It screamed out of the sky, a thin rind of sound like a violin bow dragged across the raw surface of the brain.

kkkkheeeeeee. . .

Or a wet fingernail dragged over an exposed nerve, some said. You could set your watch by it, they would have said, if anyone knew what one was.

. . .keeee. . .

It went deeper and deeper as the sunlight washed over the stones, passing through cat scream to dog growl.

. . .ee. . . ee. . . ee.

The flares collapsed.

. . .ops.

'A fine morning, sire. I trust you slept well?'

Teppic waved a hand at Dios, but said nothing. The barber was working through the Ceremony of Going Forth Shaven.

The barber was trembling. Until recently he had been a one-handed, unemployed stonemason. Then the terrible high priest had summoned him and ordered him to be the king's barber, but it meant you had to touch the king but it was all right because it was all sorted out by the priests and nothing more had to be chopped off. On the whole, it was better than he had thought, and a great honour to be singlehandedly responsible for the king's beard, such as it was.

'You were not disturbed in any way?' said the high priest. His eyes scanned the room on a raster of suspicion; it was surprising that little lines of molten rock didn't drip off the walls.

'Verrr-'

'If you would but hold still, O never-dying one,' said the barber, in the pleading tone of voice employed by one who is assured of a guided tour of a crocodile's alimentary tract if he nicks an ear.

'You heard no strange noises, sire?' said Dios. He stepped back suddenly so that he could see behind the gilded peacock screen at the other end of the room.

'Norr.'

'Your majesty looks a little peaky this morning, sire,' said Dios. He sat down on the bench with the carved cheetahs on either end. Sitting down in the presence of the king, except on ceremonial occasions, was not something that was allowed. It did, however, mean that he could squint under Teppic's low bed.

Dios was rattled. Despite the aches and the lack of sleep, Teppic felt oddly elated. He wiped his chin.

'It's the bed,' he said. 'I think I have mentioned it. Mattresses, you know. They have feathers in them. If the concept is unfamiliar, ask the pirates of Khali. Half of them must be sleeping on goosefeather mattresses by now.'

'His majesty is pleased to joke,' said Dios.

Teppic knew he shouldn't push it any further, but he did so anyway.

'Something wrong, Dios?' he said.

'A miscreant broke into the palace last night. The girl Ptraci is missing.'

'That is very disturbing.'

'Yes, sire.'

'Probably a suitor or a swain or something.'

Dios's face was like stone. 'Possibly, sire.

'The sacred crocodiles will be going hungry, then.' But not for long, Teppic thought. Walk to the end of any of the little jetties down by the bank, let your shadow fall on the river, and the mud-yellow water would become, by magic, mud-yellow bodies. They looked like large, sodden logs, the main difference being that logs don't open at one end and bite your legs off. The sacred crocodiles of the Djel were the kingdom's garbage disposal, river patrol and occasional morgue.

They couldn't simply be called big. If one of the huge bulls ever drifted sideways on to the current, he'd dam the river.

The barber tiptoed out. A couple of body servants tiptoed in.

'I anticipated your majesty's natural reaction, sire,' Dios continued, like the drip of water in deep limestone caverns.

'Jolly good,' said Teppic, inspecting the clothes for the day. 'What was it, exactly?'

'A detailed search of the palace, room by room.'

'Absolutely. Carry on, Dios.'

My face is perfectly open, he told himself. I haven't twitched a muscle out of place. I know I haven't. He can read me like a stele. I can outstare him.

'Thank you, sire.'

'I imagine they'll be miles away by now,' said Teppic. 'Whoever they were. She was only a handmaiden, wasn't she?'

'It is unthinkable that anyone could disobey your judgements! There is no-one in the kingdom that would dare to! Their souls would be forfeit! They will be hunted down, sire! Hunted down and destroyed!'

The servants cowered behind Teppic. This wasn't mere anger. This was wrath. Real, old-time, vintage wrath. And waxing? It waxed like a hatful of moons.

'Are you feeling all right, Dios?'

Dios had turned to look out across the river. The Great Pyramid was almost complete. The sight of it seemed to calm him down or, at least, stabilise him on some new mental plateau.

'Yes, sire,' he said. 'Thank you.' He breathed deeply. 'Tomorrow, sire, you are pleased to witness the capping of the pyramid. A momentous occasion. Of course, it will be some time before the interior chambers are completed.'

'Fine. Fine. And this morning, I think, I should like to visit my father.'

'I am sure the late king will be pleased to see you, sire. It is your wish that I should accompany you.'

'Oh.'

It's a fact as immutable as the Third Law of Sod that there is no such thing as a good Grand Vizier. A predilection to cackle and plot is apparently part of the job spec.

High priests tend to get put in the same category. They have to face the implied assumption that no sooner do they get the funny hat than they're issuing strange orders, e.g., princesses tied to rocks for itinerant sea monsters and throwing little babies in the sea.

This is a gross slander. Throughout the history of the Disc most high priests have been serious, pious and conscientious men who have done their best to interpret the wishes of the gods, sometimes disembowelling or flaying alive hundreds of people in a day in order to make sure they're getting it absolutely right.

