'Oh no,' it said. 'You don't catch me out like that. You think I'm stupid? You've got to tell me the answer.'
'Oh, blow,' said Teppic.
'Thought you had me there, didn't you?' said the Sphinx.
'Sorry.'
'You thought you could get me all confused, did you?'
The Sphinx grinned.
'It was worth a try,' said Teppic.
'Can't blame you. So what's the answer, then?'
Teppic scratched his nose.
'Haven't a clue,' he said. 'Unless, and this is a shot in the dark, you understand, it's: A Man.'
The Sphinx glared at him.
'You've been here before, haven't you?' it said accusingly.
'No.'
'Then someone's been talking, right?'
'Who could have talked? Has anyone ever guessed the riddle?' said Teppic.
'No!'
'Well, then. They couldn't have talked, could they?'
The Sphinx's claws scrabbled irritably on its rock.
'I suppose you'd better move along, then,' it grumbled.
'Thank you,' said Teppic.
'I'd be grateful if you didn't tell anyone, please,' added the Sphinx, coldly. 'I wouldn't like to spoil it for other people.'
Teppic scrambled up a rock and on to You Bastard.
'Don't you worry about that,' he said, spurring the camel onwards. He couldn't help noticing the way the Sphinx was moving its lips silently, as though trying to work something out.
You Bastard had gone only twenty yards or so before an enraged bellow erupted behind him. For once he forgot the etiquette that says a camel must be hit with a stick before it does anything. All four feet hit the sand and pushed.
This time he got it right.
The priests were going irrational.
It wasn't that the gods were disobeying them. The gods were ignoring them.
The gods always had. It took great skill to persuade a Djelibeybi god to obey you, and the priests had to be fast on their toes. For example, if you pushed a rock off a cliff, then a quick request to the gods that it should fall down was certain to be answered. In the same way, the gods ensured that the sun set and the stars came out. Any petition to the gods to see to it that palm trees grew with their roots in the ground and their leaves on top was certain to be graciously accepted. On the whole, any priest who cared about such things could ensure a high rate of success.
However, it was one thing for the gods to ignore you when they were far off and invisible, and quite another when they were strolling across the landscape. It made you feel such a fool.
'Why don't they listen?' said the high priest of Teg, the Horse-Headed god of agriculture. He was in tears. Teg had last been seen sitting in a field, pulling up corn and giggling.
The other high priests were faring no better. Rituals hallowed by time had filled the air in the palace with sweet blue smoke and cooked enough assorted livestock to feed a famine, but the gods were settling in the Old Kingdom as if they owned it, and the people therein were no more than insects.
And the crowds were still outside. Religion had ruled in the Old Kingdom for the best part of seven thousand years. Behind the eyes of every priest present was a graphic image of what would happen if the people ever thought, for one moment, that it ruled no more.
'And so, Dios,' said Koomi, 'we turn to you. What would you have us do now?'
Dios sat on the steps of the throne and stared gloomily at the floor. The gods didn't listen. He knew that. He knew that, of all people. But it had never mattered before. You just went through the motions and came up with an answer. It was the ritual that was important, not the gods. The gods were there to do the duties of a megaphone, because who else would people listen to?
While he fought to think clearly his hands went through the motions of the Ritual of the Seventh Hour, guided by neural instructions as rigid and unchangeable as crystals.
'You have tried everything?' he said.
'Everything that you advised, O Dios,' said Koomi. He waited until most of the priests were watching them and then, in a rather louder voice, continued: 'If the king was here, he would intercede for us.'
He caught the eye of the priestess of Sarduk. He hadn't discussed things with her; indeed, what was there to discuss? But he had an inkling that there was some fellow, sorry, feeling there. She didn't like Dios very much, but was less in awe of him than were the others.
'I told you that the king is dead,' said Dios.
'Yes, we heard you. Yet there seems to be no body, O Dios. Nevertheless, we believe what you tell us, for it is the great Dios that speaks, and we pay no heed to malicious gossip.'
The priests were silent. Malicious gossip, too? And somebody had already mentioned rumours, hadn't they? Definitely something amiss here.
'It happened many times in the past,' said the priestess, on
— cue. 'When a kingdom was threatened or the river did not rise, the king went to intercede with the gods. Was sent to intercede with the gods.'
The edge of satisfaction in her voice made it clear that it was a one-way trip.
Koomi shivered with delight and horror. Oh, yes. Those were the days. Some countries had experimented with the idea of the sacrificial king, long ago. A few years of feasting and ruling, then chop — and make way for a new administration.
'In a time of crisis, possibly any high-born minister of state would suffice,' she went on.
Dios looked up, his face mirroring the agony of his tendons.
'I see,' he said. 'And who would be high priest then?'
'The gods would choose,' said Koomi.
'I daresay they would,' said Dios sourly. 'I am in some doubt as to the wisdom of their choice.'
'The dead can speak to the gods in the netherworld,' said the priestess.
'But the gods are all here,' said Dios, fighting against the throbbing in his legs, which were insisting that, at this time, they should be walking along the central corridor en route to supervise the Rite of the Under Sky. His body cried out for the solace over the river. And once over the river, never to return . . . but he'd always said that.
'In the absence of the king the high priest performs his duties. Isn't that right, Dios?' said Koomi.
It was. It was written. You couldn't rewrite it, once it was written. He'd written it. Long ago.
Dios hung his head. This was worse than plumbing, this was worse than anything. And yet, and yet. . . to go across the river . . .
'Very well, then,' he said. 'I have one final request.'
'Yes?' Koomi's voice had timbre now, it was already a high priest's voice.
'I wish to be interred in the-' Dios began, and was cut off by a murmur from those priests who could look out across the river. All eyes turned to the distant, inky shore.
The legions of the kings of Djelibeybi were on the march. They lurched, but they covered the ground quickly. There were platoons, battalions of them. They didn't need Gern's hammer any more.
'It's the pickle,' said the king, as they watched half-a— dozen ancestors mummyhandle a seal out of its socket. 'It toughens you up.'
Some of the more ancient were getting over enthusiastic and attacking the pyramids themselves, actually managing to shift blocks higher than they were. The king didn't blame them. How terrible to be dead, and know you were dead, and locked away in the darkness.
They're never going to get me in one of those things, he vowed.
At last they came, like a tide, to yet another pyramid. — It was small, low, dark, half-concealed in drifted
