Pyramids

enmity was between the two empires, they both abided by the ancient tradition that warfare wasn’t undertaken at night, during harvest or when wet. It was important enough to save up for special occasions. Going at it hammer and tongs just reduced the whole thing to a farce.
    In the twilight on both sides of the line came the busy sound of advanced woodwork in progress.
    It’s said that generals are always ready to fight the last war over again. It had been thousands of years since the last war between Tsort and Ephebe, but generals have long memories and this time they were ready for it.
    On both sides of the line, wooden horses were taking shape.

    “It’s gone,” said Ptaclusp IIb, slithering back down the pile of rubble.
    “About time, too,” said his father. “Help me fold up your brother. You’re sure it won’t hurt him?”
    “Well, if we do it carefully he can’t move in Time, that is, width to us. So if no time can pass for him, nothing can hurt him.”
    Ptaclusp thought of the old days, when pyramid building had simply consisted of piling one block on another and all you needed to remember was that you put less on top as you went up. And now it meant trying to put a crease in one of your sons.
    “Right,” he said doubtfully. “Let’s be off, then.” He inched his way up the debris and poked his head over the top just as the vanguard of the dead came around the corner of the nearest minor pyramid.
    His first thought was: this is it, they’re coming to complain.
    He’d done his best. It wasn’t always easy to build to a budget. Maybe not every lintel was exactly as per drawings, perhaps the quality of the internal plasterwork wasn’t always up to snuff, but…
    They can’t all be complaining. Not this many of them.
    Ptaclusp IIb climbed up alongside him. His mouth dropped open.
    “Where are they all coming from?” he said.
    “You’re the expert. You tell me.”
    “Are they dead ?”
    Ptaclusp scrutinized some of the approaching marchers.
    “If they’re not, some of them are awfully ill,” he said.
    “Let’s make a run for it!”
    “Where to? Up the pyramid?”
    The Great Pyramid loomed up behind them, its throbbing filling the air. Ptaclusp stared at it.
    “What’s going to happen tonight?” he said.
    “What?”
    “Well, is it going to—do whatever it did—again?”
    IIb stared at him. “Dunno.”
    “Can you find out?”
    “Only by waiting. I’m not even sure what it’s done now .”
    “Are we going to like it?”
    “I shouldn’t think so, dad. Oh, dear.”
    “What’s up now?”
    “Look over there.”
    Heading toward the marching dead, trailing behind Koomi like a tail behind a comet, were the priests.

    It was hot and dark inside the horse. It was also very crowded.
    They waited, sweating.
    Young Autocue stuttered: “What’ll happen now, sergeant?”
    The sergeant moved a foot tentatively. The atmosphere would have induced claustrophobia in a sardine.
    “Well, lad. They’ll find us, see, and be so impressed they’ll drag us all the way back to their city, and then when it’s dark we’ll leap out and put them to the sword. Or put the sword to them. One or the other. And then we’ll sack the city, burn the walls and sow the ground with salt. You remember, lad, I showed you on Friday.”
    “Oh.”
    Moisture dripped from a score of brows. Several of the men were trying to compose a letter home, dragging styli across wax that was close to melting.
    “And then what will happen, sergeant?”
    “Why, lad, then we’ll go home heroes.”
    “Oh.”
    The older soldiers sat stolidly looking at the wooden walls. Autocue shifted uneasily, still worried about something.
    “My mum said to come back with my shield or on it, sergeant,” he said.
    “Jolly good, lad. That’s the spirit.”
    “We will be all right, though. Won’t we, sergeant?”
    The sergeant stared into the fetid darkness.
    After a while, someone started to play the harmonica.

    Ptaclusp half-turned his head from the scene and a voice by his ear said, “You’re the pyramid builder, aren’t you?”
    Another figure had joined them in their bolt-hole, one who was black-clad and moved in a way that made a cat’s tread sound like a one-man band.
    Ptaclusp nodded, unable to speak. He had had enough shocks for one day.
    “Well, switch it off. Switch it off now .”
    IIb leaned over.
    “Who’re you?” he said.
    “My name is Teppic.”
    “What, like the king?”
    “Yes. Just like the king.