Tom Holt

by 4 Ye Gods!

  'Right,' he said, 'a Deep pan Seafood Special, extra tuna, a Pepperoni Feast with... Oh.'

  There was an awkward silence, broken only by the tapping of Jupiter's jackhammer fingers on the arm of his throne.

  'Now look, Merc,' he said, not unkindly, 'sure, times are hard, but moonlighting... no. Get rid of it, all right?'

  Mercury nodded passively, and the boxes vanished. Oddly enough, the pizzas did get delivered in the end, but in a totally different dimension and without the garlic bread.

  'Now,' said Jupiter. 'I want you to go to Earth, find Jason, come straight back. Do you think you can remember that, or shall I burn it onto the back of your brain for you?'

  Mercury smiled thinly. 'Thanks,' he said, 'I'll manage.'

  'You sure?' Jupiter asked. 'It'd be no trouble.'

  'Sure,' said Mercury. Paranoia, perhaps; but he had this feeling that Jupiter had never quite forgiven him for trying to get the other gods to form a union. 'I'll be right back,' he said.

  A few minutes later, he was sitting cross-legged on a mountaintop in the Caucasus.

  'Here you are,' he said cheerfully. 'You did say hold the onions, didn't you?'

  Prometheus, his mouth full, nodded. 'How's business?' he asked.

  Mercury shrugged. 'Could be worse,' he said. 'It's not that there isn't a demand; it's the damned overheads. You seen a Hero about here lately?'

  Prometheus frowned and spat out an olive-stone. 'Hero?'

  'Yeah.' Mercury scratched his ear. 'Six nine, maybe six ten, serious muscles, chin like a snowplough, very bad attitude towards large carnivores. Ring any bells?'

  Prometheus thought for a moment, then shook his head. 'Mind you; he said, 'maybe I'm not the person to ask. Try the eagle.'

  'Oh yes,' Mercury said, 'where is the eagle today? Last time I saw it, it was coming out of a Burger King. You not feeding it properly or something?'

  'Something like that; Prometheus said. 'We had a quarrel. I said to it, "Look, just get off my back, okay?" and it took offence.'

  'Sensitive creatures, eagles.'

  'Very. Still, we've made it up since. In fact, we're having lunch again soon. On me.'

  'Glad to hear it. Look,' said Mercury, 'love to stay, got to go. if you see that hero, just give me a shout, right?'

  'Will do.' Prometheus stirred a little. 'Oh, Merc, one last thing.'

  'Yes?'

  'Can I have my book back? Only I've just got to the bit where Perry Mason's noticed the missing cake-tin, and...'

  Mercury, patron god of thieves, grinned apologetically. 'Sorry,' he said, 'force of habit. Cheers.'

  Mercury departed, and Prometheus, having counted, lifted his head and whistled. From a cave in the nearest mountain, the eagle emerged.

  'Sometimes,' it said, 'life can be a real bitch, can't it?'

  Prometheus grinned. 'Forget it,' he said. 'I reckon it's a good sign. We've got them rattled.'

  The eagle raised the area of its head-feathers most closely approximating to the human eyebrow. 'Trouble with rattling gods,' it remarked, 'they tend to get nasty. Might take it out on you. And I've got to watch my diet. The quack keeps saying, eat more green vegetables. Last thing I need is having to stuff myself with kidneys as well as ...'

  Prometheus wiggled his ears reassuringly. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'Quite soon they'll have other things on their minds, believe you me. Anyway, I suppose we'd better let them find him, or else they'll do something to someone else and we can't have that. What did you do with him, by the way?'

  The eagle grinned. 'I left him at Baisbekian's Diner,' it replied, 'eating honey cakes. Shall I fetch him?'

  'Better had,' said Prometheus. 'Oh, and Eagle...'

  The eagle stopped in mid-launch and beat the air with its huge wings for a moment. 'Yes?' it said.

  'Thanks.'

  'Don't mention it; said the Eagle, blushing under its. feathers, and soared away.

  Mercury, meanwhile, had completed a lightning-fast survey of the Caucasus and was starting to worry; so preoccupied was he, in fact, that he flew over the Kislovodsk People's Bank without lifting so much as a kopeck. If he returned to the sun without finding the mortal, he was going to be in trouble; and with his record, that might not be pleasant.

