Odds and Gods

by Tom Holt

  ‘So that his loathsome godson could take over his powers and get at his money, he reckons.’ Pan leaned down and buffed his nails on the polishing mop. ‘Apparently, the godson’s managed to get him to sign a power of attorney.’

  ‘Sneaky.’

  ‘Very.’ Pan yawned. ‘Anyhow, I’m here just to tell you so you won’t be worried about him. That’s about it, really.’

  ‘Why me, though?’

  Pan shrugged. ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘But he was absolutely clear about it, you were the one I had to tell, so if you wouldn’t mind just signing this receipt, I can be on my way.’

  ‘Oh. Sure. Have you got a pen handy, by the way, because I think I’ve—’

  Just then the door opened, and a small head the colour and shape of an acorn appeared round it.

  ‘You doctor?’ it asked. ‘Doctor of phirosophy?’

  Pan raised an eyebrow. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Minerva say you doctor of phirosophy. Please, you take rook at soul for me? Soul not very good, maybe sick. You maybe give prescliption or something.’

  ‘That’s Confucius,’ Lug whispered. ‘He doesn’t speak very good Eng—’

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ Pan replied. ‘Now then, where does it hurt?’

  The rest of Confucius followed his head into the room. ‘Not hurt at all,’ he replied, bowing from the hips. ‘Maybe not exist at all. Plato he say—’

  ‘Ah,’ Pan replied. ‘I think what you really need is a doctor of theology. Sounds more a theological job to me.’

  ‘So. You know where I find doctor of theology?’

  ‘It just so happens that I’m a doctor of theology. University of Chicopee Falls, Iowa, class of ‘87. Just go next door and take your id off and I’ll be with you in a jiffy.’

  As the door closed behind him, Lug frowned. ‘Do you have to do that?’ he asked. ‘It’s going to be a complete bloody shambles here for weeks now, you realise.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Pan replied. ‘But I’ve got my Hypocritic Oath to think of.’

  ‘You mean Hippocratic.’

  ‘I know what I mean,’ replied the Father of Misunderstandings. ‘Now then, I’ve given you the message. Be sure not to tell anyone. You got that? Anyone at all.’

  Lug blinked. ‘If I’m not to tell anybody, why tell me?’

  Pan got up, brushed himself off and winked. ‘Don’t ask me,’ he replied, ‘I’m only the messenger. Moving in a mysterious way just sort of goes with the territory, don’t you find? Thank you for your time.’

  Force of habit can be a tremendously powerful influence. Between the broom cupboard and the front door. Pan diagnosed three prolapsed souls, five ingrowing personalities (doctor of psychiatry, University of Chicopee Falls, Iowa; buy two, get one free) and a nasty case of entropy of the mind’s eye. He got out of the building about thirty seconds ahead of the security guards and their ten-stone Rottweiler.

  He was strolling back towards the bus stop when he realised that someone was following him. A mortal, female, young and, if you were in the habit of confusing quantity with quality, reasonably attractive. She was wearing a white overall thing and had a watch pinned to her front. He stopped until she’d caught up with him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Are you Pan?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘That’s all right, then. Only you can’t be too careful these days.’

  The girl frowned at him. ‘I’m looking for Mr Osiris,’ she said. ‘Is he staying with you?’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘He heard your voice on a telly commercial just before he left my house without saying where he was going,’ replied the girl. ‘When the commercial came on in the television room back at the Home, I asked around the residents to see if they knew whose the voice was, and they told me it was you. Then when somebody said Pan had just been in the place causing trouble—’

  ‘Bloody cheek!’

  ‘. . . I rushed out after you and here I am. Will you take me to see him?’

  Pan considered for a moment. ‘How do I know you’re on his side?’ he asked.

  ‘If I wasn’t, would I be asking you?’

  ‘But you work at Sunnyvoyde, don’t you? I don’t think he’s particularly keen to go back, you see.’

  The girl smiled ruefully. ‘Not any more I don’t,’ she said. ‘I got sacked for helping him get away.’

  ‘You must be Sandra.’

  The girl nodded. ‘He needs looking after,’ she said. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I think he’s awfully nice, but . . .’

