Pyramids

detailing their geographical location, political complexion, capital city or principal seat of government, and a suggested route into the bedchamber of the head of state of your choice. However, in all the world there is only one Viper House. Good morning to you, boy.”
    He turned away and homed in on another cowering pupil.
    “He’s not a bad sort,” said a voice behind Teppic. “Anyway, all the stuff’s in the library. I’ll show you if you like. I’m Chidder.”
    Teppic turned. He was being addressed by a boy of about his own age and height, whose black suit—plain black, for First Years—looked as though it had been nailed onto him in bits. The youth was holding out a hand. Teppic gave it a polite glance.
    “Yes?” he said.
    “What’s your name, kiddo?”
    Teppic drew himself up. He was getting fed up with this treatment. “Kiddo? I’ll have you know the blood of pharaohs runs in my veins!”
    The other boy looked at him unabashed, with his head on one side and a faint smile on his face.
    “Would you like it to stay there?” he said.

    The baker was just along the alley, and a handful of the staff had stepped out into the comparative cool of the pre-dawn air for a quick smoke and a break from the desert heat of the ovens. Their chattering spiraled up to Teppic, high in the shadows, gripping a fortuitous window sill while his feet scrabbled for a purchase among the bricks.
    It’s not that bad, he told himself. You’ve tackled worse. The hubward face of the Patrician’s palace last winter, for example, when all the gutters had overflowed and the walls were solid ice. This isn’t much more than a 3, maybe a 3.2. You and old Chiddy used to go up walls like this rather than stroll down the street, it’s just a matter of perspective.
    Perspective. He glanced down, at seventy feet of infinity. Splat City, man, get a grip on yourself. On the wall . His right foot found a worn section of mortar, into which his toes planted with barely a conscious instruction from a brain now feeling too fragile to take more than a distant interest in the proceedings.
    He took a breath, tensed, and then dropped one hand to his belt, seized a dagger, and thrust it between the bricks beside him before gravity worked out what was happening. He paused, panting, waiting for gravity to lose interest in him again, and then swung his body sideways and tried the same thing a second time.
    Down below one of the bakers told a suggestive joke, and brushed a speck of mortar from his ear. As his colleagues laughed Teppic stood up in the moonlight, balancing on two slivers of Klatchian steel, and gently walked his palms up the wall to the window whose sill had been his brief salvation.
    It was wedged shut. A good blow would surely open it, but only at about the same moment as it sent him reeling back into empty air. Teppic sighed and, moving with the delicacy of a watchmaker, drew his diamond compasses from their pouch and dragged a slow, gentle circle on the dusty glass…

    “You carry it yourself,” said Chidder “That’s the rule around here.”
    Teppic looked at the trunk. It was an intriguing notion.
    “At home we’ve people who do that,” he said. “Eunuchs and so on.”
    “You should of brought one with you.”
    “They don’t travel well,” said Teppic. In fact he’d adamantly refused all suggestions that a small retinue should accompany him, and Dios had sulked for days. That was not how a member of the royal blood should go forth into the world, he said. Teppic had remained firm. He was pretty certain that assassins weren’t expected to go about their business accompanied by handmaidens and buglers. Now, however, the idea seemed to have some merit. He gave the trunk an experimental heave, and managed to get it across his shoulders.
    “Your people are pretty rich, then?” said Chidder, ambling along beside him.
    Teppic thought about this. “No, not really,” he said. “They mainly grow melons and garlic and that kind of thing. And stand in the streets and shout ‘hurrah.’”
    “This is your parents you’re talking about?” said Chidder, puzzled.
    “Oh, them? No, my father’s a pharaoh. My mother was a concubine, I think.”
    “I thought that was some sort of vegetable.”
    “I don’t think so. We’ve never really discussed it. Anyway, she died when I was young.”
    “How dreadful,” said Chidder cheerfully.
    “She went for a moonlight swim in what turned out to be a crocodile.” Teppic