  Just when he had almost given up hope, a blinding flash of blue light caught his eye. He looked down and saw the sunlight sparkling on the Sword of Damn It's On The Tip Of My Tongue, Begins With G. He dived.

  Outside Baisbekian's Diner, Jason was pulling his seventh plate of honey cakes towards him and lifting his fork when he became aware of a very old woman leading a donkey across the town's dusty square. He noticed the glitter of gold* under the hem of her long black skirt, sighed, and put the spoon down. 'Over here,' he called.

  Mercury tied the donkey to a tree and hobbled over. 'These look good; he said, and ate one.

  'I see,' Jason observed. 'You come all the way from the sun to help me eat my dinner. That's service.'

  Mercury scowled. 'Leave it, all right?' he said through a mouthful of baklava. 'Things have been very tense round our way because of you, very tense indeed. Where have you been, anyway?'

  Jason shrugged. 'Here; he said, 'eating. You ask the waiter.

  'But why here?'

  'I was hungry. I fancied eating Caucasian for a change. You can get bored with pizza.'

  *Traditionally,when on Earth the gods adopt mortal guise. Because of the confusion this tends to cause, however, there is a convention that they leave one of their divine attributes visible, to give at least some warning to reasonably perceptive mortals. Thus, if a large woman with an owl on her shoulder runs over your foot with her trolley in the supermarket, it is wise not to say anything you might later regret.

  Mercury gave him a look. 'Fine,' he said. 'You're supposed to be out there mutilating centaurs, but instead you're having lunch. That's great, really.'

  'Right,' Jason replied dangerously, 'glad you approve. Because today I've flown halfway across the world in a freezing cold Hercules air freighter with no buffet facilities, been shot down by surface-to-air missiles but not fed, chased by crack Soviet mountain troops who didn't offer me so much as a KitKat, told my destiny by a witch who had nothing in her larder except dried newts' tongues, attacked by an inedible giant lizard, and flirted with by two allegorical women on diets. I am now having breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. All right?'

  Mercury shrugged. 'All that starch and carbohydrate is doing the most appalling things to your body, you realise. You keep it up, in five years you're going to have arteries like an underground railway.'

  'Suits me.'

  'Great.' Mercury shook his head sadly and liberated another slice of honey cake. 'Meanwhile,' he said, 'there's centaurs out there getting impatient.'

  'Someone should try giving them something-to eat,' Jason replied. 'Then perhaps they'd go away and stop bothering people. And give me back my magic sword before I brain you with it.'

  Mercury sighed. 'Sorry,' he said. 'It's not as if it gives me any pleasure, either. I've got this lock-up garage, right, absolutely stuffed with non-stick frying pans, car radios, synthetic fur coats ... You couldn't give half of it away.' He smiled. 'Anyway,' he said, 'I can see you're busy, so I'll leave you to it. I'll buzz your driver, OK? I expect he's wondering where you've got to.'

  'What I need; Jason said, 'is one of those bleeper things, you know, radio pagers. When you see George, tell him to put some bread rolls in the toolbox.'

  The old woman got up painfully, stretched her stiff back, surreptitiously pocketed a spoon and retrieved her donkey. A few seconds later, a small electric wagon rumbled into the empty village square and the hungry stranger got up, left some money on the table, and climbed into the cart. The village blacksmith paused, a glowing red horseshoe, gripped in his pincers, and turned to his apprentice.

  'You saw that?' he said. 'That's tourism, that is.'

  The apprentice grinned, and the smith chucked the horseshoe into a bucket of water, where it fizzed an
grily. Soon afterwards, the smith had smelted some more ore and was beating out a wrought-iron magazine-rack with 'A Present From Bolshoy Kavkaz' worked into it in flowing Cyrillic characters. Thirty years later, he managed to sell it for two roubles to the manager of the local farmers' cooperative, who needed something to keep his delivery notes in.

  'Jason,' Mrs. Derry said. Sergeant Smith looked up.

  'Here,' he said, 'I know that name from somewhere, don't I?'

  Mrs. Derry looked down at her shoes. 'If it's about the tiger; she said, 'we told the man, we'll pay for a new one. That's no problem...'

  Sergeant Smith gave her a startled look, and then thought better of it. 'Isn't he the one who's out in the Carwardine Islands?' he asked. 'You know, the war hero?'

  'What?' said Mrs. Derry. 'Oh yes, that's right, that's Jason.'

  'Charged a machine-gun nest or something, didn't he? Won the war and all that.'

