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Teppic by Paul Kidby

Right now I'm reading: Pyramids by Terry Pratchett! (Just so you know, THIS is the picture I wanted to use for this post, but noticed the boobs at the last second so had to find a different one. WOE)

This is actually my favourite Discworld book. It's not a lot of peoples favourites I'm led to believe. Not for any reason, I think, except that it's not particularly spectacular. But it's a nice enough read (even if I have to ask questions sometimes) and my love of ancient Egypt as a child combined to make this one special to me.

My two other favourites, btw, are Small Gods and Reaper Man. Small Gods because I like it's theologicalness, and Reaper Man because Death has to live as a human. It was my first Discworld book, actually, and made me quite the fan. Especially of Death. Part of why I started reading Pyramids now, is because someone was doing one of those Five Facts memes and I asked for Teppic and I liked her answers so much it gave me quite the urge to reread.

Pyramids focuses on Teppic, who has just finished his education as an assassin. Teppic is also the prince of the kingdom of Djelibeybi (it is embarrassing how long it took me to realize that said The Jelly Baby) and circumstances are leading to him having to return home.

Oh, there's also the pyramids with their strange lights shooting up into the sky at night.

A quote from it, to tide you over until I've read more of it and have more to like, actually say. I'm just on page 63 right now:

Teppic examined himself critically. The outfit had cost him his last penny, and was heavy on the black silk. It whispered as he moved. It was pretty good.

He sighed and opened the black box and took out his rings and slipped them on. Another box held a set of knives of Klatchian steel, their blades darkened with lamp black. Various cunning and intricate devices were taken from velvet bags and dropped into pockets. A couple of long-bladed throwing tlingas were slipped into their sheaths inside his boots. A thin silk line and folding grapnel were wound around his waist, over the chain-mail shirt. A blowpipe was attached to its leather thong and dropped down his back under his cloak; Teppic pocketed a slim tin container with an assortment of darts, their tips corked and their stems braille-coded for ease of selection in the dark.

He winced, checked the blade of his rapier and slung the baldric over his right shoulder, to balance the bag of lead slingshot ammunition. As an afterthought he opened his sock drawer and took a pistol crossbow, a flask of oil, a roll of lockpicks and, after some consideration, a punch dagger, a bag of assorted caltraps and a set of brass knuckles.

Teppic picked up his hat and checked its lining for the coil of cheesewire. He placed it on his head at a jaunty angle, took a last satisfied look at himself in the mirror, turned on his heel and, very slowly, fell over.

(this post dedicated to Herongale, who gave me a valentine gift for my reading posts)