Pyramids

ceremony.
    Teppic took a few deep breaths and tipped the envelope’s contents into his hand. It was a Guild bond for ten thousand Ankh-Morpork dollars, made out to “Bearer.” It was an impressive document, surmounted with the Guild seal of the double-cross and the cloaked dagger.
    Well, no going back now. He’d taken the money. Either he’d survive, in which case of course he’d traditionally donate the money to the Guild’s widows and orphans fund, or it would be retrieved from his dead body. The bond looked a bit dog-eared, but he couldn’t see any bloodstains on it.
    He checked his knives, adjusted his swordbelt, glanced behind him, and set off at a gentle trot.
    At least this was a bit of luck. The student lore said there were only half a dozen routes used during the test, and on summer nights they were alive with students tackling the roofs, towers, eaves and colls of the city. Edificing was a keen inter-house sport in its own right; it was one of the few things Teppic was sure he was good at—he’d been captain of the team that beat Scorpion House in the Wall-game finals. And this was one of the easier courses.
    He dropped lightly over the edge of the roof, landed on a ridge, ran easily across the sleeping building, jumped a narrow gap onto the tiled roof of the Young Men’s Reformed-Cultists-of-the-Ichor-God-Bel-Shamharoth Association gym, jogged gently over the gray slope, swarmed up a twelve foot wall without slowing down, and vaulted onto the wide flat roof of the Temple of Blind Io.
    A full, orange moon hung on the horizon. There was a real breeze up here, not much, but as refreshing as a cold shower after the stifling heat of the streets. He speeded up, enjoying the coolness on his face, and leapt accurately off the end of the roof onto the narrow plank bridge that led across Tinlid Alley.
    And which someone, in defiance of all probability, had removed.

    At times like this one’s past life flashes before one’s eyes…

    His aunt had wept, rather theatrically, Teppic had thought, since the old lady was as tough as a hippo’s instep. His father had looked stern and dignified, whenever he could remember to, and tried to keep his mind free of beguiling images of cliffs and fish. The servants had been lined up along the hall from the foot of the main stairway, handmaidens on one side, eunuchs and butlers on the other. The women bobbed a curtsey as he walked by, creating a rather nice sine wave effect which the greatest mathematician on the Disc, had he not at this moment been occupied by being hit with a stick and shouted at by a small man wearing what appeared to be a nightshirt, might well have appreciated.
    “But,” Teppic’s aunt blew her nose, “it’s trade , after all.”
    His father patted her hand. “Nonsense, flower of the desert,” he said, “it is a profession, at the very least.”
    “What is the difference?” she sobbed.
    The old man sighed. “The money, I understand. It will do him good to go out into the world and make friends and have a few corners knocked off, and it will keep him occupied and prevent him from getting into mischief.”
    “But… assassination …he’s so young, and he’s never shown the least inclination…” She dabbed at her eyes. “It’s not from our side of the family,” she added accusingly. “That brother-in-law of yours—”
    “Uncle Vyrt,” said his father.
    “Going all over the world killing people!”
    “I don’t believe they use that word,” said his father. “I think they prefer words like conclude, or annul. Or inhume, I understand.”
    “Inhume?”
    “I think it’s like exhume, O flooding of the waters, only it’s before they bury you.”
    “I think it’s terrible.” She sniffed. “But I heard from Lady Nooni that only one boy in fifteen actually passes the final exam. Perhaps we’d just better let him get it out of his system.”
    King Teppicymon XXVII nodded gloomily, and went by himself to wave goodbye to his son. He was less certain than his sister about the unpleasantness of assassination; he’d been reluctantly in politics for a long time, and felt that while assassination was probably worse than debate it was certainly better than war, which some people tended to think of as the same thing only louder. And there was no doubt that young Vyrt always had plenty of money, and used to turn up at the palace with expensive gifts, exotic suntans and thrilling tales of the interesting people he’d met in