My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Finally! Pratchett gives us the answer to the greatest question humanity has ever asked: who built the pyramids? And why? And how? Ok, that’s three questions…typical Sir Terry.
Teppic has just inherited a kingdom, has just become the Divine Bringer of the Morning, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the—anyway, he now rules over the kingdom of Djelibeybi (lit: child of the River Djel), where women sport names like Mrs Ptaclusp and Ptraci, and sons are named IIa and IIb (took me a while, too).
Oh and pyramids are everything. Everything.
So interfering with the shape, orientation, or paracosmic-measurement-plumbing of the pyramids could lead to the whole world being swallowed up. Apparently, as any camel could tell you, it’s quantum. And it was probably forewarned in ‘squiggle, constipated eagle, wiggly line, hippo’s bottom, squiggle’ if only there was someone alive who could still read the ancient dialects.
So when the new pyramid built for Teppic’s late father, King Teppicymon XXVII, is the biggest and best yet, with ‘various measurements of paracosmic significance built into the very fabric at no extra cost’ the chaos is bound to be, well, big. Bigger even than that half-hearted Plague of Frog we had last century.
This is classic Pratchett, and if you’ve never read any of his works before, you can safely start right here – if you don’t love this one, then Pratchett is not for you (unlikely as that is).