  ‘You think so?’ Pan scowled. ‘Let me give you a word of advice. If you’re holding two pairs, kings and jacks, and he’s sitting there with that befuddled look on his face as if he’s trying to remember which century he’s in, fold immediately. Better still, just play for matchsticks. Provided,’ he added, ‘you have the title deeds to a couple of rainforests tucked away somewhere. I can think of a lot of ways of describing your friend, and awfully nice is definitely on the B team reserve list.’

  Sandra giggled. ‘He’s good at card games, isn’t he? My boyfriend owes him ninety-seven million pounds, at the last count. And he only learned to play recently.’

  ‘Beginner’s luck, huh?’

  ‘He’s told you,’ Sandra went on, ‘what that nasty godson of his is trying to do to him?’

  Pan nodded. ‘Ingenious little sod,’ he said. ‘I forget now who it was thought up the idea of mortals in the first place, but they’ve got a lot to answer for. Present company excepted, of course.’

  ‘You should try doing my job,’ Sandra replied, nettled. ‘Have you ever tried getting lightning stains off formica?’

  ‘Oh, gods aren’t perfect, I know,’ Pan said hastily. ‘But at least we don’t—’

  ‘Or clearing up after they’ve been playing Sardines? I hate to think what it must’ve been like when you lot were running things.’

  Pan sighed. ‘Pretty much like it is now,’ he said, ‘except your lot had someone definite to blame. Sometimes,’ he added, ‘I think that was all we were there for. It worked, too. The race that despises together rises together, I always say.’

  ‘Here’s the bus, look.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Pan, patron deity of all those who couldn’t organise piss-ups in breweries. ‘Somehow I always feel at home on public transport.’

  ‘We have to plan our next move,’ said Osiris, ‘very carefully. ’

  To the gods all things are possible, all things are known. Ask a god what’s the quickest way to the post office and he’ll be absolutely sure to know, even if he’s never set eyes on the town in question. And Pan was a god (he had certificates to prove it; seventy-five dollars each or ninety-nine dollars fifty if you opt for the deluxe parchment-look display version). But how he came to be in a beat-up yellow van with a plump girl, a monolithic driver with spiky hair and an earring and the Son of Nuth, Opener of Ways, remained a mystery to him for ever.

  ‘You can drop me off at the next traffic lights,’ Pan said hopefully. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

  ‘Sorry, I need you to help me with a few things,’ Osiris replied. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘I’d really have loved to help out, but . . .’

  ‘I’ll pay you.’

  There was complete silence except for the sound of an old van with a dicky exhaust going over a pothole.

  ‘Actual money?’

  ‘The currency of your choice.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘How much did you have in mind?’

  And Pan thought, Gosh. I could retire. I could pack it all in and buy a little place somewhere and stay in bed till gone eight o’clock in the morning. No more horrible poxy jobs just to pay the rent. No more Panicograms. No more promotional videos for fallout shelter manufacturers. No more jumping out of cakes at rich depressives’ birthday parties.

  ‘Count me in,’ he said.

  ‘Fine.’ Osiris nodded. ‘As I was saying, we have t
o plan our next move very carefully. Use our heads, that sort of thing.’

  As he said the word, he looked at his companions. There was Carl, Sandra’s boyfriend; six foot nine of mortal muscle, a man only too delighted to use his head if it involved breaking down doors or stunning opponents. There was Sandra herself; female, it had to be admitted, but her heart was in the right place, which was more than he could say for himself. And there was Pan. As for him; well, there are many legends concerning the genesis of the gods, but the version that Osiris gave the most credence to was the one where, on the eighth day, the Creator found Pan at the bottom of his packet of breakfast cereal. Put another way, Pan was the sort of god Mankind probably found it necessary to invent, if only by way of getting its own back. Still . . .

  And there was him. Which made it all sort of all right. In a way.

  ‘Our objective,’ he went on, ‘is to stop my godson Julian getting control of the Universe by having me certified and taking my place by virtue of a power of attorney. Agreed?’

  ‘Can we stop at the next service station?’ Sandra contributed. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have had that last cup of tea before we—’

  ‘In other words,’ Osiris said, ‘we’re up against a lawyer. A really clever, unscrupulous, dishonest, conniving lawyer. Now, who do you think we ought to go to for help?’