King Teppicymon XXVII's casket lay in state. Crafted it was of foryphy, smaradgine, skelsa and delphinet, inlaid it was with pink jade and shode, perfumed and fumed it was with many rare resins and perfumes

It looked very impressive but, the king considered, it wasn't worth dying for. He gave up and wandered across the courtyard.

A new player had entered the drama of his death.

Grinjer, the maker of models.

He'd always wondered about the models. Even a humble farmer expected to be buried with a selection of crafted livestock, which would somehow become real in the netherworld. Many a man made do with one cow like a toast rack in this world in order to afford a pedigree herd in the next Nobles and kings got the complete set, including model carts, houses, boats and anything else too big or inconvenient to fit in the tomb. Once on the other side, they'd somehow become the genuine article.

The king frowned. When he was alive he'd known that it was true. Not doubted it for a moment

Grinjer stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as, with great care, he tweezered a tiny oar to a perfect 1/80th scale river trireme. Every flat surface in his corner of the workshop was stacked with midget animals and artifacts; some of his more impressive ones hung from wires on the ceiling.

The king had already ascertained from overheard conversation that Grinjer was twenty-six, couldn't find anything to stop the inexorable advance of his acne, and lived at home with his mother. Where, in the evenings, he made models. Deep in the duffel coat of his mind he hoped one day to find a nice girl who would understand the absolute importance of getting every detail right on a ceremonial six-wheeled ox cart, and who would hold his glue-pot, and always be ready with a willing thumb whenever anything needed firm pressure until the paste dried.

He was aware of trumpets and general excitement behind him. He ignored it. There always seemed to be a lot of fuss these days. In his experience it was always about trivial things. People just didn't have their priorities right. He'd been waiting two months for a few ounces of gum varneti, and it didn't seem to bother anyone. He screwed his eyeglass into a more comfortable position and slotted a minute steering oar into place.

Someone was standing next to him. Well, they could make themselves useful .

'Could you just put your finger here,' he said, without glancing around. 'Just for a minute, until the glue sets.'

There seemed to be a sudden drop in temperature. He looked up into a smiling golden mask. Over its shoulder Dios's face was shading, in Grinjer's expert opinion, from No.13 (Pale Flesh) to No.37 (Sunset Purple, Gloss).

'Oh,' he said.

'It's very good,' said Teppic. 'What is it?'

Grinjer blinked at him. Then he blinked at the boat.

'It's an eighty-foot Khali-fashion river trireme with fishtail spear deck and ramming prow,' he said automatically.

He got the impression that more was expected of him. He cast around for something suitable.

'It's got more than five hundred bits,' he added. 'Every plank on the deck is individually cut, look.'

'Fascinating,' said Teppic. 'Well, I won't hold you up. Carry on the good work.'

'The sail really unfurls,' said Grinjer. 'See, if you pull this thread, the-'

The mask had moved. Dios was there instead. He gave Grinjer a short glare which indicated that more would be heard about this later on, and hurried after the king. So did the ghost of Teppicymon XXVII.

Teppic's eyes swivelled behind the mask. There was the open doorway into the room of caskets. He could just make out the one containing Ptraci; the wedge of wood was still under the lid.

'Our father, however, is over here. Sire,' said Dios. He could move as silently as a ghost.

'Oh. Yes.' Teppic hesitated and then crossed to the big case on its trestles. He stared down at it for some time. The gilded face on the lid looked like every other mask.

'A very good likeness, sire,' prompted Dios.

'Ye-ess,' said Teppic. 'I suppose so. He definitely looks happier. I suppose.'

'Hallo, my boy,' said the king. He knew that no-one could hear him, but he felt happier talking to them all the same. It was better than talking to himself. He was going to have more than enough time for that.

'I think it brings out the best in him, O commander of the heavens,' said the head sculptor.

'Makes me look like a constipated wax dolly.'

Teppic cocked his head on one side.

'Yes,' he said, uncertainly. 'Yes. Er. Well done.'

He half-turned to look through the doorway again.

Dios nodded to the guards on either side of the passageway.

'If you will excuse me, sire,' he said urbanely.

'Hmm?'

'The guards will continue their search.'

'Right. Oh-'

Dios bore down on Ptraci's casket, flanked by guards. He gripped the lid, thrust it backwards, and said, 'Behold! What do we find?'

Dil and Gern joined him. They looked inside.

'Wood shavings,' said Dil.

Gern sniffed. 'They smell nice, though,' he said.

Dios's fingers drummed on the lid. Teppic had never seen him at a loss before. The man actually started tapping the sides of the case, apparently seeking any hidden panels.

He closed the lid carefully and looked blankly at Teppic, who for the first time was very glad that the mask didn't reveal his expression.

'She's not in there,' said the old king. 'She got out for a call of nature when the men went to have their breakfast.'

She must have climbed out, Teppic told himself. So where is she now?

Dios scanned the room carefully and then, after swinging slowly backwards and forwards like a compass needle, his eyes fixed on the king's mummy case. It was big. It was roomy. There was a certain inevitability about it.

He crossed the room in a couple of strides and heaved it open.

'Don't bother to knock,' the king grumbled. 'It's not as if I'm going anywhere.'

Teppic risked a look. The mummy of the king was quite alone.

'Are you sure you're feeling all right, Dios?' he said.