  'Yes,' sighed Mrs. Derry, 'that's our Jason.'

  'Oh.' Sergeant Smith bit his lip, drawing blood from sheer force of habit. 'I see. Well, actually, Mrs. Derry...'

  'Yes?' she said hopefully. 'He didn't write, you see. He always writes, and I was worried...'

  The sergeant's face became grave. 'Actually, Mrs. Derry; he said, and hesitated. 'Didn't you hear the radio this morning, then?'

  'No. Was there something...'

  'Mrs. Derry; said the sergeant, 'I have to tell you that the plane he was on, coming home like, it sort of strayed over Soviet air space and got -- well, shot down. Sort of.'

  Mrs. Derry said nothing. The sergeant swallowed. How do you tell people?

  'There wasn't anybody killed,' he said, 'like, no bodies or anything. Except, you see, they couldn't find your Jason. I mean, it was definite he was on the 'plane but when the rescue party got there and they called the roll he, well, wasn't there. If you follow me.'

  'Wasn't there?'

  'That's right.'

  'Oh; said Mrs. Derry, 'that's all right then, I expect his Dad fetched him home. You had me going there for a moment, you really did.'

  'His Dad...'

  'That's right,' she said. 'Maybe you should ring the Defence people; she added, 'in case they're worried or anything. Well, thanks ever so much, sorry to have bothered you.' She smiled and turned to go.

  'I...' Sergeant Smith started to say something. It would have been tremendously helpful; about how it's no good lying to yourself, you have to face the fact that he's not coming home, I know, I know it's bloody hard, Mrs. Derry, but sooner or later you'll just have to come to terms with it, we all do, believe me, but that's the only way you're going to be able to pick up the pieces and start again...'

  Mrs. Derry turned back and smiled. 'Was there something?' she said.

  'Mind how you go,' said Sergeant Smith.

  Megathoon, alias Crazy Horse, President of the Larissan Chapter of the Original Thessalian Centaurs, looked up and snarled.

  'And what sort of time do you call ouch?' he said. Then he fell over.

  The other Centaurs looked at each other for a moment then, very sheepishly, they started backing away, taking off their leather jackets and crash helmets as they did so.

  'And where do you think you're going?' Jason said.

  'Who, us?'

  'Yes,' he replied, drawing the Sword of Sounds Like Mice Weary On Or Something and tapping the blade with his fingers. 'You.'

  'We're just innocent bystanders,' said a Centaur, trying to cover his more equine parts with his helmet, 'who - just happened to be passing. Nothing to do with us, honestly.'

  'Oh yes?' said Jason. 'Then how come you've all got the bodies and legs of horses?'

  'Have we?' asked the Centaur. It looked down and feigned amazement. 'Well,' it said at last, 'as soon as I get back to Thessaly I'm going to sue that bloody pharmaceuticals company.'

  'Come off it,' Jason said. 'I know perfectly well you're bloodthirsty, subhuman cannibal mutants, the result of the morbid nuptials of Chaos and Darkness. So the sooner we get started, the sooner I can have something to eat. Ready?'

  'Mutants, yes,' said the Centaur. 'Yes, I think we're all prepared to hold our hands up to that one, you've got us there. But the rest of it, bloodthirsty and cannibalistic, I think that's being a bit extreme, don't you, lads?'

  The other Centaurs grunted -- or whinnied -- their agreement. Jason raised an eyebrow.

  'In fact,' said the Centaur quickly, 'I would say even mutants is a bit of a misnomer, really. More like disabled, I'd say. Like, if you could see your way to regarding these as a sort of rather more convenient substitute for a wheelchair, perhaps we could all understand each other a lot better. You know, raise your consciousness a bit, abandon your deeply-ingrained cultural stereotypes, that sort of thing. In fact, I'd go so far as to say you're being a bit, well, horsist, wouldn't you?'

  'Horsist?'

  'Yes.'

  'I thought,' said Jason, 'he was a Saxon king who invaded Kent.'

  'Hengist,' the Centaur corrected him. 'And Horsa. A Horsist is someone who has this outmoded bias against horses.'

  'Horses I like,' said Jason, 'Centaurs I beat into pulp. Who's next?'

  The Centaur went white under its fur. 'Toss you for it?' he suggested.

  'No,' Jason replied.

  'Best of three?'

  'No.'

  'Would it help if I also pointed out that we are an ethnic minority?'

