'But she was a woman, though?'

Dios looked shocked. 'Oh no, sire. She is a man. She herself declared this.'

'But look, a chap's aunt-'

'Quite so, sire. I quite understand.'

'Well, thank you,' said Teppic.

'It is a great shame that we have no sisters.'

'Sisters!'

'It does not do to water the divine blood, sire. The sun might not like it. Now this, sire, is the Scapula of Hygiene. Where would you like it put?'

King Teppicymon XXVII was watching himself being stuffed. It was just as well he didn't feel hunger these days. Certainly he would never want to eat chicken again.

'Very nice stitching there, master.'

'Just keep your finger still, Gern.'

'My mother does stitching like that. She's got a pinny with stitching like that, has our mum,' said Gern conversationally.

'Keep it still, I said.'

'It's got all ducks and hens on it,' Gern supplied helpfully. Dil concentrated on the job in hand. It was good workmanship, he was prepared to admit. The Guild of Embalmers and Allied Trades had awarded him medals for it.

'It must make you feel really proud,' said Gern.

'What?'

'Well, our mam says the king goes on living, sort of thing, after all this stuffing and stitching. Sort of in the Netherworld. With your stitching in him.'

And several sacks of straw and a couple of buckets of pitch, thought the shade of the king sadly. And the wrapping off Gern's lunch, although he didn't blame the lad, who'd just forgotten where he'd put it. All eternity with someone's lunch wrapping as part of your vital organs. There had been half a sausage left, too.

He'd become quite attached to Dil, and even to Gern. He seemed still to be attached to his body, too — at least, he felt uncomfortable if he wandered more than a few hundred yards away from it — and so in the course of the last couple of days he'd learned quite a lot about them.

Funny, really. He'd spent the whole of his life in the kingdom talking to a few priests and so forth. He knew objectively there had been other people around — servants and gardeners and so forth — but they figured in his life as blobs. He was at the top, and then his family, and then the priests and the nobles of course, and then there were the blobs. Damn fine blobs, of course, some of the finest blobs in the world, as loyal a collection of blobs as a king might hope to rule. But blobs, none the less.

But now he was absolutely engrossed in the daily details of Dil's shy hopes for advancement within the Guild, and the unfolding story of Gern's clumsy overtures to Glwenda, the garlic farmer's daughter who lived nearby. He listened in fascinated astonishment to the elaboration of a world as full of subtle distinctions of grade and station as the one he had so recently left; it was terrible to think that he might never know if Gern overcame her father's objections and won his intended, or if Dil's work on this job — on him — would allow him to aspire to the rank of Exalted Grand Ninety-Degree Variance of the Matron Lodge of the Guild of Embalmers and Allied Trades.

It was as if death was some astonishing optical device which turned even a drop of water into a complex hive of life.

He found an overpowering urge to counsel Dil on elementary politics, or apprise Gern of the benefits of washing and looking respectable. He tried it several times. They could sense him, there was no doubt about that. But they just put it down to draughts.

Now he watched Dil pad over to the big table of bandages, and come back with a thick swatch which he held reflectively against what even the king was now prepared to think of as his corpse.

'I think the linen,' he said at last. 'It's definitely his colour.'

Gern put his head on one side.

'He'd look good in the hessian,' he said. 'Or maybe the calico.'

'Not the calico. Definitely not the calico. On him it's too big.'

'He could moulder into it. With wear, you know.'

Dil snorted. 'Wear? Wear? You shouldn't talk to me about calico and wear. What happens if someone robs the tomb in a thousand years' time and him in calico, I'd like to know. He'd lurch halfway down the corridor, maybe throttle one of them, I'll grant you, but then he's coming undone, right? The elbows'll be out in no time, I'll never live it down.'

'But you'll be dead, master!'

'Dead? What's that got to do with it?' Dil riffled through the samples. 'No, it'll be the hessian. Got plenty of give in it, hessian. Good traction, too. He'll really be able to lurch up speed in the passages, if he ever needs to.'

The king sighed. He'd have preferred something lightweight in taffeta.

'And go and shut the door,' Dil added. 'It's getting breezy in here.'

'And now it's time,' said the high priest, 'for us to see our late father.' He allowed himself a quiet smile. 'I am sure he is looking forward to it,' he added.

Teppic considered this. It wasn't something he was looking forward to, but at least it would get everyone's mind off him marrying relatives. He reached down in what he hoped was a kingly fashion to stroke one of the palace cats. This also was not a good move. The creature sniffed it, went cross-eyed with the effort of thought, and then bit his fingers.

