by K. J. Parker
Which is why, when my idiot colleagues start whispering in corners and saying, This isn’t right, I can’t find it in my conscience to refuse to join them, let alone turn them in to the authorities, even though I know perfectly well that their enterprise is doomed to failure and it’ll all end in tears, especially mine. I can’t bring myself to believe in the Plan anymore, because I happen to know, for a fact: there is no plan. Why there isn’t one, I don’t presume to know, and no doubt He has his reasons for not having one. But there is no plan. Here I stand, therefore. I can do no other, God help me.
* * *
There’s never a pig around when you need one, so I slide in through the ear of the nearest camel and wait for him. I don’t have to wait long.
“Listen,” I say. He freezes, fist drawn back. “What?” he says.
I tell him. He stares at me. “That’s impossible.”
“Go and take a look for yourself,” I tell him. “And while you’re at it, get him out of there, if you can possibly do it quietly. And then perhaps you’d come back and tell me what’s going on, because I haven’t got a clue.”
He’s longing to hit me on general principles, but he somehow manages not to. “I don’t trust you,” he growls. “What’re you playing at?”
“Oh, for pity’s sake.”
“All right, I’m going.”
He stumps off. I amuse myself for about ten minutes, filling the camel’s minuscule brain with music—Procopius’s Ninth Symphony, for what it’s worth—and am only mildly disappointed when the stupid creature goes straight to sleep. I look about me. Material culture changes slowly in very hot countries, I’ve noticed; you stick with what works, or you fry. All around me, His chosen people are buying and selling, mostly getting the rough end of the deal. Labor-intensive bulk commodities, which foreign traders can generally get cheaper somewhere else. I wouldn’t want to live here even if you paid me.
He comes out of the palace. He’s acquired, I notice, a black eye. “They won’t let me see him.”
Behold a man talking to a camel. Fortunately, not an uncommon sight in Beal Regard. “They want another bribe.”
“Yeah. Bastards.”
“Have you got any money left?”
“No.”
I turn a handful of gravel into gold. It’s an easy trick to do. He scowls at it, full of disapproval. “That’s black magic,” he says.
“An abomination,” I agree. “Men have sold their souls for less. Considerably less, when I’m doing the negotiating.” Stupid thing to say, and he exercises considerable restraint in not hitting me. “Should be enough for your pal the Vizier, though. If not, there’s plenty more where that came from.”
He takes a scrap of cloth from his sleeve, wraps it round his hand, stoops, and picks up the gold. “I’m only touching this stuff under protest.”
“Noted.”
All this time, it occurs to me, Lofty’s in possession, doing whatever it is he thinks he’s doing. “I’ll need to take this to a goldsmith,” he growls. “Stay there. Don’t go wandering off, or I’ll do you.”
* * *
Which leaves me just enough time for a quick conference with Division. Would that count as wandering off? I ask myself. No, because I know exactly where I’m going, which is hardly wandering.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, peering at me over the rims of his metaphorical spectacles. They’re a complete affectation, of course, since he sees with the inner eye. But he’s handed me the perfect feed line, so I forgive him. To forgive is divine, but nobody’s looking.
“I’m not the only one who’s where he shouldn’t be,” I tell him, and make my report. His metaphorical jaw drops. “Oh nuts,” he says.
“I take it you don’t know about this.”
He gives me a foul look, presumably because I’m there. “No, I do not,” he snaps. “Well, all right, then. There’s an accredited exorcist on-site. Get the little bastard out of there, pronto.”
I pause before answering, to give him time to reflect. “Something tells me,” I say slowly, “that Lofty being in there isn’t just a coincidence.”
“Don’t be stupid. Of course it is.” He’s unconvinced. Worried. “It’s just some idiotic seventh-floor cock-up, the left hand not knowing what the right hand’s doing. Accordingly, the left hand had better pull its finger out, before everything goes to GHQ in a handcart.” He scowls at me. “Make it so,” he says, doing his best to sound like a senior officer.
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so, I see.” He takes off the metaphorical glasses, folds the arms carefully, and puts them on his desk. “Any particular reason?”
“I know Lofty.”
“So do I. Known him for absolutely ever. He was the seraph i/c beatific visions when I was first promoted to field duty, before the—”
“Yes,” I say. “And Lofty’s a good officer. Better,” I acknowledge, though it burns me to do so, “than me, when it comes to getting the job done quickly and efficiently. He doesn’t make mistakes.”
Division grins. “What, never?”
“Well, hardly ever. Not big mistakes, anyhow. If he’s going to possess somebody, first he goes to Area and checks that it’s all okay, particularly for someone high-profile, like a king or a duke. And surely something like this would’ve been flagged up at Area.”
He looks thoughtful. “You’d have thought so,” he concedes, “though I don’t know. They’re the biggest bunch of deadheads unhung, a lot of the time. But, no, you’re right, it’d have rung alarm bells.”
“Also,” I go on, “Lofty isn’t blessed with an infinity of initiative. Or, come to that, imagination. If he simply needed to clock up some possession time to make his quota, he wouldn’t choose a king. Definitely,” I add, “not the Duke of Antecyra.”