  Silence again.

  ‘Anybody got any ideas?’

  Pan shifted in his seat. ‘Let’s get this straight,’ he said. ‘You’re asking us who we think is likely to prove a match for this ultimate legal vulture godson of yours, somebody who can play him at his own game and win?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘If you want my initial reaction,’ Pan replied, ‘might I ask if the expression “a hiding to nothing” is at all familiar to you?’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  For a moment Osiris was bewildered, and looked round the van to see who was the amateur ventriloquist. Then he realised. Carl had said something.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘How about we get a better lawyer?’

  ‘Don’t be so . . .’ Osiris stopped himself from finishing the sentence. To the gods all things are known; except, apparently, the bleeding obvious.

  ‘Good idea,’ he said feebly. ‘Yes, I was wondering who was going to be the first to—’

  ‘’Cos a better lawyer, right, he’d be able to run rings round this other lawyer. Stands to reason.’

  ‘Is there a better lawyer?’ Sandra interrupted. ‘I thought your Julian was the best there is.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Pan blew on the window and started to draw a smily face in the condensation. ‘He’s just another mortal, right? You get an immortal lawyer, and Julian won’t know what hit him. Well, not what hit him first, anyway. I expect the second, third and fourth time he’ll be saying, Hello, godpapa.’

  ‘An immortal lawyer,’ Osiris mused. ‘You know of one, do you?’

  Pan laughed. ‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘Of course, he doesn’t call himself a lawyer, too much self-respect, but to all intents and purposes that’s what he is.’

  ‘Oh.’ Osiris came from a culture whose written language consisted of hieroglyphic picture writing, and so the thought that crossed his mind at this point was little-sketch-of-a-light-bulb-being-switched-on. ‘Oh, him. Yes, that’s very good. I think we’re actually getting somewhere at last.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ Sandra asked.

  Pan grinned. ‘He has many names,’ he said.

  ‘What, you mean like Sanderson, Linklater, Foot and Edwards? Lawyers are funny like that, aren’t they?’

  ‘No,’ Pan replied wearily. ‘I mean, different people know him by a lot of different names, but in fact he’s the same person.’

  ‘The same as who?’

  ‘Himself, of course.’

  ‘He’s the same as himself. I see.’

  Pan gave Sandra a long look, assessing her as a potential apprentice. There was definitely raw natural talent there.

  ‘He’s one bloke,’ he said slowly, ‘but he’s known by different names to different people. Got that?’

  ‘I really would like it if we stopped somewhere soon, because—’

  ‘All right.’

  The van changed lanes and took the next exit, signposted to the Pinfold Gap Service Area. The occupants got out and Sandra sprinted off, leaving Osiris in his wheelchair between Pan and Carl. A few seconds later, a big Japanese four-wheel-drive with tinted windows purred in and parked just behind the van.

  ‘Where are we?’ Osiris asked.

  ‘I dunno,’ Pan replied. ‘Godforsaken place, wherever it is.’ He looked down at the wheelchair. ‘In a manner of speaking, that is. I thought you knew where we were going.’

  Osiris shrugged. ‘Away was the general idea when we started off. Now we know where we’re going, it might be a good idea to get the map out and plan a route.’

  Pan shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘Where we’re going is dead easy to get to, wherever you start from.’

  ‘But you know a short cut, I suppose.’

  ‘Only in my professional capacity,’ Pan replied. ‘I know short cuts to everywhere for business purposes, goes without saying.’

  Osiris nodded. ‘We’ll take a look at the map,’ he said.

  The door of the four-wheel-drive opened slowly, and its driver climbed down and came up behind the three of them, walking with practised stealth. He was holding something dark and shiny down by his side.

  ‘Osiris,’ said Pan quietly. ‘Don’t look round, but I’ve got a feeling . . .’

  ‘Freeze!’

  ‘Thought so.’

  Behind them, Kurt Lundqvist levelled his gun. ‘You in the chair,’ he said, ‘roll forward five paces. You other two, turn slowly round.’

  Pan swallowed. He was, of course, immortal and invulnerable. He also wanted to stay that way, and a good working definition of immortal is someone who hasn’t died yet. He raised his hands.

