‘Come from a long-lived family, do you?’ said Teppicymon sarcastically.
Dios stared at him, his lips moving. ‘Family,’ he said at last, his voice softened from its normal bark. ‘Family. Yes. I must have had a family, mustn’t I. But, you know, I can’t remember. Memory is the first thing that goes. The pyramids don’t seem to preserve it, strangely.’
‘This is Dios, the footnote-keeper of history?’ said Teppicymon.
‘Ah.’ The high priest smiled. ‘Memory goes from the head. But it is all around me. Every scroll and book.’
‘That’s the history of the kingdom, man!’
‘Yes. My memory.’
The king relaxed a little. Sheer horrified fascination was unravelling the knot of fury.
‘How old are you?’ he said.
‘I think … seven thousand years. But sometimes it seems much longer.’
‘Really seven thousand years?’
‘Yes,’ said Dios.
‘How could any man stand it?’ said the king.
Dios shrugged.
‘Seven thousand years is just one day at a time,’ he said.
Slowly, with the occasional wince, he got down on one knee and held up his staff in shaking hands.
‘O kings,’ he said, ‘I have always existed only to serve.’
There was a long, extremely embarrassed pause.
‘We will destroy the pyramids,’ said Far-re-ptah, pushing forward.
‘You will destroy the kingdom,’ said Dios. ‘I cannot allow it.’
‘You cannot allow it?’
‘Yes. What will we be without the pyramids?’ said Dios.
‘Speaking for the dead,’ said Far-re-ptah, ‘we will be free.’
‘But the kingdom will be just another small country,’ said Dios, and to their horror the ancestors saw tears in his eyes. ‘All that we hold dear, you will cast adrift in time. Uncertain. Without guidance. Changeable.’
‘Then it can take its chances,’ said Teppicymon. ‘Stand aside, Dios.’
Dios held up his staff. The snake around it uncoiled and hissed at the king.
‘Be still,’ said Dios.
Dark lightning crackled between the ancestors. Dios stared at the staff in astonishment; it had never done this before. But seven thousand years of his priests had believed, in their hearts, that the staff of Dios could rule this world and the next.
In the sudden silence there was the faint clink, high up, of a knife being wedged between two black marble slabs.
The pyramid pulsed under Teppic, and the marble was as slippery as ice. The inward slope wasn’t the help he had expected.
The thing, he told himself, is not to look up or down, but straight ahead, into the marble, parcelling the impossible height into manageable sections. Just like time. That’s how we survive infinity — we kill it by breaking it up into small bits.
He was aware of shouts below him, and glanced briefly over his shoulder. He was barely a third of the way up, but he could see the crowds across the river, a grey mass speckled with the pale blobs of upturned faces. Closer to, the pale army of the dead, facing the small grey group of priests, with Dios in front of them. There was some sort of argument going on.
The sun was on the horizon.
He reached up, located the next crack, found a handhold …
Dios spotted Ptaclusp’s head peering over the debris, and sent a couple of priests to bring him back. IIb followed, his carefully folded brother under his arm.
‘What is the boy doing?’ Dios demanded.
‘O Dios, he said he was going to flare off the pyramid,’ said Ptaclusp.
‘How can he do that?’
‘O lord, he says he is going to cap it off before the sun sets.’
‘Is it possible?’ Dios demanded, turning to the architect. IIb hesitated.
‘It may be,’ he said.
‘And what will happen? Will we return to the world outside?’
‘Well, it depends on whether the dimensional effect ratchets, as it were, and is stable in each state, or if, on the contrary, the pyramid is acting as a piece of rubber under tension—’
His voice stuttered to a halt under the intensity of Dios’s stare.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.
‘Back to the world outside,’ said Dios. ‘Not our world. Our world is the Valley. Ours is a world of order. Men need order.’
He raised his staff.
‘That’s my son!’ shouted Teppicymon. ‘Don’t you dare try anything! That’s the king!’
The ranks of ancestors swayed, but couldn’t break the spell.
‘Er, Dios,’ said Koomi.
Dios turned, his eyebrows raised.
‘You spoke?’ he said.
‘Er, if it is the king, er I — that is, we — think perhaps you should let him get on with it. Er, don’t you think that would be a really good idea?’
Dios’s staff kicked, and the priests felt the cold bands of restraint freeze their limbs.
‘I gave my life for the kingdom,’ said the high priest. ‘I gave it over and over again. Everything it is, I created. I cannot fail it now.’
And then he saw the gods.
Teppic eased himself up another couple of feet and then gently reached down to pull a knife out of the marble. It wasn’t going to work, though. Knife climbing was for those short and awkward passages, and frowned on anyway because it suggested you’d chosen a wrong route. It wasn’t for this sort of thing, unless you had unlimited knives.
He glanced over his shoulder again as strange barred shadows flickered across the face of the pyramid.
From out of the sunset, where they had been engaged in their eternal squabbling, the gods were returning.
They staggered and lurched across the fields and reed beds, heading for the pyramid. Near-brainless though they were, they understood what it was. Perhaps they even understood what Teppic was trying to do. Their assorted animal faces made it hard to be certain, but it looked as though they were very angry.
‘Are you going to control them, Dios?’ said the king. ‘Are you going to tell them that the world should be changeless?’
Dios stared up at the creatures jostling one another as they waded the river. There were too many teeth, too many lolling tongues. The bits of them that were human were sloughing away. A lionheaded god of justice — Put, Dios recalled the name — was using its scales as a flail to beat one of the river gods. Chefet, the Dog-Headed God of metalwork, was growling and attacking his fellows at random with his hammer; this was Chefet, Dios thought, the god that he had created to be an example to men in the art of wire and filigree and small beauty.
Yet it had worked. He’d taken a desert rabble and shown them all he could remember of the arts of civilization and the secrets of the pyramids. He’d needed gods then.
The trouble with gods is that after enough people start believing in them, they begin to exist. And what begins to exist isn’t what was originally intended.
Chefet, Chefet, thought Dios. Maker of rings, weaver of metal. Now he’s out of our heads, and see how his nails grow into claws …
This is not how I imagined him.
‘Stop,’ he instructed. ‘I order you to stop! You will obey me. I made you!’
They also lack gratitude.
King Teppicymon felt the power around him weaken as Dios turned all his attention to ecclesiastical matters. He saw the tiny shape halfway up the wall of the pyramid, saw it falter.
The rest of the ancestors saw it, too, and as one corpse they knew what to do. Dios could wait.
This was family.