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’
Does
it
work
?
’
’
Not
noticeably
.
’
Mort
leaned
over
Binky
’
s
neck
.
’
Torches
down
there
,
’
he
said
.
’
Hang
On
.
’
A
procession
was
winding
away
from
the
avenue
of
pyramids
,
led
by
a
giant
statue
of
Offler
the
Crocodile
God
borne
by
a
hundred
sweating
slaves
.
Binky
cantered
above
it
,
entirely
unnoticed
,
and
performed
a
perfect
four
-
point
landing
on
the
hard
-
packed
sand
outside
the
pyramid
’
s
entrance
.
’
They
’
ve
pickled
another
king
,
’
said
Mort
.
He
examined
the
glass
again
in
the
moonlight
.
It
was
quite
plain
,
not
the
sort
normally
associated
with
royalty
.
That
can
’
t
be
him
,
’
said
Ysabell
.
They
don
’
t
pickle
them
when
they
’
re
still
alive
,
do
they
?
’
’
I
hope
not
,
because
I
read
where
,
before
they
do
the
preserving
,
they
,
um
,
cut
them
open
and
remove
—
’
’
I
don
’
t
want
to
hear
it
—
’
’
—
all
the
soft
bits
,
’
Mort
concluded
lamely
.
’
It
’
s
just
as
well
the
pickling
doesn
’
t
work
,
really
,
just
imagine
having
to
walk
around
with
no
—
’
’
So
it
isn
’
t
the
king
you
’
ve
come
to
take
,
’
said
Ysabell
loudly
.
’
Who
is
it
,
then
?
’
Mort
turned
towards
the
dark
entrance
.
It
wouldn
’
t
be
sealed
until
dawn
,
to
give
time
for
the
dead
king
’
s
soul
to
leave
.
It
looked
deep
and
foreboding
,
hinting
at
purposes
considerably
more
dire
than
,
say
,
keeping
a
razor
blade
nice
and
sharp
.
