Pyramids

ventilator shafts, bridges and ladders that made up the rooftop scenery of the city.
    Right, he thought. That’s some sort of dummy. I’m supposed to attack it and that means he’s watching me from somewhere else.
    Will I be able to spot him? No.
    On the other hand, maybe I’m meant to think it’s a dummy. Unless he’s thought of that as well…
    He found himself drumming his fingers on the gargoyle, and hastily pulled himself together. What is the sensible course of action at this point?
    A party of revellers staggered through a pool of light in the street far below.
    Teppic sheathed the knife and stood up.
    “Sir,” he said, “I am here.”
    A dry voice by his ear said, rather indistinctly, “Very well.”
    Teppic stared straight ahead. Mericet appeared in front of him, wiping gray dust off his bony face. He took a length of pipe out of his mouth and tossed it aside, then pulled a clipboard out of his coat. He was bundled up even in this heat. Mericet was the kind of person who could freeze in a volcano.
    “Ah,” he said, his voice broadcasting disapproval, “Mr. Teppic. Well, well.”
    “A fine night, sir,” said Teppic. The examiner gave him a chilly look, suggesting that observations about the weather acquired an automatic black mark, and made a note on his clipboard.
    “We’ll take a few questions first,” he said.
    “As you wish, sir.”
    “What is the maximum permitted length of a throwing knife?” snapped Mericet.
    Teppic closed his eyes. He’d spent the last week reading nothing but The Cordat ; he could see the page now, floating tantalizingly just inside his eyelids—they never ask you lengths and weights, students had said knowingly, they expect you to bone up on the weights and lengths and throwing distances but they never—
    Naked terror hotwired his brain and kicked his memory into gear. The page sprang into focus.
    “‘Maximum length of a throwing knife may be ten finger widths, or twelve in wet weather,’” he recited. “‘Throwing distance is—’”
    “Name three poisons acknowledged for administration by ear.”
    A breeze sprang up, but it did nothing to cool the air; it just shifted the heat about.
    “Sir, wasp agaric, Achorion purple and Mustick, sir,” said Teppic promptly.
    “Why not spime?” snapped Mericet, fast as a snake.
    Teppic’s jaw dropped open. He floundered for a while, trying to avoid the gimlet gaze a few feet away from him.
    “S-sir, spime isn’t a poison, sir,” he managed. “It is an extremely rare antidote to certain snake venoms, and is obtained—” He settled down a bit, more certain of himself: all those hours idly looking through the old dictionaries had paid off—“is obtained from the liver of the inflatable mongoose, which—”
    “What is the meaning of this sign?” said Mericet.
    “—is found only in the…” Teppic’s voice trailed off. He squinted down at the complex rune on the card in Mericet’s hand, and then stared straight past the examiner’s ear again.
    “I haven’t the faintest idea, sir,” he said. Out of the corner of his ear he thought he heard the faintest intake of breath, the tiniest seed of a satisfied grunt.
    “But if it were the other way up, sir,” he went on, “it would be thiefsign for ‘Noisy dogs in this house.’”
    There was absolute silence for a moment. Then, right by his shoulder, the old assassin’s voice said, “Is the killing rope permitted to all categories?”
    “Sir, the rules call for three questions, sir,” Teppic protested.
    “Ah. And that is your answer, is it?”
    “Sir, no, sir. It was an observation, sir. Sir, the answer you are looking for is that all categories may bear the killing rope, but only assassins of the third grade may use it as one of the three options, sir.”
    “You are sure of that, are you?”
    “Sir.”
    “You wouldn’t like to reconsider?” You could have used the examiner’s voice to grease a wagon.
    “Sir, no, sir.”
    “Very well.” Teppic relaxed. The back of his tunic was sticking to him, chilly with sweat.
    “Now, I want you to proceed at your own pace toward the Street of Bookkeepers,” said Mericet evenly, “obeying all signs and so forth. I will meet you in the room under the gong tower at the junction with Audit Alley. And—take this, if you please.”
    He handed Teppic a small envelope.
    Teppic handed over a receipt. Then Mericet stepped into the pool of shade beside a chimney pot, and disappeared.
    So much for the