Downfall of the Gods (8 page)

I nodded. “I’ve come to pay his fines and his debts and get him released.”

The guard rolled his eyes. “This way,” he said.

Archias was sitting on the floor—no comfy stone benches in provincial jails—staring down at his feet. He looked up when the door opened. His face creased as though with pain.

“Oh for God’s sake,” he said.

“Hello.”

Mute anguish filled his eyes. “I thought,” he said, “I honestly thought, after all this time, I’d finally got rid of you.”

“Three days?”

He glowered at me. “You what? It’s been six months. Six happy, happy—”

“How long have you been in here?”

“Five months.”

“How long are you in for?”

“Twenty years. But I didn’t mind. Really, I didn’t mind one bit.”

“What did you do?”

“Huh? Oh, I stole a loaf of bread, because I was penniless and starving. But so what, no big deal. I was free of you, that was all that mattered.”

Twenty years in solitary for stealing a loaf. That’s what right-and-wrong leads to. “Well,” I said, “it’s all right, I’ll have you out of here in no time and then we can carry on with the quest. So that’s all right.”

Oh, the infinite weariness as he rose to his feet. “Don’t be silly,” I said. “You can’t want to stay in here.”

“Can’t I?”

“Don’t be such an ungrateful pig.”

I left him and went to pay his fine—twenty years, for stealing a loaf, or a forty-kreuzer fine; justice. I found the governor. Paying was embarrassing, because the smallest coin I had on me was a one-gulden, and nobody had any change. They had to send a runner to the wine-shop. No, really, I protested, keep the change. The governor looked at me darkly; we aren’t allowed to do that. Then spend it on the welfare of the prisoners. He didn’t even bother to reply to that.

I
GAVE HIM
the sixty kreuzers; he bought new clothes and shoes, provisions, maps, a sword, lots and lots of rope. “Thank you,” he said, rather grudgingly.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ll pay you back, naturally, if we ever get back home.” I laughed. “Forget it,” I said.

“No. I pay my debts. It’s a point of honour.” I smiled at his choice of words. “I wouldn’t bother,” I

said. “It’s not like it was even real money. I just conjured a one-gulden piece out of thin air.”

He froze. “You paid my fine with counterfeit money.”

“Well, I suppose, technically—”

“You stupid—” He gazed at me. “You do realise, the penalty for passing false coin in these parts is death?”

“Don’t make such a fuss,” I said. “Anyway, they’ll never be able to tell the difference.”

He wasn’t listening. He was looking back over his shoulder. Out of the city gate rode a squad of troopers in shiny armour. They kicked up a big cloud of dust, and they were heading straight at us. He looked at me.

“Run,” he said.

W
E SPENT THE
next three nights cowering in ditches. “We can’t explain,” he told me, “or talk our way out of it. Passing false coin is what they call an offence of strict liability. If they can prove you were in possession of a counterfeit coin, you swing. That’s it.”

“Really?” I was shocked. “That’s not justice.”

He shrugged. “It’s the law. And you can see their point. Counterfeit money wrecks economies.”

“But we didn’t do anything wrong. Well, you didn’t.”

“Doesn’t matter. Makes no odds. Strict liability.”

“And you
approve
of that?”

He shrugged. “I believe in the rule of law,” he said.

Presumably he also believed that the gods don’t bind each other in chains. Humans, eh?

T
HE JURISDICTION OF
the loathsome little settlement where we’d committed our dreadful crime ended on the edge of the White Desert. Once we’d set foot on the sand, we were safe.

He looked out over the endless dunes. “How far—?” “A hundred and seventy-two miles.”

When he’d gone shopping, he’d bought four quart water-canteens, guaranteed leak and evaporation proof. Unfortunately, what with all the running away we’d been doing, we’d neglected to fill them with water. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You’ve got me with you, remember?”

He solemnly unslung the canteens from around his neck and threw them away, one by one. “Of course.” he said. “Silly me.”

“Last stage of the journey,” I said encouragingly. “We’ll be there before you know it.”