'Cats are sacred,' said Dios, shocked at the words Teppic uttered.

'Long-legged cats with silver fur and disdainful expressions are, maybe,' said Teppic, nursing his hand, 'I don't know about this sort. I'm sure sacred cats don't leave dead ibises under the bed. And I'm certain that sacred cats that live surrounded by endless sand don't come indoors and do it in the king's sandals, Dios.'

'All cats are cats,' said Dios, vaguely, and added, 'If we would be so gracious as to follow us.' He motioned Teppic towards a distant arch.

Teppic followed slowly. He'd been back home for what seemed like ages, and it still didn't feel right. The air was too dry. The clothes felt wrong. It was too hot. Even the buildings seemed wrong. The pillars, for one thing. Back home, back at the Guild, pillars were gracefull fluted things with little bunches of stone grapes and things around the top. Here they were massive pear— shaped lumps, where all the stone had run to the bottom.

Half a dozen servants trailed behind him, carrying the various items of regalia.

He tried to imitate Dios's walk, and found the movements coming back to him. You turned your torso this way, then you turned your head this way, and extended your arms at forty-five degrees to your body with the palms down, and then you attempted to move.

The high priest's staff raised echoes as it touched the flagstones. A blind man could have walked barefoot through the palace by tracing the time-worn dimples it had created over the years.

'I am afraid that we will find that our father has changed somewhat since we last saw him,' said Dios conversationally, as they undulated by the fresco of Queen Khaphut accepting Tribute from the Kingdoms of the World.

'Well, yes,' said Teppic, bewildered by the tone. 'He's dead, isn't he?'

'There's that, too,' said Dios, and Teppic realised that he hadn't been referring to something as trivial as the king's current physical condition.

He was lost in a horrified admiration. It wasn't that Dios was particularly cruel or uncaring, it was simply that death was a mere irritating transition in the eternal business of existence. The fact that people died was just an inconvenience, like them being out when you called.

It's a strange world, he thought. It's all busy shadows, and it never changes. And I'm part of it.

'Who's he?' he said, pointing to a particularly big fresco showing a tall man with a hat like a chimney and a beard like a rope riding a chariot over a lot of other, much smaller, people.

'His name is in the cartouche below,' said Dios primly.

'What?'

'The small oval, sire,' said Dios.

Teppic peered closely at the dense hieroglyphics.

'"Thin eagle, eye, wiggly line, man with a stick, bird sitting down, wiggly line»,' he read. Dios winced.

'I believe we must apply ourselves more to the study of modem languages,' he said, recovering a bit. 'His name is Pta-ka-ba. He is king when the Djel Empire extends from the Circle Sea to the Rim Ocean, when almost half the continent pays tribute to us.'

Teppic realised what it was about the man's speech that was strange. Dios would bend any sentence to breaking point if it meant avoiding a past tense. He pointed to another fresco.

'And her?' he said.

'She is Queen Khat-leon-ra-pta,' said Dios. 'She wins the kingdom of Howandaland by stealth. This is the time of the Second Empire.'

'But she is dead?' said Teppic.

'I understand so,' said the high priest, after the slightest of pauses. Yes. The past tense definitely bothered Dios.

'I have learned seven languages,' said Teppic, secure in the knowledge that the actual marks he had achieved in three of them would remain concealed in the ledgers of the Guild.

'Indeed, sire?'

'Oh, yes. Morporkian, Vanglemesht, Ephebe, Laotation and several others . . .' said Teppic.

'Ah.' Dios nodded, smiled, and continued to proceed down the corridor, limping slightly but still measuring his pace like the ticking of centuries. 'The barbarian lands.'

Teppic looked at his father. The embalmers had done a good job. They were waiting for him to tell them so.

Part of him, which still lived in Ankh-Morpork, said: this is a dead body, wrapped up in bandages, surely they can't think that this will help him get better? In Ankh, you die and they bury you or burn you or throw you to the ravens. Here, it just means you slow down a bit and get given all the best food. It's ridiculous, how can you run a kingdom like this? They seem to think that being dead is like being deaf, you just have to speak up a bit.

But a second, older voice said: We've run a kingdom like this for seven thousand years. The humblest melon farmer has a lineage that makes kings elsewhere look like mayflies. We used to own the continent, before we sold it again to pay for pyramids. We don't even think about other countries less than three thousand years old. It all seems to work.

