Tom Holt (29 page)

There was a silence you could have filled cracks with by the time he reached the top of the mountain, and Jason could hear nothing but the sound of his own heart pounding. It wasn't a very pleasant sensation, since he could tell that this wasn't just ordinary Let's-get-the-blood-moving-along-chaps pounding; this was the heart demanding to be let
out...

'Hi.'

'Er,' Jason replied. Not the snappiest of answers, perhaps, and maybe Boswell wouldn't have jotted it down if Johnson had said it of a Saturday night down the Cheshire Cheese; but it is worth recording as one of the few replies that he has ever received from a potential victim.

'Nice up here, isn't it?'

'Well...'

'Good view.'

'I...'

'Apparently, you can see Stavropol from here; he said, staring out in entirely the wrong direction. 'On a clear day of course,' he added.

'Er.'

'Stavropol,' he went on, 'is somewhere I've never been actually, but they say you can get a really authentic shish kebab at Jagadai's Cafe, down by the railway arches; I mean, you can really taste the little bits of burnt wool and everything. I forget who told me that.'

'Um'

He turned round, swung his arms and appeared to do deep breathing exercises. 'Lovely air, too; he said, and coughed. 'Sort of crisp.'

Jason squeezed a little of this highly recommended air into his chest, past the rather large blockage that had formed in his windpipe, but all he did with it after all that effort was say 'Um' again.

'Sorry?'

'Nothing.'

'Well,' he said, 'this is nice, isn't it?'

A tiny message wriggled up Jason's spine and clambered into his brain. This guy is scared, it said, and was immediately shushed by millions of nervous brain cells. That, presumably, is why it's known as the nervous system.

'Er,' said he.

They looked at each other.

Just as Jason felt his bowel muscles starting to give up --not, of course, that he knew the meaning of fear; it must have been something he ate -- he made a slight whimpering noise, put both hands over his ears and started to run back down the mountain, as fast as his legs could carry him or maybe just a little faster. One little brain cell inside Jason's head smirked, said
I told you so,
and then wondered why it found it so hard to make friends. Jason, meanwhile, was dashing off down the mountain after him and when he tripped over his flowing black robe and sprawled headlong, Jason wasn't far behind.

'Eeek!' he said and curled himself up into a tight, quivering ball, like a bald hedgehog.

'Come on out of it, you,' Jason replied sternly. It's remarkable what an effect the sight of a cowering enemy can have on one's vocabulary; if someone had asked Jason right then for a word meaning 'Painful emotion caused by impending danger or evil', he'd probably have replied 'Seasickness'.

'No.'

'All right then,' said Jason. 'Suits me.'

The ball uncurled itself quickly, and Jason could see two eye-sockets staring up at him from the recesses of his shroudlike hood.

'Please don't say it,' he said.

Jason blinked, but managed to keep his stern, remorseless expression steady and not giggle. We'll see about that,' he replied. 'Say what, exactly?'

'The Joke,' he replied. 'Whatever you do, please don't say it. Not that I'm saying you wouldn't do it terribly well, but...'

Jason remembered. The Joke, of course; Gelos's joke, the great joke, joke of jokes. So that was what they were all afraid of...

'There was this guy,' he said savagely, 'went into this hardware shop, right, and he said...'

'Eeeeeeeeeeek!'

'Don't panic. It's all right,' Jason said. 'Just kidding about. But you tell your pals down there that next time...'

'Yes. Right.'

'Got that?'

He nodded vigorously. If he'd had a tail, he'd have wagged it, and that would have been Jason's stern, remorseless expression gone for good.

'Fine,' said Jason. 'Now push off.'

He scrambled up, gave Jason a look of pure terror, and then bounced away down the slope and into the serried ranks of Spectral Warriors, who retreated slightly. The eagle, who had been circling overhead, swooped down and pitched on Jason's shoulder.

'Ouch,' Jason said.

The eagle ignored him and put its beak next to his ear. Eagles cannot, of course, whisper, because of the bone structure of their beaks.

'Yes,' Jason said. 'Nice one.'

The eagle spread its wings and launched itself into the air. For his part, Jason straightened his spine, put his shoulders back, and faced the Divine Army, ranged below him in the natural amphitheatre formed by the mountain slopes. He took a deep breath and tried to imagine he was wearing a loud check suit and a red nose.

'Ladies and Gentlemen,' Jason shouted, 'a funny thing happened to me on the way to the Caucasus this evening. I was walking along, minding my own business, when this man...'

He paused and looked down. The Spectral Warriors Forms and gods had all gone, vanished into thin air, and he was alone. Except for the three-headed dog, of course; and the eagle, who floated over and nodded approvingly.

'It's the way you tell them,' it said.

'Look!' said the eagle.

Jason turned round. 'Where?' he said.

'There,' replied the eagle. Since eagles cannot talk, it naturally follows that they cannot have voices that are resonant with awe and reverence. So it must have been Jason's imagination.

'I can't see anything,' Jason said. 'Are you sure you're...'

'There, you cretin,' said the eagle. 'Oh, blow you.' It spread its wings and floated off on a gust of warm air that had no meteorological foundation whatsoever. Jason stared hard but couldn't make out anything. It was getting late and cold and he couldn't really see that he was needed here any more; and he was beginning to feel peckish. He thought of Baisbekian's Diner.

Then the mountain behind him cleared its throat.

Readers are asked to pay close attention to what follows, as the author cannot be held responsible for any sensations of disorientation or confusion which may result from careless reading practices.

'Jason; said the mountain, 'are you busy for a moment?' Jason thought hard. No, he decided, mountains can't talk, and neither can eagles, for that matter, let alone three-headed dogs. In a world such as this, there is much to be said for staying in bed with your head under the pillows.

