'In reverse, sort of thing,' said IIb. 'The water goes underneath, we go over the top.'
'Oh. The k- the queen won't like that,' said Ptaclusp.
'The royal family's always been against chaining the holy river with dams and weirs and suchlike.'
IIb gave a triumphant grin. 'She suggested it,' he said. 'And she graciously went on to say, could we see to it there's places for people to stand and drop rocks on the crocodiles.'
'She said that?'
'Large pointy rocks, she said.'
'My word,' said Ptaclusp. He turned to his other son.
'You sure you're all right?' he said.
'Feeling fine, dad,' said IIa.
'No-' Ptaclusp groped 'headaches or anything?'
'Never felt better,' said IIa.
'Only you haven't asked about the cost,' said Ptaclusp. 'I thought perhaps you were still feeling fl- ill.'
'The queen has been pleased to ask me to have a look at the royal finances,' said IIa. 'She said priests can't add up.' His recent experiences had left him with no ill effects other than a profitable tendency to think at right angles to everyone else, and he sat wreathed in smiles while his mind constructed tariff rates, docking fees and a complex system of value added tax which would shortly give the merchant venturers of Ankh-Morpork a nasty shock.
Ptaclusp thought about all the miles of the virgin Djel, totally unbridged. And there was plenty of dressed stone around now, millions of tons of the stuff. And you never knew, perhaps on some of those bridges there'd be room for a statue or two. He had the very thing.
He put his arms around his sons' shoulders.
'Lads,' he said proudly. 'It's looking really quantum.'
The setting sun also shone on Dil and Gern, although in this case it was by a roundabout route through the lightwell of the palace kitchens. They'd ended up there for no very obvious reason. It was just that it was so depressing in the embalming room, all alone.
The kitchen staff worked around them, recognising the air of impenetrable gloom that surrounded the two embalmers. It was never a very sociable job at the best of times and embalmers didn't make friends easily. Anyway, there was a coronation feast to prepare.
They sat amid the bustle, observing the future over a jug of beer.
'I expect,' said Gern, 'that Gwlenda can have a word with her dad.'
'That's it, boy,' said Dil wearily. 'There's a future there. People will always want garlic.'
'Bloody boring stuff, garlic,' said Gern, with unusual ferocity. 'And you don't get to meet people. That's what I liked about our job. Always new faces.'
'No more pyramids,' said Dil, without rancour. 'That's what she said. You've done a good job, Master Dil, she said, but I'm going to drag this country kicking and screaming into the Century of the Fruitbat.'
'Cobra,' said Gern.
'What?'
'It's the Century of the Cobra. Not the Fruitbat.'
'Whatever,' said Dil irritably. He stared miserably into his mug. That was the trouble now, he reflected. You had to start remembering what century it was.
He glared at a tray of canapes. That was the thing these days. Everyone fiddling about .
He picked up an olive and turned it over and over in his fingers.
'Can't say I'd feel the same about the old job, mind,' said Gern, draining the jug, 'but I bet you were proud, master - Dil, I mean. You know, when all your stitching held up like that.'