'Hallo, father,' he said.

The shade of Teppicymon XXVII, which had been watching him closely, hurried across the room.

'You're looking well!' he said. 'Good to see you! Look, this is urgent. Please pay attention, it's about death-'

'He says he is pleased to see you,' said Dios.

'You can hear him?' said Teppic. 'I didn't hear anything.'

'The dead, naturally, speak through the priests,' said the priest. 'That is the custom, sire.'

'But he can hear me, can he?'

'Of course.'

'I've been thinking about this whole pyramid business and, look, I'm not certain about it.'

Teppic leaned closer. 'Auntie sends her love,' he said loudly. He thought about this. 'That's my aunt, not yours.' I hope, he added.

'I say? I say? Can you hear me?'

'He bids you greetings from the world beyond the veil,' said Dios.

'Well, yes, I suppose I do, but LOOK, I don't want you to go to a lot of trouble and build-'

'We're going to build you a marvellous pyramid, father. You'll really like it there. There'll be people to look after you and everything.' Teppic glanced at Dios for reassurance. 'He'll like that, won't he?'

'I don't WANT one!' screamed the king. 'There's a whole interesting eternity I haven't seen yet. I forbid you to put me in a pyramid!'

'He says that is very proper, and you are a dutiful son,' said Dios.

'Can you see me? How many fingers am I holding up? Think it's fun, do you, spending the rest of your death under a million tons of rock, watching yourself crumble to bits? Is that your idea of a good epoch?'

'It's rather draughty in here, sire,' said Dios. 'Perhaps we should get on.'

'Anyway, you can't possibly afford it!'

'And we'll put your favourite frescoes and statues in with you. You'll like that, won't you,' said Teppic desperately.

'All your bits and pieces around you.'

'He will like it, won't be?' he asked Dios, as they walked back to the throne room. 'Only, I don't know, I somehow got a feeling he isn't too happy about it.'

'I assure you, sire,' said Dios, 'he can have no other desire.'

Back in the embalming room King Teppicymon XXVII tried to tap Gern on the shoulder, which had no effect. He gave up and sat down beside himself.

'Don't do it, lad,' he said bitterly. 'Never have descendants.'

And then there was the Great Pyramid itself.

Teppic's footsteps echoed on the marble tiles as he walked around the model. He wasn't sure what one was supposed to do here. But kings, he suspected, were often put in that position; there was always the good old fallback, which was known as taking an interest.

'Well, well,' he said. 'How long have you been designing pyramids?'

Ptaclusp, architect and jobbing pyramid builder to the nobility, bowed deeply.

'All my life, O light of noonday.'

'It must be fascinating,' said Teppic. Ptaclusp looked sidelong at the high priest, who nodded.

'It has its points, O fount of waters,' he ventured. He wasn't used to kings talking to him as though he was a human being. He felt obscurely that it wasn't right.

Teppic waved a hand at the model on its podium.

'Yes,' he said uncertainly. 'Well. Good. Four walls and a pointy tip. Jolly good. First class. Says it all, really.' There still seemed to be too much silence around. He plunged on.

'Good show,' he said. 'I mean; there's no doubt about it. This is.. . a. . . pyramid. And what a pyramid it is! Indeed.' This still didn't seem enough. He sought for something else. 'People will look at it in centuries to come and they'll say, they'll say . . . that is a pyramid. Um.'

He coughed. 'The walls slope nicely,' he croaked.

'But,' he said.

Two pairs of eyes swivelled towards his.

'Um,' he said.

Dios raised an eyebrow.

'Sire?'

'I seem to remember once, my father said that, you know, when he died, he'd quite like to, sort of thing, be buried at sea.'

There wasn't the choke of outrage he had expected. 'He meant the delta. It's very soft ground by the delta,' said Ptaclusp. 'It'd take months to get decent footings in. Then there's your risk of sinking. And the damp. Not good, damp, inside a pyramid.'

'No,' said Teppic, sweating under Dios's gaze, 'I think what he meant was, you know, in the sea.'

Ptaclusp's brow furrowed. 'Tricky, that,' he said thoughtfully. 'Interesting idea. I suppose one could build a small one, a million tonner, and float it out on pontoons or something…'

'No,' said Teppic, trying not to laugh, 'I think what he meant was, buried without-'

'Teppicymon XXVII means that he would want to be buried without delay,' said Dios, his voice like greased silk. 'And there is no doubt that he would require to honour the very best you can build, architect.'