  'No.'

  The Centaur gulped. 'Look,' he said, 'perhaps if we just talked it over, as between intelligent human... well, subhuman...'

  'Nobody,' said Jason grimly, 'calls me prejudiced and gets away with it.'

  The Centaur swore miserably, drew its sword and charged. The last thought that passed through its mind before it lost consciousness was that the real trouble with Heroes was that they always had to know best.

  At approximately half-past eleven that night, a small electric cart whirred its way up Pool Street, past the Friendship House, past the George and Dragon, past the butcher's, and stopped at the Post Office. A tall man in a golden helmet and battledress jumped out and posted a letter. As he was about to get back in, a policeman came round the corner and stared at him.

  'Bugger me,' said the policeman. 'You again!'

  The man stopped and turned round slowly. His hand tightened on a canvas sack he was carrying, but since it was dark the policeman didn't see that. Instead he strode forward and stood between the tall man and the small electric cart, which he appeared not to have seen.

  'I want a word with you,' said the policeman.

  The tall man frowned. 'Can't it wait?' he said. 'My mum'll be worried and besides, my dinner'll be going cold.'

  'Never mind about your bloody dinner, son,' said the policeman, 'what about my reputation in the force?'

  'What about it?' said the tall man.

  'Look,' said the policeman. 'I don't want none of your lip. You're coming straight down the station and you're going to tell me what you were doing outside the George and Dragon this time five years ago. And don't tell me you were..,

  The policeman's words trailed away into a sort of gibbering murmur which three dots are really quite inadequate to express.

  'You know what this is?' said the tall man.

  'Erg,' replied the policeman.

  'This,' said the tall man, 'is the Sword of ... of... Anyway, if you don't take your hand off my sleeve in five seconds flat, I'll take it off for you. Got that?'

  'Erg; the policeman assured him.

  'Thank you,' said the tall man. 'Now,' he said, 'for your information, five years ago I was still at school, and I didn't hang around pubs at half-eleven at night. Got that?'

  'Erg.'

  'Sure?'

  'Erg.'

  'Good.' He turned and put one foot in the golf cart. 'Oh,' he said, 'by the way.'

  'Erg.'

  'In case you were wondering, I'm a figment -of your imagination. You've either been drinking or working too hard, and you didn't see me. Clear?'

>   'Erg.'

  'Because,' the tall man said, 'I've had just about enough of everything today, with the definite exception of food, and I really can't be bothered with the likes of you, so I suggest you go home and sleep it off. Right?'

  'Ouch!'

  About five minutes later, a small group of youths who had just been thrown out of the George and Dragon for extremely antisocial behaviour happened to trip over a recumbent police sergeant in the middle of Pool Street. Having tripped over him a few more times (for luck) they assisted him to his feet and enquired as to his health. They also stole his radio and his handcuffs, but the labourer is worthy of his hire.

  'Fine,' said the policeman, wiping the blood absently from his chin. 'I'm fine, really. Now you go on home before I...'

  'Wassup, Smithy?' asked one of the youths. 'You been seeing things again or something?'

  The police sergeant shook his head vigorously. 'I ain't seen nothing,' he said. 'I just walked into a lamppost, that's all.'

  Jason Derry opened the front door, waved goodnight to his driver and walked in.

  'Hiya, Mum, Dad; he called, 'I'm home.'

  'That you, Jason?' came his mother's voice from the kitchen.

  'Yes,' Jason replied. 'Anything to eat? I'm starving.'

  'There's some sandwiches,' Mrs. Derry replied. 'Jason.'

  'Yes, Mum?'

  'You haven't ... well, got anything with you? Anything that needs burying, or...'

  Jason quietly opened the door of the cupboard under the stairs and hid the Sword of Glycerion behind the ironing board. 'Course not,' he said.

  The kitchen door opened. 'Your Dad's out,' she said. 'How was the war?'

  'Oh,' said Jason, 'we won.'

  'That's nice, dear.'

  Jason remembered something. 'Sorry I forgot to write,' he said. 'You weren't worried, were you?'

  'Of course not, dear; said Mrs. Derry, looking away. 'Why should I be worried, when your dad ... your other dad, I mean, said he'd keep an eye on you?'

  'Him!' Jason said contemptuously.

  'Jason!' replied his mother. 'How many times have I told you not to speak disrespectfully of your father? You really...'