A change came over Lord Archias when we were in the White Desert. He stopped whining and complaining about every last little thing. In particular, he stopped being so very difficult about accepting help. When he was thirsty, he let me materialise silver jugs of iced water, which he gulped down and thanked me for. Encouraged by this, when we stopped for the evening I conjured up a nice comfy tent, with silk cushions and a dinner table loaded down with his favourite dishes. It gets very cold in the desert at night, so I cast a warming aura round the tent, and he didn’t bat an eyelid. Of course, I couldn’t resist asking him why the change in attitude.

“I’ve given up,” he replied, and helped himself to more cold roast lamb.

“Given up,” I said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He swallowed his mouthful and washed it down with iced jasmine tea. “It means,” he said, “that suddenly you are my shepherd, wherefore shall I lack nothing. You make me lie down in green pastures. Why, I can no longer be bothered to speculate. Any minute now I expect you’ll change your mind or simply forget all about me and go swanning off again, and then I’ll die of heatstroke. So, why not enjoy what’s going while I can?” I was shocked. “What sort of an attitude is that?”

“I think it’s called pragmatism,” he said with his mouth full. “If you mean, why have I stopped fighting for what I believe in and sold out to a corrupt and decadent theocratic regime—” He did a huge shrug. “We’re in a desert,” he said, “with no camels and no water. So I’ve got two choices, sell out or die. I’ve always taken the view that staying alive is a useful prevarication, keeping all options open. And you can’t drink pride.”

“You’re just full of it,” I said.

“Pride?”

“No.”

The journey across the desert was actually rather nice, if you like warm sunshine. Once we got past the dunes it was all very flat, so none of that wretched walking uphill (I was back in a physical body, to catch some rays). I never could see the point of gradients. If I had to be a mortal for any length of time,
down with up
would be my battle-cry. Lord Archias was mercifully quiet, practicing his newly-minted philosophy of unquestioning acceptance. I must confess I spoiled him rather, plenty of nice food and cold drinks and soft cushions to sleep on. He actually put on a bit of weight—he’d got terribly skinny while I was away—and by the time we reached the Something-or-Other oasis which marked the halfway mark, he was in pretty good condition, bright eyes and glossy hair. A bit dispirited, maybe, but that was better than having him yapping all the time.

I had to spoil it by opening my big mouth. “I’m really glad,” I said, as we sat under the shade of a tree at the edge of the oasis, “that you’ve finally realised that I’ve got your best interests at heart.”

“Mphm.”

I offered him a box of dried figs, dusted with icing sugar. He took one. “I have, you know,” I said. “I want you to succeed on this mission, and get your life back, and be happy. And I want you to have gained by the experience, to have learned something from it.”

“Oh, I’ve done that all right.”

“Good.”

He yawned and helped himself to another fig. “Years ago,” he said, “I remember talking to a merchant who’d come to sell my father something or other, and he told me that he’d once been to a faraway land and met someone who told him stories from his religion.”

“In the faraway land?”

“That’s right, yes. Apparently they’ve never heard of you over there.”

I frowned. “Really?”

“It’s a very, very long way away, this merchant told me. He said that out there, they only really believe in the Skyfather, or the Invincible Sun, I forget which. Anyhow, just the one god. Your father, presumably.”

“Ignorance is a terrible thing.”

“It must be, yes. Anyway, there was one story I really liked. In the story, the Skyfather or the Invincible Sun or whatever he’s called holds a party in heaven for all his angels and thrones and cherubim, and one of the guests is the angel in charge of temptation.”

I yawned. “I don’t think I’ve heard this one. Go on.”

