Mort

and slightly heavy. It was used as currency.

Binky glided over the campfires of the nomads and the silent marshes of the Tsort river. Ahead of them dark, familiar shapes began to reveal themselves in the moonlight.

The Pyramids of Tsort by moonlight!' breathed Ysabell, 'How romantic!'

MORTARED WITH THE BLOOD OF THOUSANDS OF SLAVES, observed Mort.

'Please don't.'

'I'm sorry, but the practical fact of the matter is that these —'

'All right, all right, you've made your point,' said Ysabell irritably.

'It's a lot of effort to go to to bury a dead king,' said Mort, as they circled above one of the smaller pyramids. They fill them full of preservative, you know, so they'll survive into the next world.'

'Does it work?'

'Not noticeably.' Mort leaned over Binky's neck. 'Torches down there,' he said. 'Hang on.'

A procession was winding away from the avenue of pyramids, led by a giant statue of Offler the Crocodile God borne by a hundred sweating slaves. Binky cantered above it, entirely unnoticed, and performed a perfect four-point landing on the hard-packed sand outside the pyramid's entrance.

'They've pickled another king,' said Mort. He examined the glass again in the moonlight. It was quite plain, not the sort normally associated with royalty.

That can't be him,' said Ysabell. They don't pickle them when they're still alive, do they?'

'I hope not, because I read where, before they do the preserving, they, um, cut them open and remove —'

'I don't want to hear it —'

'— all the soft bits,' Mort concluded lamely. 'It's just as well the pickling doesn't work, really, just imagine having to walk around with no —'

'So it isn't the king you've come to take,' said Ysabell loudly. 'Who is it, then?'

Mort turned towards the dark entrance. It wouldn't be sealed until dawn, to give time for the dead king's soul to leave. It looked deep and foreboding, hinting at purposes considerably more dire than, say, keeping a razor blade nice and sharp.

'Let's find out,' he said.

'Look out! He's coming back!'

The University's eight most senior wizards shuffled into line, tried to smooth out their beards and in general made an unsuccessful effort to look presentable. It wasn't easy. They had been snatched from their workrooms, or a postprandial brandy in front of a roaring fire, or quiet contemplation under a handkerchief in a comfy chair somewhere, and all of them were feeling extremely apprehensive and rather bewildered. They kept glancing at the empty pedestal.

Only one creature could have duplicated the expressions on their faces, and that would be a pigeon who has heard not only that Lord Nelson has got down off his column but has also been seen buying a 12- bore repeater and a box of cartridges.

'He's coming up the corridor!' shouted Rincewind, and dived behind a pillar.

The assembled mages watched the big double doors as if they were about to explode, which shows how prescient they were, because they exploded. Matchstick-sized bits of oak rained down among them and a small thin figure stood outlined against the light. It held a smoking staff in one hand. The other held a small yellow toad.

'Rincewind!' bawled Albert.

'Sir!'

'Take this thing away and dispose of it.'