“No, I suppose not. So, what are you suggesting? He’s part of the Plan?”
“He’s part of a plan. Not necessarily the one we’re part of.”
Division groans. “Oh, come on,” he says. “That’s going too far. This is all second - archer - on - the - grassy - knoll stuff.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Necessibloodysarily,” he snarls. “You’re positing that there’s another plan. A plan that’s at fucking right angles to our Plan, maybe even designed to screw it up. And where there’s a plan, there’s a planner, so if you’re right—” He shakes his metaphorical head. “I’d really rather not go there, if it’s all the same to you.”
I shrug. “Fine,” I say. “And it’s incredibly brave of you, shouldering the responsibility like this. It makes me glad I’m just a subordinate, following orders. So, what do you want us to do?”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, bless him. In fact, I don’t think he’s ever quite grasped the idea that in our branch of the service, promotion to high office is, let’s say, the mirror image of promotion in our sister branch. “You must be right,” he says sadly. “Screw me sideways to a sunbeam if I know what’s going on, but something is, and we’re not going to be popular if it’s important and we balls it up. Do nothing.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Don’t do anything until I’ve had a chance to go into this properly.”
“Now, just a minute,” I say, involuntarily raising my voice. “I’ve got that lunatic on my back. At the best of times, he doesn’t trust me further than he can spit. If I start making excuses and dragging my feet, he’s going to do things to me.”
“Yes, quite likely he will. Sorry about that. Do nothing,” he says, “until you hear from me. That’s an order. Got it?”
“That’s not fair.”
He gives me a look, one that, on reflection, I deserve. “Oh, grow up,” he says.
* * *
“Oh, it’s you,” says Brother Eusebius as his lips shape the responses in the Call to Intercession. “Was there something?”
I try my best to hover gently in his mind, stayi
ng well clear of exposed nerve endings. “I need some advice,” I say.
He sighs, though not sufficiently to misplace the stresses in the scripture he’s reciting. “I’m not sure that’s allowed.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Fact is, though, I’m not really sure who else to turn to.”
He considers me suspiciously. “Are you trying to get me in trouble?”
“Would I do such a thing? Yes, of course I would. But not this time, I promise.”
Wry grin. “Word of honor?”
“Cross my metaphorical heart and hope to live forever. Something’s going on, and I don’t understand.”
He nods. “Oh, I know that one. It’s called being human. I’m sorry, you were saying.”
I explain. His eyebrows rise.
“I shouldn’t be telling you any of this,” I add. “It’s so hush-hush it’s a wonder it doesn’t bend light. But there it is, and I’m caught up in it, and I don’t know what to do.”
I feel something wet and warm and sticky flowing over me. I’m mildly stunned to realize it’s compassion. “Rather you than me,” says Brother Eusebius. “It’s awkward.”
“You could say that.”
“And this other demon,” he says, “the one that shouldn’t be there. He’s a friend of yours?”
“Matter of semantics.”
“Excuse me?”
“Depends how you define friend.”
“Ah yes. But you know him?”
“Very, very well indeed.”
“Then I suggest you ask him if he knows anything.”
“But if it’s classified, he’s not allowed to tell me.”
Brother Eusebius gives me a mischievous grin. “Try asking nicely.”
* * *
“I told you,” a crazy-looking man says to a camel, “not to wander off.”
“Call of nature,” I reply. “Look, did you get the money?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s get on with it, shall we? Time’s a-wasting.”
His Majesty is mildly surprised to see us—sorry, him—given that the last time they met, the vulgarly overdressed merchant stormed out in a huff because the Duke wouldn’t give in to his extortionate demands regarding tariff concessions. But he is, as always, open for business. My pal starts off with something along the lines of, How would it be if we split the difference? And I go in.
“You again,” snaps Lofty. “I told you. Clear off.”
“Lofty,” I say, “what are you doing here?”
“None of your—”
“Please.”
I’ve been called many things, from the spawn of evil to a man of wealth and taste, and most of the time I really don’t care, because most of the rude names are true and I know who I am, thank you very much. But what Lofty calls me hurts, I don’t mind admitting.
“Don’t be like that,” I say.
“Pervert,” he repeats. “You’re sick in the head. Get away from me.”
“I will,” I say pleasantly, “just as soon as you tell me what’s going on.”
“You aren’t cleared for this level.”
I deploy the P-word.
He writhes. “I hate you,” he says.
“I don’t hate you, Lofty. I like you, I always have. You’re my friend.”
“Stop it.”
“With pleasure. Just as soon as—”
“All right.” He takes a deep metaphorical breath and scowls at me. “I’m here on the direct orders of the top brass. Satisfied?”
“Which top brass?”
Saying the words is like chewing gorse. “Internal Affairs.”
You may have noticed that I’m garrulous by nature, never at a loss for words. I go quiet.
“So,” Lofty goes on, “you can see why, if you don’t clear off out of here this minute, you’re going to be in so much trouble you’ll wish—”
“I already do. Internal Affairs? Are you serious?”
