Paul Klee Zitronen

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undulated by the fresco of Queen Khaphut accepting Tribute from the Kingdoms of the World.
'Well, yes,' said Teppic, bewildered by the tone. 'He's dead, isn't he?'
'There's that, too,' said Dios, and Teppic realised that he hadn't been referring to something as trivial as the king's current physical condition.
He was lost .
'"Thin eagle, eye, wiggly line, man with a stick, bird sitting down, wiggly line",' he read. Dios winced.
'I believe we must apply ourselves more to the study of modem languages,' he said, recovering a bit. 'His name is Pta-ka-ba. He is king when the Djel Empire extends from the Circle Sea to the Rim Ocean, when almost half the continent pays tribute to us.'in a horrified admiration. It wasn't that Dios was particularly cruel or uncaring, it was simply that death was a mere irritating transition in the eternal business of existence. The fact that people died was just an inconvenience, like them being out when you called. It's a strange world, he thought. It's all busy shadows, and it never changes. And I'm part of it. 'Who's he?' he said, pointing to a particularly big fresco showing a tall man with a hat like a chimney and a beard like a rope riding a chariot over a lot of other, much smaller, people. 'His name is in the cartouche below,' said Dios primly. 'What?' 'The small oval, sire,' said Dios. Teppic peered closely at the dense hieroglyphics