'Hello?' he ventured.

'Yes, hello to you too; said the mountain. 'Are you busy for a moment?'

'That depends,' Jason replied.

'On what?'

'On what you had in mind,' Jason said. 'And if you're a mountain, will you please stop talking to me, because I only have a very tenuous grip on reality at the best of times, and...'

'I'm not a mountain.'

'It's all very well you saying that,' Jason said, 'but how can I be sure? You look pretty much like a mountain to me.'

'What you're looking at is indeed a mountain,' said the mountain. 'I happen to be behind the mountain. Does this clarify matters for you?'

'Not really,' Jason replied. 'Who are you?'

'Prometheus.'

Little wheels went round in Jason's mind, and the result was three oranges and a Hold. 'Oh,' he said, 'yes. Right. Where exactly are you, then?'

'Behind the bloody mountain, like I just said.'

'Fine,' said Jason. 'Give me ...' He made a quick estimate. 'Give me half an hour and I'll be with you.'

In fact, it took him just under twenty minutes to get within sight of the Titan, thanks to a short-cut through a narrow ravine, which fortunately didn't say anything to him as he clambered through it.

'What kept you?'

'Look.' Jason had turned his ankle in the ravine and accordingly he wasn't feeling at his most lovable. 'Would you mind just explaining...?'

'The chains,' said Prometheus.

'Yes; Jason replied. 'Aren't they?'

'Aren't they what?'

'Chains.'

Prometheus raised his head, uprooting a large tree, and looked at him. 'Just cut them, will you?'

In the back of his mind -- the only part still capable of function - the right question drifted to the surface and bobbed uncertainly.

'Why?' Jason asked.

'What do you mean, why?' Prometheus said. 'Because they're stopping me from moving, that's why. Get on with it, please.'

'But,' Jason said, 'what I mean is, why should I? I tried to go into all this before, but things kept happening and I never came to a satisfactory conclusion. Look, will someone please give me some idea of what's happening, because otherwise I'm going on strike.'

As it happens, there have been occasional strikes by Heroes, the most notable being the Withdrawal of the Labours of Hercules; however, they rarely last long and never achieve anything, perhaps because all Heroism is intrinsically unnecessary. When Hercules fell out with Jupiter following
a
breakdown of negotiations over unsocial hours payments, for example, Jupiter replied by drafting in contingents of Forms who were able to do Hercules's feats in half the time and without terrorising supernatural wildlife or stopping every twenty minutes to beget children. On the other hand, it is felt that Heroes marching up and down outside temples with placards looks bad, and in any event the demands of the average Hero are so modest that it would be mean minded not to agree to them.*

'You can't; Prometheus said, however. 'The schedule's too tight.'

'What schedule?'

'Just cut the chains,' Prometheus replied. 'Come
on,
will you?'

'Oh for crying out...' Jason hefted the Sword of That's A Silly Name For A Sword, Anyway, whirled it round his head, and sliced through the nearest chain. The shock of the metal biting into the adamant jarred every bone in his body. The chain fell in two.

'Ouch!'

'And the next one.'

'All right, keep your hair on.'

*It is a little-known fact that all Heroes really want out of life is power, glory, victory, wine, sex, money, respect, adventure and chocolate, not necessarily in that order. The celebrated Beilerophon, who tamed the winged horse Pegasus and killed the murderous, death-dealing Chimera, wanted jam on it as well; but so what, jam's cheap.

'It's not my hair I'm concerned about.'

'If I cut through the next chain, will you tell me what's going on?'

'If you don't cut through the next chain, I won't tell you what's going on.'

'Ouch.'

'Two down, two to go.'

'Look...'

'You'll find it over there, at the top of that mountain. It won't take you a quarter of an hour if you run.'

'But...'

'I see; Jupiter said.

Big chief speak with forked tongue. It was obvious, to Mars at least, that Jupiter didn't see, one little bit. Whether in the long run it would be worth making one last effort to enlighten him was something that Mars (who, unlike Apollo, is not a prophetic deity) could only guess at. He guessed safe.

'All those Forms,' Jupiter continued, 'all those Spectral Warriors, all that overtime, and you ran away. Because,' said the Thunderer, his eyebrows coming together, 'one mortal offered -- I'm sorry, threatened -- to tell you a joke.'

'Well,' said Mars, 'yes.'

'A joke.'

'Exactly.'

Jupiter stroked his beard, and the static electricity thereby generated would have removed the need for nuclear power in the industrialised nations for a century. 'Don't you think you might have been a trifle over-cautious, all things considered? Played it just a little too safe?'

Mars straightened his back and shook his head. 'No; he said. 'Definitely not.'

Jupiter raised an eyebrow. Nobody ever said
Definitely to
him unless they were absolutely convinced of something or else had a great desire to be a frog. 'Perhaps,' he said, 'we ought to have a board meeting.'

Mars, feeling like a turkey on Christmas Eve who hears that everyone has been converted to Jainism overnight, nodded and hurried out of the Presence.

He found Minerva in the sun-lounge, lying on the sofa with her shoes off reading
Harpers & Goddess.
She looked at him over her spectacles.

'Well?' she said. 'Where's the fire?'

'Board meeting,' Mars replied. 'In ten minutes in the Great Hall.'

'Board meeting?' Minerva swung her legs to the floor and put heel to slingback. 'What's happening, Ma?' she said. 'There hasn't been a board meeting for eleven hundred years. He's not on about privatisation again, is he, because I went through the figures and...'

Mars frowned. He had thought it strange that Minerva had been lying around reading at a time like this anyway. 'It's the Prometheus situation; he said, 'what do you think? Look, I've got to dash. Ask someone else, all right?'