by the entrance.
'The big one? Face like the end of your boot?'
'That's Fliemoe. Watch out for him. If he invites you for toast in his study, don't go.'
'And who's the little kid with the curls?' said Teppic. He pointed to a small lad receiving the attentions of a washed-out looking lady. She was licking her handkerchief and dabbing apparent smudges off his face. When she stopped that, she straightened his tie.
Chidder craned to see. 'Oh, just some new kid,' he said. 'Arthur someone. Still hanging on to his mummy, I see. He won't last long.'
'Oh, I don't know,' said Teppic. 'We do, too, and we've lasted for thousands of years.'
A disc of glass dropped into the silent building and tinkled on the floor. There was no other sound for several minutes. Then there was the faint clonk-clonk of an oil can. A shadow that had been lying naturally on the window sill, a morgue for blue— bottles, turned out to be an arm which was moving with vegetable slowness towards the window's catch.
There was a scrape of metal, and then the whole window swung out in tribological silence.
Teppic dropped over the sill and vanished into the shadow below it.
For a minute or two the dusty space was filled with the intense absence of noise caused by someone moving with extreme care. Once again there was the squirting of oil, and then a metallic whisper as the bolt of a trapdoor leading on to the roof moved gently aside.
Teppic waited for his breath to catch up with him, and in that moment heard the sound. It was down among the white noise at the edge of hearing, but there was no doubt about it. Someone was waiting just above the trapdoor, and they'd just put their hand on a piece of paper to stop it rattling in the breeze.
His own hand dropped from the bolt. He eased his way with exquisite care back across the greasy floor and felt his way along a rough wooden wall until he came to the door. This time he took no chances, but uncorked his oil can and let a silent drop fall on to the hinges.
A moment later he was through. A rat, idly patrolling the draughty passage beyond, had to stop itself from swallowing its own tongue as he floated past.
There was another doorway at the end, and a maze of musty storerooms until he found a stairway. He judged himself to be about thirty yards from the trapdoor. There hadn't been any flues that he could see. There ought to be a clear shot across the roof.
He hunkered down and pulled out his knife roll, its velvet blackness making a darker oblong in the shadows. He selected a Number Five, not everyone's throwing knife, but worthwhile if you had the trick of it.
Shortly afterwards his head rose very carefully over the edge of the roof, one arm bent behind it but ready to uncurl in a complex interplay of forces that would combine to send a few ounces of steel gliding across the night.
Mericet was sitting by the trapdoor, looking at his clipboard. Teppic's eyes swivelled to the oblong of the plank bridge, stored meticulously against the parapet a few feet away.
He was certain he had made no noise. He'd have to swear that the examiner heard the sound of his gaze falling on him.