  ‘Has he got a gun?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Osiris replied in a loud whisper. ‘I haven’t got eyes in the back of my head, you know. I did once, mind,’ he added. ‘That was the day she forgot to put her lenses in.’

  ‘Shut it,’ Lundqvist snapped. ‘You two, hands on your heads. Quickly.’

  They did as they were told.

  ‘Okay.’ Lundqvist took a good look at them over the sights of the Desert Eagle. ‘Now then. Are you two guys doctors?’

  Many years ago, when the world was so young that parts of its rocky skeleton were still soft and flexible, Pan had been to the first of a series of evening classes on Coping With Stress. By the end of the evening he was so tense with frustration and rage that he had to see a physiotherapist, but elements of the recommended procedures still lingered down in the back of the sofa of his mind.

  Relax, he told himself. Make a conscious effort to loosen the muscles of the back, neck and chest. Take a long, slow, deep breath. Smile.

  ‘A doctor of what?’ he asked.

  ‘Medicine,’ Lundqvist replied. ‘And keep your goddamn hands where I can see them, okay?’

  Hang on, Pan said to himself, I know that voice. He turned his head slightly, just enough to get a splendid view down the barrel of the gun.

  ‘Kurt,’ he ventured, ‘is that you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lundqvist admitted. ‘Now answer the question.’

  ‘Not,’ Pan replied, ‘of medicine. Look, Kurt, it’s me, Pan. Stop waving that bloody thing about, will you, because you’re giving me bad vibes, and I can get all of them I want at trade discount.’

  ‘How about him?’ Lundqvist said. ‘He looks like a doctor to me.’

  ‘Well he isn’t,’ Pan snarled. ‘And what would you know, anyway? The only doctors you come across tend to be arriving as you leave.’

  ‘All right,’ Lundqvist said, lowering the hammer and putting the gun reluctantly away. ‘You can put your hands down now, but no . . .’


  Osiris turned round and scowled, giving Lundqvist the impression that he’d just arrived in the next life only to find he’d spent the last sixty years devoutly worshipping the wrong god. ‘Who is this idiot?’ Osiris asked.

  Pan grinned. ‘Meet Kurt Lundqvist,’ he said. ‘He kills people. Well, people is pushing it a bit, I suppose. Things would be nearer the mark.’

  ‘Does he really,’ Osiris said. ‘How interesting. We have a name for that where I come from.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Lundqvist tried a sneer, but his reserves of bravado were down to barrel-bottom level. ‘And where’s that, exactly?’

  Osiris grinned, and pointed.

  ‘Kurt,’ said Pan quickly, ‘I’d like you to meet Osiris. He’s a god. I think it’d be a really good idea if you two could somehow start again from scratch, because—’

  ‘I was hired to kill you,’ Lundqvist said.

  ‘Were you, now? What an interesting life you’ve led so far. Which,’ he added, ‘is probably just as well.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lundqvist nodded. ‘I refused. First time I ever turned down a commission.’

  ‘How extremely sensible of you.’

  ‘And,’ Lundqvist continued, scrabbling about for a few vestigial threads of the initiative, ‘I came to warn you.’

  Osiris raised an eyebrow and looked at Pan, who was staring fixedly at the petrol pumps in an effort to convey the impression that he was somewhere else. ‘Warn me of what?’ Osiris asked.

  ‘There’s two doctors looking for you, to certify you as insane. So, when I saw you with two suspicious-looking characters . . .’

  ‘Wasn’t that thoughtful,’ Pan said quickly, realising as he did so that he was well up in the running for Asinine Remark of the Aeon, burning off ‘peace in our time’ and close on the heels of ‘when I grow up, I want to be a lawyer’. ‘Don’t you think that was a thoughtful thing to do?’

  ‘Very,’ Osiris said. ‘You seem to know this idiot from somewhere.’

  ‘Sure,’ Pan said. ‘We go way back, Kurt and me. Why don’t we all go and have a . . . ?’

  There was a chunky, solid sort of a noise, and Lundqvist slowly toppled forward and fell on his nose. Behind where he had been standing was Sandra, holding a brick.