He took a plank of wood from a heap in the corner, dipped a brush in a pot of black paint, and after a moment's thought carefully wrote, ONE OWNER.

After some further consideration he added, LO MILEAGE. He was just brushing in GOOD RUNER when Teppic staggered in and leaned, panting, against the doorframe. Pools of water formed around his feet.

'I've come for my camel,' he said.

Krona sighed.

'Last night you said you'd be back in an hour,' he said. 'I'm going to have to charge you for a whole day's livery, right? Plus I gave him a rub down and did his feet, the full service. That'll be five cercs, okay emir?'

'Ah.' Teppic patted his pocket.

'Look,' he said. 'I left home in a bit of a hurry, you see. I don't seem to have any cash on me.'

'Fair enough, emir.' Krona turned back to his board. 'How do you spell YEARS WARENTY?'

'I will definitely have the money sent to you,' said Teppic. Krona gave him the withering smile of one who has seen it all — asses with bodywork re-haired, elephants with plaster tusks, camels with false humps glued on — and knows the festering depths of the human soul when it gets down to business.

'Pull the other one, rajah,' he said. 'It has got bells on.'

Teppic fumbled in his tunic.

'I could give you this valuable knife,' he said.

Krona gave it a passing glance, and sniffed.

'Sorry, emir. No can do. No pay, no camel.'

'I could give it to you point first,' said Teppic desperately, knowing that the mere threat would get him expelled from the Guild. He was also aware that as a threat it wasn't very good. Threats weren't on the syllabus at the Guild school.

Whereas Krona had, sitting on straw bales at the back of the stables, a couple of large men who were just beginning to take an interest in the proceedings. They looked like Alfonz's older brothers.

Every vehicle depot of any description anywhere in the multiverse has them. They're never exactly grooms or mechanics or customers or staff. Their function is always unclear. They chew straws or smoke cigarettes in a surreptitious fashion. If there are such things as newspapers around, they read them, or at least look at the pictures.

They started to watch Teppic closely. One of them picked up a couple of bricks and began to toss them up and down.

'You're a young lad, I can see that,' said Krona, kindly. 'You're just starting out in life, emir. You don't want trouble.' He stepped forward.

You Bastard's huge shaggy head turned to look at him. In the depths of his brain columns of little numbers whirred upwards again.

'Look, I'm sorry, but I've got to have my camel back,' said Teppic. 'It's life and death!'

Krona waved a hand at the two extraneous men.

You Bastard kicked him. You Bastard had very concise ideas about people putting their hands in his mouth. Besides, he'd seen the bricks, and every camel knew what two bricks added up to. It was a good kick, toes well spread, powerful and deceptively slow. It picked Krona up and delivered him neatly into a steaming heap of Augean stable sweepings.

Teppic ran, kicked away from the wall, grabbed You Bastard's dusty coat and landed heavily on his neck.

'I'm very sorry,' he said, to such of Krona as was visible. 'I really will have some money sent to you.'

You Bastard, at this point, was waltzing round and round in a circle. Krona's companions stayed well back as feet like plates whirred through the air.

Teppic leaned forward and hissed into one madly-waving ear.

'We're going home,' he said.

They had chosen the first pyramid at random. The king peered at the cartouche on the door.

'"Blessed is Queen Far-re-ptah»,' read Dil dutifully, «Ruler of the Skies, Lord of the Djel, Master of-« 'Grandma Pooney,' said the king. 'She'll do.' He looked at their startled faces. 'That's what I used to call her when I was a little boy. I couldn't pronounce Far-re-ptah, you see. Well, go on then. Stop gawking. Break the door down.'

Gern hefted the hammer uncertainly.

'It's a pyramid, master,' he said, appealing to Dil. 'You're not supposed to open them.'

'What do you suggest, lad? We stick a tableknife in the slot and wiggle it about?' said the king.

'Do it, Gern,' said Dil. 'It will be all right.'

Gern shrugged, spat on his hands which were, in fact, quite damp enough with the sweat of terror, and swung.

'Again,' said the king.

The great slab boomed as the hammer hit it, but it was granite, and held. A few flakes of mortar floated down, and then the echoes came back, shunting back and forth along the dead avenues of the necropolis.

'Again.'

Gern's biceps moved like turtles in grease.

This time there was an answering boom, such as might be caused by a heavy lid crashing to the ground, far away.

They stood in silence, listening to a slow shuffling noise from inside the pyramid.

'Shall I hit it again, sire?' said Gern. They both waved him into silence.

The shuffling grew closer.

Then the stone moved. It stuck once or twice, but never the less it moved, slowly, pivoting on one side so that a crack of dark shadow appeared. Dil could just make out a darker shape in the blackness.

'Yes?' it said.

'It's me, Grandma,' said the king.

The shadow stood motionless.

'What, young Pootle?' it said, suspiciously.

The king avoided Dil's face.

'That's right, Grandma. We've come to let you out.'

'Who're these men?' said the shadow petulantly. 'I've got nothing, young man,' she said to Gern. 'I don't keep any money in the pyramid and you can put that weapon away, it doesn't frighten me.'

'They're servants, Grandma,' said the king.

'Have they got any identification?' muttered the old lady.

'I'm identifying them, Grandma. We've come to let you out.'

'I was hammering hours,' said the late queen, emerging into the sunlight. She looked exactly like the king, except that the mummy wrappings were greyer and dusty. 'I had to go and have a lie down, come the finish. No-one cares about you when you're dead. Where're we going?'

'To let the others out,' said the king.

'Damn good idea.' The old queen lurched into step behind him.

'So this is the netherworld, is it?' she said. 'Not much of an improvement.' She elbowed Gern sharply. 'You dead too, young man?'

'No, ma'am,' said Gern, in the shaky brave tones of someone on a tightrope over the chasms of madness.

'It's not worth it. Be told.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

The king shuffled across the ancient pavings to the next pyramid.

'I know this one,' said the queen. 'It was here in my day. King Ashk-ur-men-tep. Third Empire. What's the hammer for, young man?'

'Please, ma'am, I have to hammer on the door, ma'am,' said Gern.

'You don't have to knock. He's always in.'

'My assistant means to smash the seals, ma'am,' said Dil, anxious to please.

'Who're you?' the queen demanded.

'My name is Dil, O queen. Master embalmer.'

'Oh, you are, are you? I've got some stitching wants seeing to.'

'It will be an honour and a privilege, O queen,' said Dil.

'Yes. It will,' she said, and turned creakily to Gern. 'Hammer away, young man!' she said.

Spurred by this, Gern brought the hammer round in a long, fast arc. It passed in front of Dil's nose making a noise like a partridge and smashed the seal into pieces.

What emerged, when the dust had settled, was not dressed in the height of fashion. The bandages were brown and mouldering and, Dil noticed with professional concern, already beginning to go at the elbows. When it spoke, it was like the opening of ancient caskets.

'I woket up,' it said. 'And theyre was noe light. Is thys the netherworld?'

'It would appear not,' said the queen.

'Thys is all?'

'Hardly worth the trouble of dying, was it?' said the queen. The ancient king nodded, but gently, as though he was afraid his head would fall off.