'No, I'm sure you've got it wrong,' said Teppic.

Dios's face froze. Ptaclusp's slid into the waxen expression of someone with whom it is, suddenly, nothing to do. He started to stare at the floor as if his very survival depended on his memorising it in extreme detail.

'Wrong?' said Dios.

'No offence. I'm sure you mean well,' said Teppic. 'It's just that, well, he seemed very clear about it at the time and-'

'I mean well?' said Dios, tasting each word as though it was a sour grape. Ptaclusp coughed. He had finished with the floor. Now he started on the ceiling.

Dios took a deep breath. 'Sire,' he said, 'we have always been pyramid builders. All our kings are buried in pyramids. It is how we do things, sire. It is how things are done.'

'Yes, but-'

'It does not admit of dispute,' said Dios. 'Who could wish for anything else? Sealed with all artifice against the desecrations of Time-' now the oiled silk of his voice became armour, hard as steel, scornful as spears — 'Shielded for all Time against the insults of Change.'

Teppic glanced down at the high priest's knuckles. They were white, the bone pressing through the flesh as though in a rage to escape.

His gaze slid up the grey-clad arm to Dios's face. Ye gods, he thought, it's really true, he does look like they got tired of waiting for him to die and pickled him anyway. Then his eyes met those of the priest, more or less with a clang.

He felt as though his flesh was being very slowly blown off his bones. He felt that he was no more significant than a mayfly. A necessary mayfly, certainly, a mayfly that would be accorded all due respect, but still an insect with all the rights thereof. And as much free will, in the fury of that gaze, as a scrap of papyrus in a hurricane.

'The king's will is that he be interred in a pyramid,' said Dios, in the tone of voice the Creator must have used to sketch out the moon and stars.

'Er,' said Teppic.

'The finest of pyramids for the king,' said Dios.

Teppic gave up.

'Oh,' he said. 'Good. Fine. Yes. The very best, of course.' Ptaclusp beamed with relief, produced his wax tablet with a flourish, and took a stylus from the recesses of his wig. The important thing, he knew, was to clinch the deal as soon as possible. Let things slip in a situation like this' and a man could find himself with 1,500,000 tons of bespoke limestone on his hands.

'Then that will be the standard model, shall we say, O water in the desert?'

Teppic looked at Dios, who was standing and glaring at nothing now, staring the bulldogs of Entropy into submission by willpower alone.

'I think something larger,' he ventured hopelessly.

'That's the Executive,' said Ptaclusp. 'Very exclusive, O base of the eternal column. Last you a perpetuality. Also our special offer this aeon is various measurements of paracosmic significance built into the very fabric at no extra cost.'

He gave Teppic an expectant look.

'Yes. Yes. That will be fine,' said Teppic.

Dios took a deep breath. 'The king requires far more than that,' be said.

'I do?' said Teppic, doubtfully.

'Indeed, sire. It is your express wish that the greatest of monuments is erected for your father,' said Dios smoothly. This was a contest, Teppic knew, and he didn't know the rules or how to play and he was going to lose.

'It is? Oh. Yes. Yes. I suppose it is, really. Yes.'

'A pyramid unequalled along the Djel,' said Dios. 'That is the command of the king. It is only right and proper.'

'Yes, yes, something like that. Er. Twice the normal size,' said Teppic desperately, and had the brief satisfaction of seeing Dios look momentarily disconcerted.

'Sire?' he said.

'It is only right and proper,' said Teppic. Dios opened his mouth to protest, saw Teppic's expression, and shut it again.

Ptaclusp scribbled busily, his adam's apple bobbing. Something like this only happened once in a business career.

'Can do you a very nice black marble facing on the outside,' he said, without looking up. 'We may have just enough in the quarry. O king of the celestial orbs,' he added hurriedly.

'Very good,' said Teppic.

Ptaclusp picked up a fresh tablet. 'Shall we say the capstone picked out in electrum? It's cheaper to have built in right from the start, you don't want to use just silver and then say later, I wish I'd had a-'

'Electrum, yes.'

'And the usual offices?'

'What?'

'The burial chamber, that is, and the outer chamber. I'd recommend the Memphis, very select, that comes with a matching extra large treasure room, so handy for all those little things one cannot bear to leave behind.' Ptaclusp turned the tablet over and started on the other side. 'And of course a similar suite for the Queen, I take it? O King who shall live forever.'