He gives me his weed killer look. “Unlike some people, I don’t regard existence solely as an extended opportunity for making jokes. Yes, I’m serious.”
“You’re making it up.”
I’ve offended him. “I’ve got it in writing.”
He would. Punctilious, I believe the word is. You’ve heard of the devil in the detail? That’s Lofty.
Something occurs to me. “Just a moment,” I say. “I didn’t know we’ve got an Internal Affairs section.”
“Well, we do. And they’ve given me written orders. Now will you go away?”
“Written orders to do what?”
He freezes. “You aren’t cleared to know that. Now, go—”
“Lofty.” I look him straight in the metaphorical eye. “Do you recognize the human mortal I just came from?”
He peers over my metaphorical shoulder. “Oh, good Lord. Him.”
“Yes. You remember me telling you about him? What he likes doing?”
“Vividly.”
Deep breath. “I really hate doing this,” I say, “but unless you tell me what you’re doing in here, I’m going to let him loose on you, with a recommendation that he uses all necessary force.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“And in the dialect they speak where he comes from, necessary doesn’t mean the same thing as it does to you and me. I think it just means ‘lots and lots.’”
He shudders. “You always were an evil little shit.”
“Sticks and stones, Lofty.”
“I don’t care. Let him do his worst. You do realize, if he makes a row and the host realizes what’s going on, we’ll all be in for it.”
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll tell him to be discreet.”
“You can’t—”
“Tell me what you’re doing here.”
But he only shakes his metaphorical head. I feel dreadful about it, I really do, but it’s not my fault. Well, is it?
“Sorry, Lofty. Be back soon.”
My pal is still talking earnestly to the Duke about olive oil futures. “He won’t tell me what’s going on,” I tell him.
“But he’s one of your lot.”
“Yes, we covered all that. But he won’t budge.”
“So?”
“So I need you to ask him.”
“Why don’t I just throw him out?”
“Don’t do that,” I say, perhaps a bit too urgently. “We really do need to know why he’s there. Ask him.”
“If he won’t tell you—”
“Ask him,” I say, “in that special way of yours.”
He sighs. “I don’t enjoy this sort of thing, you know.”
I think he means it, or he believes that he means it. No time to go into that now, of course. “Force yourself,” I say. “For the team.”
“You simply don’t understand,” he says, and off he goes—
Leaving me, though it takes me a moment to realize the significance, in charge of his body, which is locked in negotiation with the Duke of Antecyra about a fictitious consignment of twenty thousand gallons of second-rate red wine. The shock knocks me off-balance for a split second. “Sorry,” I make the body’s voice say, “Could you repeat that?”
The Duke gives me a funny look. “I said, if the autumn rains are late this year, I can’t guarantee delivery on the date you’re insisting on.”
Me, in a human body. Nothing unusual there; but me actually driving the thing, it’s almost like being human. Yes, from time to time in the past, I’ve grabbed the reins and deliberately steered into a ditch, but that’s not the same thing at all. So this is what it’s like. Amazing. Disappointing. “I think we can be flexible about the date,” I hear the voice say.
“But you just said the date was nonnegotiable.”
“I changed my mind. You persuaded me.”
I decide I’m not very good at being human, so it’s a positive relief when he comes back, with a metaphorical face like thunder, and pushes me out of the metaphorical driver’s seat.
“Well?” I ask.
&
nbsp; For a moment he’s too preoccupied with getting the gist of the conversation with the Duke, which has changed rather a lot since he last took part in it. Then he says, “Your friend is an arsehole.”
“I could’ve told you that. What did he say?”
“Wouldn’t say anything.”
“Didn’t you reason with him?”
“Within an inch of his everlasting life. Wouldn’t budge. I had to stop because the host was getting suspicious. You people,” he adds with infinite distaste. “You’re something else.”
“I really need to talk to my superiors,” I say.
“You do what you like. You’re no good anyhow.”
I could’ve told him that too. “Back soon,” I say, and off I go.
* * *
But when I get there, the door is shut. I hammer on it, making a row and drawing attention to myself. Eventually, someone I know slightly comes out and asks, “Why are you making that horrible noise?”
“I need to see him. Right now.”
“He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“How should I know? Finding work for idle hands, quite probably. Talking of which, I’m busy. Come back tomorrow.”
I give him a long, hard look. “I know he’s in there. He’s hiding from me, isn’t he?”
Shrug. “If he chooses to hide from you, that’s his prerogative. He’s the senior officer, after all.”
“This is important.”
He laughs and goes back inside. In the corner of the window above, a curtain quivers slightly. I shake my fist at it and go away.
So I go to see Brother Eusebius, but he’s not available. He’s dead. He died quite peacefully, in the middle of singing the divine office. They’re laying out his body when I get there, and on his face there’s a smile of beatific content. I groan. People can be so inconsiderate.
* * *
“You can’t have hit him hard enough,” I say.
“Of course I hit him hard enough,” a crazy-looking man says to a camel, a different one this time. “I pounded him till my knuckles ached. Made me feel sick to my stomach.”
“Then you’re going to have to hit him some more,” I say firmly. “We have to know what’s going on, and he’s the only one who can tell us.”