Pyramids

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.

    Teppic heard the snap of the handle under his foot, slid a little, and hung by one hand. He’d got another knife in above him but…no, no good. He hadn’t got the reach. For practical purposes his arms felt like short lengths of wet rope. Now, if he spread-eagled himself as he slid, he might be able to slow enough…
    He looked down and saw the climbers coming toward him, in a tide that was tumbling upward .
    The ancestors rose up the face of the pyramid silently, like creepers, each new row settling into position on the shoulders of the generation beneath, while the younger ones climbed on over them. Bony hands grabbed Teppic as the wave of edificeers broke around him, and he was half-pushed, half-pulled up the sloping wall. Voices like the creak of sarcophagi filled his ears, moaning encouragement.
    “Well done, boy,” groaned a crumbling mummy, hauling him bodily onto its shoulder. “You remind me of me when I was alive. To you, son.”
    “Got him,” said the corpse above, lifting Teppic easily on one outstretched arm. “That’s a fine family spirit, lad. Best wishes from your great-great-great-great uncle, although I don’t suppose you remember me. Coming up .”
    Other ancestors were climbing on past Teppic as he rose from hand to hand. Ancient fingers with a grip like steel clutched at him, hoisting him onward.
    The pyramid grew narrower.
    Down below, Ptaclusp watched thoughtfully.
    “What a workforce,” he said. “I mean, the ones at the bottom are supporting the whole weight!”
    “Dad,” said IIb. “I think we’d better run. Those gods are getting closer.”
    “Do you think we could employ them?” said Ptaclusp, ignoring him. “They’re dead, they probably won’t want high wages, and—”
    “Dad!”
    “—sort of self-build—”
    “You said no more pyramids, dad. Never again, you said. Now come on!”
    Teppic scrambled to the top of the pyramid, supported by the last two ancestors. One of them was his father.
    “I don’t think you’ve met your great-grandma,” he said, indicating the shorter bandaged figure, who nodded gently at Teppic. He opened his mouth.
    “There’s no time,” she said. “You’re doing fine.”
    He glanced at the sun which, old professional that it was, chose that moment to drop below the horizon. The gods had crossed the river, their progress slowed only by their tendency to push and shove among themselves, and were lurching through the buildings of the necropolis. Several were clustered around the spot where Dios had been.
    The ancestors dropped away, sliding back down the pyramid as fast as they had climbed it, leaving Teppic alone on a few square feet of rock.
    A couple of stars came out.
    He saw white shapes below as the ancestors hurried away on some private errand of their own, lurching at a surprising speed toward the broad band of the river.
    The gods abandoned their interest in Dios, this strange little human with the stick and the cracked voice. The nearest god, a crocodile-headed thing, jerked onto the plaza before the pyramid, squinted up at Teppic, and reached out toward him. Teppic fumbled for a knife, wondering what sort was approriate for gods…
    And, along the Djel, the pyramids began to flare their meager store of hoarded time.

    Priests and ancestors fled as the