'That was me!'
'So you ordered me thrown to the crocodiles?'
'Yes! I mean, no.' Teppic hesitated. 'I mean, the king did. I didn't. In a way. Anyway, I was the one who rescued you,' he added gallantly.
'There you are, then. Anyway, if you were the king, you'd be a god, too. You aren't acting very god-like at the moment.'
'Yes? Well. Er.' Teppic hesitated again. Ptraci's literal mindedness meant that innocent sentences had to be carefully examined before being sent out into the world.
'I'm basically good at making the sun rise,' he said. 'I don't know how, though. And rivers. You want any rivers flooding, I'm your man. God, I mean.'
He lapsed into silence as a thought struck him.
'I wonder what's happening in there without me?' he said.
Ptraci stood up and set off down to the gorge.
'Where are you going?'
She turned. 'Well, Mr King or God or assassin, or whatever, can you make water?'
'What, here?'
'I mean to drink. There may be a river hidden in that crack or there may not, but we can't get at it, can we? So we have to go somewhere where we can. It's so simple I should think even kings could understand it.'
He hurried after her, down the scree to where You Bastard was lying with his head and neck flat on the ground, flicking his ears in the heat and idly applying You Vicious Brute's Theory of Transient Integrals to a succession of promising cissoid numbers. Ptraci kicked him irritably.
'Do you know where there is water, then?' said Teppic. . . . e/27. Eleven miles . . .
Ptraci glared at him from kohl-ringed eyes. 'You mean you don't know? You were going to take me into the desert and you don't know where the water is?'
'Well, I rather expected I was going to be able to take some with me!'
'You didn't even think about it!'
'Listen, you can't talk to me like that! I'm a king!' Teppic stopped.
'You're absolutely right,' he said. 'I never thought about it. Where I come from it rains nearly every day. I'm sorry.'
Ptraci's brows furrowed. 'Who reigns nearly every day?' she said.
'No, I mean rain. You know. Very thin water coming out of the sky?'
'What a silly idea. Where do you come from?'
Teppic looked miserable. 'Where I come from is Ankh-Morpork. Where I started from is here.' He stared down the track. From here, if you knew what you were looking for, you could just see a faint crack running across the rocks. It climbed the cliffs on either side, a new vertical fault the thickness of a line that just happened to contain a complete river kingdom and 7,000 years of history.
He'd hated every minute of his time there. And now it had shut him out. And now, because he couldn't, he wanted to go back.
He wandered down to it and put his hand over one eye. If you jerked your head just right . . .
It flashed past his vision briefly, and was gone. He tried a few times more, and couldn't see it again.
If I hacked the rocks away? No, he thought, that's silly. It's a line. You can't get into a line. A line has no thickness. Well known fact of geometry.
He heard Ptraci come up behind him, and the next moment her hands were on his neck. For a second he wondered how she knew the Catharti Death Grip, and then her fingers were gently massaging his muscles, stresses melting under their expert caress like fat under a hot knife. He shivered as the tension relaxed.
'That's nice,' he said.