The door slammed shut.
Teppic swung his legs off the bed and clutched at his head.
'I've got to go home,' he repeated.
'Why?' said Arthur.
'Don't know. The kingdom wants me.'
'You seemed to be taken pretty bad there-' Arthur began. Teppic waved his hands dismissively.
'Look,' he said, 'please, I don't want anyone sensibly pointing out things. I don't want anyone telling me I should rest. None of it matters. I will be back in the kingdom as soon as possible. It's not a case of must, you understand. I will. And you can help me, Chiddy.'
'How?'
'Your father has an extremely fast vessel he uses for smuggling,' said Teppic flatly. 'He will lend it to me, in exchange for favourable consideration of future trading opportunities. If we leave inside the hour, it will do the journey in plenty of time.'
'My father is an honest trader!'
'On the contrary. Seventy per cent of his income last year was from undeclared trading in the following commodities-' Teppic's eyes stared into nothingness - 'From illegal transport of gullanes and leuchars, nine per cent. From night-running of untaxed-'
'Well, thirty per cent honest,' Chidder admitted, 'which is a lot more honest than most. You'd better tell me how you know. Extremely quickly.'
'I - don't know,' said Teppic. 'When I was . . . asleep, it seemed I knew everything. Everything about everything. I think my father is dead.'
'Oh,' said Chidder. 'Gosh, I'm sorry.'
'Oh, no. It's not like that. It's what he would have wanted. I think he was rather looking forward to it. In our family, death is when you really start to, you know, enjoy life. I expect he's rather enjoying it.'
In fact the pharaoh was sitting on a spare slab in the ceremonial preparation room watching his own soft bits being carefully removed from his body and put into the special Canopic jars.
This is not a sight often seen by people - at least, not by people in a position to take a thoughtful interest.
He was rather upset. Although he was no longer officially inhabiting his body he was still attached to it by some sort of occult bond, and it is hard to be very happy at seeing two artisans up to the elbows in bits of you.
The jokes aren't funny, either. Not when you are, as it were, the butt.
'Look, master Dil,' said Gern, a plump, red-faced young man who the king had learned was the new apprentice. uk... hght... watch this, watch this.. . hgk.. your name in lights. Get it? Your name in lights, see?'
'Just put them in the jar, boy,' said Dil wearily. 'And while we're on the subject I didn't think much of the Gottle of Geer routine, either.'
'Sorry, master.'
'And pass me over a number three brain hook while you're up that end, will you?'
'Coming right up, master,' said Gern.
'And don't jog me. This is a fiddly bit.'
'Sure thing.'
The king craned nearer.
Gern rummaged around at his end of the job and then gave a long, low whistle.
'Will you look at the colour of this!' he said. 'You wouldn't think so, would you? Is it something they eat, master?'
Dil sighed. 'Just put it in the pot, Gern.'