'Eh? Oh, yes. Yes. I suppose so,' said Teppic, glancing at Dios. 'Everything. You know.'

'Then there's mazes,' said Ptaclusp, trying to keep his voice steady. 'Very popular this era. Very important, your maze, it's no good deciding you ought to have put a maze in after the robbers have been. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I'd go for the Labrys every time. Like we say, they may get in all right, but they'll never get out. It costs that little bit extra, but what's money at a time like this? O master of the waters.'

Something we don't have, said a warning voice in the back of Teppic's head. He ignored it. He was in the grip of destiny.

'Yes,' he said, straightening up. 'The Labrys. Two of them.'

Ptaclusp's stylus went through his tablet.

'His 'n' hers, O stone of stones,' he croaked. 'Very handy, very convenient. With selection of traps from stock? We can offer deadfalls, pitfalls, sliders, rolling balls, dropping spears, arrows-'

'Yes, yes,' said Teppic. 'We'll have them. We'll have them all. All of them.'

The architect took a deep breath.

'And of course you'll require all the usual steles, avenues, ceremonial sphinxes-' he began.

'Lots,' said Teppic. 'We leave it entirely up to you.'

Ptaclusp mopped his brow.

'Fine,' he said. 'Marvellous.' He blew his nose. 'Your father, if I may make so bold, O sower of the seed, is extremely fortunate in having such a dutiful son. I may add-'

'You may go,' said Dios. 'And we will expect work to start imminently.'

'Without delay, I assure you,' said Ptaclusp. 'Er.'

He seemed to be wrestling with some huge philosophical problem.

'Yes?' said Dios coldly.

'It's uh. There's the matter of uh. Which is not to say uh. Of course, oldest client, valued customer, but the fact is that uh. Absolutely no doubt about credit worthiness uh. Would not wish to suggest in any way whatsoever that uh.'

Dios gave him a stare that would have caused a sphinx to blink and look away.

'You wish to say something?' he said. 'His majesty's time is extremely limited.'

Ptaclusp worked his jaw silently, but the result was a foregone conclusion. Even gods had been reduced to sheepish mumbling in the face of Dios's face. And the carved snakes on his staff seemed to be watching him too.

'Uh. No, no. Sorry. I was just, uh, thinking aloud. I'll depart, then, shall I? Such a lot of work to be done. Uh.' He bowed low.

He was halfway to the archway before Dios added: 'Completion in three months. In time for Inundation11.'

'What?'

'You are talking to the 1,398th monarch,' said Dios icily. Ptaclusp swallowed. 'I'm sorry,' he whispered, 'I mean, what?, O great king. I mean, block haulage alone will take. Uh.' The architect's lips trembled as he tried out various comments and, in his imagination, ran them full tilt into Dios's stare. 'Tsort wasn't built in a day,' he mumbled.

'We do not believe we laid the specifications for that job,' said Dios. He gave Ptaclusp a smile. In some ways it was worse than everything else. 'We will, of course,' he said, 'pay extra.'

'But you never pa-' Ptaclusp began, and then sagged.

'The penalties for not completing on time will, of course, be terrible,' said Dios. 'The usual clause.'

Ptaclusp hadn't the nerve left to argue. 'Of course,' he said, utterly defeated. 'It is an honour. Will your eminences excuse me? There are still some hours of daylight left.'

Teppic nodded.

'Thank you,' said the architect. 'May your loins be truly fruitful. Saving your presence, Lord Dios.'

They heard him running down the steps outside.

'It will be magnificent. Too big, but — magnificent,' said Dios. He looked out between the pillars at the necropolic panorama on the far bank of the Djel.

'Magnificent,' he repeated. He winced once more at the stab of pain in his leg. Ah. He'd have to cross the river again tonight, no doubt of it. He'd been foolish, putting it off for days. But it would be unthinkable not to be in a position to serve the kingdom properly.

'Something wrong, Dios?' said Teppic.

'Sire?'

'You looked a bit pale, I thought.' A look of panic flickered over Dios's wrinkled features. He pulled himself upright.

'I assure you, sire, I am in the best of health. The best of health, sire!'

'You don't think you've been overdoing it, do you?'

This time there was no mistaking the expression of terror.

'Overdoing what, sire?'

'You're always bustling, Dios. First one up, last one to bed. You should take it easy.'

'I exist only to serve, sire,' said Dios, firmly. 'I exist only to serve.'

