Chidder chattered on. Teppic felt his clothes growing hotter. So this was it. You lost your kingdom, and then it was worth more because it was a tax haven, and you took a seat on the board, whatever that was, and that made it all right.
Ptraci defused the situation by grabbing Alfonz's arm as he was serving the pheasant.
'The Congress of The Friendly Dog and the Two Small Biscuits!' she exclaimed, examining the intricate tattoo. 'You hardly ever see that these days. Isn't it well done? You can even make out the yoghurt.'
Alfonz froze, and then blushed. Watching the glow spread across the great scarred head was like watching sunrise over a mountain range.
'What's the one on your other arm?'
Alfonz, who looked as though his past jobs had included being a battering ram, murmured something and, very shyly, showed her his forearm.
''S'not really suitable for ladies,' he whispered.
Ptraci brushed aside the wiry hair like a keen explorer, while Chidder stared at her with his mouth hanging open.
'Oh, I know that one,' she said dismissively. 'That's out of 130 Days of Pseudopolis. It's physically impossible.' She let go of the arm, and turned back to her meal. After a moment she looked up at Teppic and Chidder.
'Don't mind me,' she said brightly. 'Do go on.
'Alfonz, please go and put a proper shirt on,' said Chidder, hoarsely.
Alfonz backed away, staring at his arm.
'Er. What was I, er, saying?' said Chidder. 'Sorry. Lost the thread. Er. Have some more wine, Tep?'
Ptraci didn't just derail the train of thought, she ripped up the rails, burned the stations and melted the bridges for scrap. And so the dinner trailed off into beef pie, fresh peaches, crystallised sea urchins and desultory small talk about the good old days at the Guild. They had been three months ago. It seemed like a lifetime. Three months in the Old Kingdom was a lifetime.
After some time Ptraci yawned and went to her cabin, leaving the two of them alone with a fresh bottle of wine. Chidder watched her go in awed silence.
'Are there many like her back at your place?' he said.
'I don't know,' Teppic admitted. 'There could be. Usually they lie around the place peeling grapes or waving fans.'
s Chidder.
'What's it doing now?' said Ptaclusp.
His son poked his head cautiously over the ruins of a pillar and watched Hat, the Vulture-Headed God.
'It's sniffing around,' he said. 'I think it likes the statue. Honestly, dad, why did you have to go and buy a thing like that?'
'It was in a job lot,' said Ptaclusp. 'Anyway, I thought it would be a popular line.'
'With who?'
'Well, he likes it.'
Ptaclusp IIb risked another squint at the angular monstrosity that was still hopping around the ruins.
'Tell him he can have it if he goes away,' he suggested.
'Tell him he can have it at cost.'
Ptaclusp winced. 'At a discount,' he said. 'A special cut rate for our supernatural customers.
He stared up at the sky. From their hiding place in the ruins of the construction camp, with the Great Pyramid still humming like a powerhouse behind them, they'd had an excellent view of the arrival of the gods. At first he'd viewed them with a certain amount of equanimity. Gods would be good customers, they always wanted temples and statues, he could deal directly, cut out the middle man.
And then it had occurred to him that a god, when he was unhappy about the product, as it might be, maybe the plasterwork wasn't exactly as per spec, or perhaps a corner of the temple was a bit low on account of unexpected quicksand, a god didn't just come around demanding in a loud voice to see the manager. No. A god knew exactly where you were, and got to the point. Also, gods were notoriously bad payers. So were humans, of course, but they didn't actually expect you to die before they settled the account.