Pyramids by Terry Pratchett

expression of someone with whom it is, suddenly, nothing to do. He started to stare at the floor as if his very survival depended on his memorizing it in extreme detail.
    “Wrong?” said Dios.
    “No offense. I’m sure you mean well,” said Teppic. “It’s just that, well, he seemed very clear about it at the time and—”
    “I mean well?” said Dios, tasting each word as though it was a sour grape. Ptaclusp coughed. He had finished with the floor. Now he started on the ceiling.
    Dios took a deep breath. “ Sire ,” he said, “we have always been pyramid builders. All our kings are buried in pyramids. It is how we do things, sire. It is how things are done.”
    “Yes, but—”
    “It does not admit of dispute,” said Dios. “Who could wish for anything else? Sealed with all artifice against the desecrations of Time—” now the oiled silk of his voice became armor, hard as steel, scornful as spears—“Shielded for all Time against the insults of Change.”
    Teppic glanced down at the high priest’s knuckles. They were white, the bone pressing through the flesh as though in a rage to escape.
    His gaze slid up the gray-clad arm to Dios’s face. Ye gods, he thought, it’s really true, he does look like they got tired of waiting for him to die and pickled him anyway. Then his eyes met those of the priest, more or less with a clang.
    He felt as though his flesh was being very slowly blown off his bones. He felt that he was no more significant than a mayfly. A necessary mayfly, certainly, a mayfly that would be accorded all due respect, but still an insect with all the rights thereof. And as much free will, in the fury of that gaze, as a scrap of papyrus in a hurricane.
    “The king’s will is that he be interred in a pyramid,” said Dios, in the tone of voice the Creator must have used to sketch out the moon and stars.
    “Er,” said Teppic.
    “The finest of pyramids for the king,” said Dios.
    Teppic gave up.
    “Oh,” he said. “Good. Fine. Yes. The very best, of course.”
    Ptaclusp beamed with relief, produced his wax tablet with a flourish, and took a stylus from the recesses of his wig. The important thing, he knew, was to clinch the deal as soon as possible. Let things slip in a situation like this and a man could find himself with 1,500,000 tons of bespoke limestone on his hands.
    “Then that will be the standard model, shall we say, O water in the desert?”
    Teppic looked at Dios, who was standing and glaring at nothing now, staring the bulldogs of Entropy into submission by willpower alone.
    “I think something larger,” he ventured hopelessly.
    “That’s the Executive,” said Ptaclusp. “Very exclusive, O base of the eternal column. Last you a perpetuality. Also our special offer this eon is various measurements of paracosmic significance built into the very fabric at no extra cost.”
    He gave Teppic an expectant look.
    “Yes. Yes. That will be fine,” said Teppic.
    Dios took a deep breath. “The king requires far more than that,” he said.
    “I do?” said Teppic, doubtfully.
    “Indeed, sire. It is your express wish that the greatest of monuments is erected for your father,” said Dios smoothly. This was a contest, Teppic knew, and he didn’t know the rules or how to play and he was going to lose .
    “It is? Oh. Yes. Yes. I suppose it is, really. Yes.”
    “A pyramid unequaled along the Djel,” said Dios. “That is the command of the king. It is only right and proper.”
    “Yes, yes, something like that. Er. Twice the normal size,” said Teppic desperately, and had the brief satisfaction of seeing Dios look momentarily disconcerted.
    “Sire?” he said.
    “It is only right and proper,” said Teppic.
    Dios opened his mouth to protest, saw Teppic’s expression, and shut it again.
    Ptaclusp scribbled busily, his adam’s apple bobbing. Something like this only happened once in a business career.
    “Can do you a very nice black marble facing on the outside,” he