Pyramids

himself all over the walls. They wouldn’t need to bury him, they’d just redecorate over the top.
    The rules. Mericet would have to obey the rules. He couldn’t simply kill him, with no warning. He’d have to let him, by carelessness or over-confidence, kill himself.
    He dropped lightly onto the floor inside the room and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. A few exploratory swings with the rods detected no more wires; there was a faint crunch underfoot as a priest crushed a caltrap.
    “In your own time, Mr. Teppic.”
    Mericet was standing in a corner. Teppic heard the faint scratching of his pencil as he made a note. He tried to put the man out of his mind. He tried to think.
    There was a figure lying on a bed. It was entirely covered by a blanket.
    This was the last bit. This was the room where everything was decided. This was the bit the successful students never told you about. The unsuccessful ones weren’t around to ask.
    Teppic’s mind filled up with options. At a time like this, he thought, some divine guidance would be necessary. “Where are you, dad?”
    He envied his fellow students who believed in gods that were intangible and lived a long way away on top of some mountain. A fellow could really believe in gods like that. But it was extremely hard to believe in a god when you saw him at breakfast every day.
    He unslung his crossbow and screwed its greased sections together. It wasn’t a proper weapon, but he’d run out of knives and his lips were too dry for the blowpipe.
    There was a clicking from the corner. Mericet was idly tapping his teeth with his pencil.
    It could be a dummy under there. How would he know? No, it had to be a real person. You heard tales. Perhaps he could try the rods—
    He shook his head, raised the crossbow, and took careful aim.
    “Whenever you like Mr. Teppic.”
    This was it.
    This was where they found out if you could kill.
    This was what he had been trying to put out of his mind.
    He knew he couldn’t.

    Octeday afternoons was Political Expediency with Lady T’malia, one of the few women to achieve high office in the Guild. In the lands around the Circle Sea it was generally agreed that one way to achieve a long life was not to have a meal with her Ladyship. The jewelry of one hand alone carried enough poison to inhume a small town. She was stunningly beautiful, but with the kind of calculated beauty that is achieved by a team of skilled artists, manicurists, plasterers, corsetiers and dressmakers and three hours’ solid work every morning. When she walked there was a faint squeak of whalebone under incredible stress.
    The boys were learning. As she talked they didn’t watch her figure. They watched her fingers.
    “And thus,” she said, “let us consider the position before the founding of the Guild. In this city, and indeed in many places elsewhere, civilization is nurtured and progresses by the dynamic interplay of interests among many large and powerful advantage cartels.
    “In the days before the founding of the Guild the seeking of advancement among these consortia invariably resulted in regrettable disagreements which were terminated with extreme prejudice. These were extremely deleterious to the common interest of the city. Please understand that where disharmony rules, commerce flags.
    “And yet, and yet.” She clasped her hands to her bosom. There was a creak like a galleon beating against a gale.
    “Clearly there was a need for an extreme yet responsible means of settling irreconcilable differences,” she went on, “and thus was laid the groundwork for the Guild. What bliss —” the sudden peak in her voice guiltily jerked several dozen young men out of their private reveries—“it must have been to have been present in those early days, when men of stout moral purpose set out to forge the ultimate political tool short of warfare. How fortunate you are now, in training for a guild which demands so much in terms of manners, deportment, bearing and esoteric skills, and yet offers a power once the preserve only of the gods. Truly, the world is the mollusc of your choice…”
    Chidder translated much of this behind the stables during the dinner break.
    “I know what Terminate with Extreme Prejudice means,” said Cheesewright loftily. “It means to inhume with an axe.”
    “It bloody well doesn’t,” said Chidder.
    “How do you know, then?”
    “My family have been in commerce for years,” said Chidder.
    “Huh,” said