Teppic joined him on the balcony. The early evening sun glowed on a man-made mountain range. This was only the central massif; the pyramids stretched from the delta all the way up to the second cataract, where the Djel disappeared into the mountains. And the pyramids occupied the best land, near the river. Even the farmers would have considered it sacrilegious to suggest anything different.

Some of the pyramids were small, and made of rough-hewn blocks that contrived to look far older than the mountains that fenced the valley from the high desert. After all, mountains had always been there. Words like 'young' and 'old' didn't apply to them. But those first pyramids had been built by human beings, little bags of thinking water held up briefly by fragile accumulations of calcium, who had cut rocks into pieces and then painfully put them back together again in a better shape. They were old.

Over the millennia the fashions had fluctuated. Later pyramids were smooth and sharp, or flattened and tiled with mica. Even the steepest of them, Teppic mused, wouldn't rate more than 1.O on any edificeer's scale, although some of the stelae and temples, which flocked around the base of the pyramids like tugboats around the dreadnoughts of eternity, could be worthy of attention.

Dreadnoughts of eternity, he thought, sailing ponderously through the mists of Time with every passenger travelling first class . . .

A few stars had been let out early. Teppic looked up at them. Perhaps, he thought, there is life somewhere else. On the stars, maybe. If it's true that there are billions of universes stacked alongside one another, the thickness of a thought apart, then there must be people elsewhere.

But wherever they are, no matter how mightily they try, no matter how magnificent the effort, they surely can't manage to be as godawfully stupid as us. I mean, we work at it. We were given a spark of it to start with, but over hundreds of thousands of years we've really improved on it.

He turned to Dios, feeling that he ought to repair a little bit of the damage.

'You can feel the age radiating off them, can't you,' he said conversationally.

'Pardon, sire?'

'The pyramids, Dios. They're so old.'

Dios glanced vaguely across the river. 'Are they?' he said. 'Yes, I suppose they are.'

'Will you get one?' said Teppic.

'A pyramid?' said Dios. 'Sire, I have one already. It pleased one of your forebears to make provision for me.'

'That must have been a great honour,' said Teppic. Dios nodded graciously. The staterooms of forever were usually reserved for royalty.

'It is, of course, very small. Very plain. But it will suffice for my simple needs.'

'Will it?' said Teppic, yawning. 'That's nice. And now, if you don't mind, I think I'll turn in. It's been a long day.'

Dios bowed as though he was hinged in the middle. Teppic had noticed that Dios had at least fifty finely-tuned ways of bowing, each one conveying subtle shades of meaning. This one looked like No.3, I Am Your Humble Servant.

'And a very good day it was too, if I may say so, sire. Teppic was lost for words. 'You thought so?' he said.

'The cloud effects at dawn were particularly effective.'

'They were? Oh. Do I have to do anything about the sunset?'

'Your majesty is pleased to joke,' said Dios. 'Sunsets happen by themselves, sire. Haha.'

'Haha,' echoed Teppic.

Dios cracked his knuckles. 'The trick is in the sunrise,' he said.

The crumbling scrolls of Knot said that the great orange sun was eaten every evening by the sky goddess, What, who saved one pip in time to grow a fresh sun for next morning. And Dios knew that this was so.

The Book of Staying in The Pit said that the sun was the Eye of Yay, toiling across the sky each day in His endless search for his toenails12. And Dios knew that this was so.

The secret rituals of the Smoking Mirror held that the sun was in fact a round hole in the spinning blue soap bubble of the goddess Nesh, opening into the fiery real world beyond, and the stars were the holes that the rain comes through. And Dios knew that this, also, was so.

Folk myth said the sun was a ball of fire which circled the world every day, and that the world itself was carried through the everlasting void on the back of an enormous turtle. And Dios also knew that this was so, although it gave him a bit of trouble.

And Dios knew that Net was the Supreme God, and that Fon was the Supreme God, and so were Hast, Set, Bin, Sot, Ic, Dhek, and Ptooie; that Herpetine Triskeles alone ruled the world of the dead, and so did Syncope, and Silur the Catfish-Headed God, and Orexis-Nupt.

Dios was maximum high priest to a national religion that had fermented and accreted and bubbled for more than seven thousand years and never threw a god away in case it turned out to be useful. He knew that a great many mutually-contradictory things were all true. If they were not, then ritual and belief were as nothing, and if they were nothing, then the world did not exist. As a result of this sort of thinking, the priests of the Djel could give mind room to a collection of ideas that would make even a quantum mechanic give in and hand back his toolbox.