'I took the liberty of attending to that myself, O Dios,' he purred.
Dios tapped his fingers on his staff. 'Yes,' he said, 'I have no doubt that you did.'
It was widely expected by the priesthood that Koomi would be the one to succeed Dios in the event of Dios ever actually dying, although hanging around waiting for Dios to die had never seemed to be a rewarding occupation. The only dissenting opinion was that of Dios himself, who, if he had any friends, would probably have confided in them certain conditions that would need to apply first, viz., blue moons, aerial pigs and he, Dios, being seen in Hell. He would probably have added that the only difference between Koomi and a sacred crocodile was the crocodile's basic honesty of purpose.
'Very well,' he said.
'If I may remind your lordship?' said Koomi. The faces of the other priests went a nice safe blank as Dios glared.
'Yes, Koomi?'
'The prince, O Dios. Has he been summoned?'
'No,' said Dios.
'Then how will he know?' said Koomi.
'He will know,' said Dios firmly.
'How will this be?'
'He will know. And now you are all dismissed. Go away. See to your gods!'
They scurried out, leaving Dios alone on the steps. It had been his accustomed position for so long that he'd polished a groove in the stonework, into which he fitted exactly.
Of course the prince would know. It was part of the neatness of things. But in the grooves of his mind, ground deep by the years of ritual and due observance, Dios detected a certain uneasiness. It was not at home in there. Uneasiness was something that happened to other people. He hadn't got where he was today by allowing room for doubt. Yet there was a tiny thought back there, a tiny certainty, that there was going to be trouble with this new king.
Well. The boy would soon learn. They all learned.
He shifted position, and winced. The aches and pains were back, and he couldn't allow that. They got in the way of his duty, and his duty was a sacred trust.
He'd have to visit the necropolis again. Tonight.
'He's not himself, you can see that.'
'Who is he, then?' said Chidder.
They splashed unsteadily down the street, not drunkenly this time, but with the awkward gait of two people trying to do the steering for three. Teppic was walking, but not in a way that gave them any confidence that his mind was having any part of it.
Around them doors were being thrown open, curses were being cursed, there was the sound of furniture being dragged up to first-floor rooms.
'Must have been a hell of a storm up in the mountains,' said Arthur. 'It doesn't usually flood like this even in the spring.'
'Maybe we should burn some feathers under his nose,' suggested Chidder.
'That bloody seagull would be favourite,' Arthur growled.
'What seagull?'
'You saw it.'
'Well, what about it?'
'You did see it, didn't you?' Uncertainty flickered its dark flame in Arthur's eyes. The seagull had disappeared in all the excitement.
'My attention was a bit occupied,' said Chidder diffidently. 'It must have been those mint wafers they served with the coffee. I thought they were a bit off.'
'Definitely a touch eldritch, that bird,' said Arthur. 'Look, let's put him down somewhere while I empty the water out of my boots, can we?'
There was a bakery nearby, its doors thrown open so that the trays of new loaves could cool in the early morning. They propped Teppic against the wall.
'He looks as though someone hit him on the head,' said Chidder. 'No-one did, did they?'
Arthur shook his head. Teppic's face was locked in a gentle grin. Whatever his eyes were focused on wasn't occupying the usual set of dimensions.
'We ought to get him back to the Guild and into the san-' He stopped. There was a peculiar rustling sound behind him. The loaves of bread were bouncing gently on their trays. One or two of them vibrated on to the floor, where they spun around like overturned beetles.
Then, their crusts cracking open like eggshells, they sprouted hundreds of green shoots.
Within a few seconds the trays were waving stands of young corn, their heads already beginning to fill out and bend over. Through them marched Chidder and Arthur, poker-faced, doing the 100-metre nonchalant walk with Teppic held rigidly between them.
'Is it him doing all this?'
'I've got a feeling that-' Arthur looked behind them, just in case any angry bakers had come out and spotted such aggressively wholemeal produce, and stopped so suddenly that the other two swung around him, like a rudder.
They looked thoughtfully at the street.
'Not something you see every day, that,' said Chidder at last.
'You mean the way there's grass and stuff growing up everywhere he puts his feet?'
'Yes.'
Their eyes met. As one, they looked down at Teppic's shoes. He was already ankle-deep in greenery, which was cracking the centuries-old cobbles in its urgency.
Without speaking a word, they gripped his elbows and lifted him into the air.
'The san,' said Arthur.
'The san,' agreed Chidder.
But they both knew, even then, that this was going to involve more than a hot poultice.
The doctor sat back.
'Fairly straightforward,' he said, thinking quickly. 'A case of mortis portalis tackulatum with complications.'
'What's that mean?' said Chidder.
'In layman's terms,' the doctor sniffed, 'he's as dead as a doornail.'
'What are the complications?'
The doctor looked shifty. 'He's still breathing,' he said. 'Look, his pulse is nearly humming and he's got a temperature you could fry eggs on.' He hesitated, aware that this was probably too straightforward and easily understood; medicine was a new art on the Disc, and wasn't going to get anywhere if people could understand it.