They glittered
like bits of starlight on a black velvet sky.
“This one,” said the merchant, “is a particularly excellent stone, don’t you think? Note the fire, the exceptional—”
HOW FRIENDLY IS IT?
The merchant hesitated. He knew about carats, about adamantine luster, about “water” and “make” and “fire,” but he’d never before been called upon to judge gems in terms of general affability.
“Quite well-disposed?” he hazarded.
NO.
The merchant’s fingers seized on another splinter of frozen light.
“Now this,” he said, confidence flowing back into his voice, “is from the famous Shortshanks mine. May I draw your attention to the exquisite—”
He felt the penetrating stare drill through the back of his head.
“But not, I must admit, noted for its friendliness,” he said lamely.
The dark customer looked disapprovingly around the shop. In the gloom, behind troll-proof bars, gems glowed like the eyes of dragons in the back of a cave.
ARE ANY OF THESE FRIENDLY? he said.
“Sir, I think I can say, without fear of contradiction, that we have never based our purchasing policy on the amiability of the stones in question,” said the merchant. He was uncomfortably aware that things were wrong, and that somewhere in the back of his mind he knew what was wrong with them, and that somehow his mind was not letting him make that final link. And it was getting on his nerves.
WHERE IS THE BIGGEST DIAMOND IN THE WORLD?
“The biggest? That’s easy. It’s the Tear of Offler, it’s in the innermost sanctuary of the Lost Jewelled Temple of Doom of Offler the Crocodile God in darkest Howandaland, and it weighs eight hundred and fifty carats. And, sir, to forestall your next question, I personally would go to bed with it.”
One of the nice things about being a priest in the Lost Jewelled Temple of Doom of Offler the Crocodile God was that you got to go home early most afternoons. This was because it was lost. Most worshippers never found their way there. They were the lucky ones.
Traditionally, only two people ever went into the innermost sanctuary. They were the High Priest and the other priest who wasn’t High. They had been there for years, and took turns at being the high one. It was an undemanding job, given that most prospective worshippers were impaled, squashed, poisoned or sliced by booby-traps even before making it as far as the little box and the jolly drawing of a thermometer* outside the vestry.
They were playing Cripple Mr. Onion on the high altar, beneath the very shadow of the jewel-encrusted statue of Offler Himself, when they heard the distant creak of the main door.
The High Priest didn’t look up.
“Heyup,” he said. “Another one for the big rolling ball, then.”
There was a thump and a rumbling, grinding sound. And then a very final bang.
“Now,” said the High Priest. “What was the stake?”
“Two pebbles,” said the low priest.
“Right.” The High Priest peered at his cards. “Okay, I’ll see your two peb—”
There was the faint sound of footsteps.
“Chap with a whip got as far as the big sharp spikes last week,” said the low priest.
There was a sound like the flushing of a very old dry lavatory. The footsteps stopped.
The High Priest smiled to himself.
“Right,” he said. “See your two pebbles and raise you two pebbles.”