Pyramids

streets of the necropolis and, best of all, the introduction to the puntbow, a fearsomely complicated invention which at considerable risk to its operators could turn a slough full of innocent waterfowl into so much floating pâté.
    He’d also had the run of the library, including the locked shelves—the poacher had several other skills to ensure gainful employment in inclement weather—which had given him many hours of quiet study; he was particularly attached to The Shuttered Palace , Translated from the Khalian by A Gentleman, with Hand-Colored Plates for the Connoisseur in A Strictly Limited Edition. It was confusing but instructive and, when a rather fey young tutor engaged by the priests tried to introduce him to certain athletic techniques favored by the classical Pseudopolitans, Teppic considered the suggestion for some time and then floored the youth with a hatstand.
    Teppic hadn’t been educated. Education had just settled on him, like dandruff.
    It started to rain, in the world outside his head. Another new experience. He’d heard about it, of course, how water came down out of the sky in small bits. He just hadn’t expected there to be so much of it. It never rained in Djelibeybi.
    Masters moved among the boys like damp and slightly scruffy blackbirds, but he was eyeing a group of older students lolling near the pillared entrance to the school. They also wore black—different colors of black.
    That was his first introduction to the tertiary colors, the colors on the far side of blackness, the colors that you get if you split blackness with an eight-sided prism. They are also almost impossible to describe in a non-magical environment, but if someone were to try they’d probably start by telling you to smoke something illegal and take a good look at a starling’s wing.
    The seniors were critically inspecting the new arrivals.
    Teppic stared at them. Apart from the colors, their clothes were cut off the edge of the latest fashion, which was currently inclining toward wide hats, padded shoulders, narrow waists and pointed shoes and gave its followers the appearance of being very well-dressed nails.
    I’m going to be like them, he told himself.
    Although probably better dressed, he added.
    He recalled Uncle Vyrt, sitting out on the steps overlooking the Djel on one of his brief, mysterious visits. “Satin and leather are no good. Or jewelry of any kind. You can’t have anything that will shine or squeak or clink. Stick to rough silk or velvet. The important thing is not how many people you inhume, it’s how many fail to inhume you .”

    He’d been moving at an unwise pace, which might assist now. As he arced over the emptiness of the alley he twisted in the air, thrust out his arms desperately, and felt his fingertips brush a ledge on the building opposite. It was enough to pivot him; he swung around, hit the crumbling brickwork with sufficient force to knock what remained of his breath out of him, and slid down the sheer wall…

    “Boy!”
    Teppic looked up. There was a senior assassin standing beside him, with a purple teaching sash over his robes. It was the first assassin he’d seen, apart from Vyrt. The man was pleasant enough. You could imagine him making sausages.
    “Are you talking to me?” he said:
    “You will stand up when you address a master,” said the rosy face.
    “I will?” Teppic was fascinated. He wondered how this could be achieved. Discipline had not hitherto been a major feature in his life. Most of his tutors had been sufficiently unnerved by the sight of the king occasionally perched on top of a door that they raced through such lessons as they had and then locked themselves in their rooms.
    “I will sir ,” said the teacher. He consulted the list in his hand.
    “What is your name, boy?” he continued.
    “Prince Pteppic of the Old Kingdom, the Kingdom of the Sun,” said Teppic easily. “I appreciate you are ignorant of the etiquette, but you should not call me sir, and you should touch the ground with your forehead when you address me.”
    “Pateppic, is it?” said the master.
    “No. Pteppic.”
    “Ah. Teppic,” said the master, and ticked off a name on his list. He gave Teppic a generous smile.
    “Well, now, your majesty,” he said, “I am Grunworth Nivor, your housemaster. You are in Viper House. To my certain knowledge there are at least eleven Kingdoms of the Sun on the Disc and, before the end of the week, you will present me with a short essay