double circle around his bed and then, getting down on his chubby knees, filled the space between them with as unpleasant a collection of occult symbols as Teppic had ever seen. When they were completed to his satisfaction he placed the candles at strategic points and lit them; they spluttered and gave off asmell that suggested that you really wouldn’t want to know what they were made of.
He drew a short, red-handled knife from the jumble on the bed and advanced toward the goat—
A pillow hit him on the back of the head.
“Garn! Pious little bastard!”
Arthur dropped the knife and burst into tears. Chidder sat up in bed.
“That was you, Cheesewright!” he said. “I saw you!”
Cheesewright, a skinny young man with red hair and a face that was one large freckle, glared at him.
“Well, it’s too much,” he said. “A fellow can’t sleep with all this religion going on. I mean, only little kids say their prayers at bedtime these days, we’re supposed to be learning to be assassins —”
“You can jolly well shut up, Cheesewright,” shouted Chidder. “It’d be a better world if more people said their prayers, you know. I know I don’t say mine as often as I should—”
A pillow cut him off in mid-sentence. He bounded out of bed and vaulted at the red-haired boy, fists flailing.
As the rest of the dormitory gathered around the scuffling pair Teppic slid out of bed and padded over to Arthur, who was sitting on the edge of his bed and sobbing.
He patted him uncertainly on the shoulder, on the basis that this sort of thing was supposed to reassure people.
“I shouldn’t cry about it, youngster,” he said, gruffly.
“But—but all the runes have been scuffed,” said Arthur. “It’s all too late now! And that means the Great Orm will come in the night and wind out my entrails on a stick!”
“Does it?”
“And suck out my eyes, my mother said!”
“Gosh!” said Teppic, fascinated. “Really?” He was quiteglad his bed was opposite Arthur’s, and would offer an unrivalled view. “What religion would this be?”
“We’re Strict Authorized Ormits,” said Arthur. He blew his nose. “I noticed you don’t pray,” he said. “Don’t you have a god?”
“Oh yes,” said Teppic hesitantly, “no doubt about that.”
“You don’t seem to want to talk to him.”
Teppic shook his head. “I can’t,” he said, “not here. He wouldn’t be able to hear, you see.”
“ My god can hear me anywhere,” said Arthur fervently.
“Well, mine has difficulty if you’re on the other side of the room,” said Teppic. “It can be very embarrassing.”
“You’re not an Offlian, are you?” said Arthur. Offler was a Crocodile God, and lacked ears.
“No.”
“What god do you worship, then?”
“Not exactly worship,” said Teppic, discomforted. “I wouldn’t say worship. I mean, he’s all right. He’s my father, if you must know.”
Arthur’s pink-rimmed eyes widened.
“You’re the son of a god ?” he whispered.
“It’s all part of being a king, where I come from,” said Teppic hurriedly. “He doesn’t have to do very much. That is, the priests do the actual running of the country. He just makes sure that the river floods every year, d’you see, and services the Great Cow of the Arch of the Sky. Well, used to.”
“The Great—”
“My mother,” explained Teppic. “It’s all very embarrassing.”
“Does he smite people?”
“I don’t think so. He’s never said.”
Arthur reached down to the end of the bed. The goat, inthe confusion, had chewed through its rope and trotted but of the door, vowing to give up religion in future.
“I’m going to get into awful trouble,” he said. “I suppose you couldn’t ask your father to explain things to the Great Orm?”
“He might be able to,” said Teppic doubtfully. “I was going to write home tomorrow anyway.”
“The Great Orm is normally to be found in one of the Nether Hells,” said Arthur, “where
Alice Clayton, Nina Bocci