“Anyway, the tempter gets talking with Skyfather, and he asks him; do the mortals love and respect you, like they should? Of course, Skyfather says. Fine, says the tempter, so long as you pamper them and give them treats. But suppose you stopped doing that. Suppose you started smiting them instead. I bet you they’d stop loving and respecting you like a shot. I don’t think so, Skyfather said. Really, said the tempter, in that sniffy sort of a way. Really, said Skyfather, and I’ll prove it to you. So he chose his most devoted and faithful worshipper, a man he’d showered with presents and made very rich and contented; and all in one day he took away all his wealth, stripped him of his honours and titles and left him penniless. See, Skyfather said to the tempter, he still believes in me, he still loves and respects me. All right, said the tempter, now let’s see how he’ll react if you really make him suffer. So Skyfather robbed him of his wife and his best friend, and had him thrown into a stinking dungeon. And the man—the merchant did tell me his name but I’ve forgotten—the man started moaning and complaining, my god, my god, why hast thou forsaken me? What did I ever do wrong? Why are you doing this to me? And when Skyfather couldn’t stand his whining any longer, he appeared to him and said, where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? What do you know about anything? You have no idea why I do what I do, so quit griping and adore me. Which the man did; whereupon Skyfather let him out of jail and gave him his money and his titles back, and the official version is that he lived happily ever after. And he never did find out that Skyfather had done all these horrible, cruel things to him because the tempter had made a complete fool out of Skyfather and twisted him round his little finger.” He paused, then added, “At least, I think that’s how the story went. I may have got some of the details wrong.”

I frowned. “It couldn’t have been my father,” I said. “He’s way too sharp to be taken in like that.”

“Ah. That’s all right, then.”

“It just goes to show,” I said. “If people will insist on worshipping weak, gullible gods, they get what they deserve. You’re far better off with our lot. We haven’t got a tempter.”

“Really.”

“Don’t need one,” I said proudly.

I
N THE PRISON
cell, before we started the journey, I’d promised to draw Archias a map. I always keep my word. “This,” I said, pointing, “is the Portals of the Sunset, and here’s the River of Lost Souls and the Bridge of Forgetfulness. And my aunt’s place is right here.”

He looked up at me. “You’re leaving me?”

“Just for a bit. I have some things I need to see to. But it’s perfectly all right, I’ve left a trail of water-jugs and hampers of food that’ll lead you right there. Just carry straight on, you can’t miss it.”

“All right.”

“Now,” I said, “there’s some stuff you’ll need; a lamb, and a sharp knife, and a bowl, and two gold coins. I’ve arranged for someone to meet you at the Bridge and give them to you.”

“Thank you.”

“Now then, look after yourself while I’m gone. Be careful.”

“I don’t need to look after myself,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Just occasionally, mortals can be so sweet. “That’s right, you have.”

“I’ve decided that from now on I’m going to trust my elders and betters,” he said. “It was thinking about that merchant that made my mind up for me—you remember, the one who’d been to the faraway land? He had another story.” He smiled. “Sorry, I don’t want to hold you up. I’ll tell you when you get back.”

“I’ve got plenty of time,” I said. “Tell me the story.”

“Oh, all right then.” He folded the map I’d drawn him and tucked it neatly into the lining of his hat, where it’d be safe. “The merchant told me that in another faraway land, a different one, there lived a great and mighty people. As they grew and prospered, they needed more land for houses and farms. Now in the west of their country there was plenty of good land, but a few savages lived there, sleeping in felt tents and hunting for food with stone arrowheads. So the great and mighty people went out to build houses and stake out farms in the west, and the savages tried to stop them, shooting at them with their flint arrows. The great and mighty people could have killed all the savages very easily, but instead they said to them, Give us your land, and in return we’ll let you have a very small part of it to live in, and we’ll give you food to eat and strong liquor to drink, and in time you can learn to be just like us. So that’s what the savages did, and there they still are, what’s left of them, to this day. They trusted the goodness and compassion of the strong, and it all came out right for them in the end.”

“There you are, then,” I said.

I
HADN
’
T BEEN
entirely honest with Lord Archias. I didn’t slip away because I had business of my own to see to. Instead, I turned into a falcon and flew over the desert to my aunt Feralia’s house.

I suppose Feralia is my favourite aunt, which in real terms means the one who dislikes me least. I think that has a lot to do with the fact that we almost never see each other. But she knows that I’d be prepared to go and see her, if it wasn’t for the fact that she lives in the perpetual darkness and unbearable cold of the Kingdom of the Dead.

Her house has no windows and no doors. The only way in or out is through the walls, thirteen feet thick, solid rock. If you can’t walk through walls, you have no business arriving or leaving there. Inside (as I perceive it) there’s just the one unthinkably vast big room, where Auntie sits on her black throne, with the souls of the dead cowering at her feet. She just sits there, doesn’t even knit or read a book. Wouldn’t suit me. I get bored very easily.