by K. J. Parker
“But he can’t. It’s—it’s wrong.”
“Define wrong. I was always brought up to believe it
means contrary to the will of the gods. Therefore—” “It’s wrong,” he repeated. “It’s one of the things we don’t do. You know that.”
I widened the smile. Not for nothing was I appointed Goddess of Charm in the last reshuffle. “Yes, but it’s not us doing it, is it? That’s the point.”
“Oh come on,” he whined, “that’s just sophistry. No way he can do it without your help. Or mine. Therefore, to all intents and purposes—”
“Pol,” I said. “Please. Pretty please.”
He winced as though I’d slapped his face. “It’s a bit extreme, isn’t it? All this, for some mortal.”
“It’s not for him,” I said, a bit too quickly. “It’s about ethics. Morality. It’s about the meaning of restitution.
We have a duty to teach mortals how to behave.” He gave me his sad look. “What are you up to?” he said. “For crying out loud, I’m not up to anything. Why does everyone always assume I’m up to something?
Believe it or not, my entire life isn’t spent in devising malign schemes of impenetrable complexity.”
“True. From time to time you sleep.”
“Shut up, Pol. And you’re going to help me. Father says so.”
He raised his hands as though in silent prayer. “I give up,” he said. “This family is impossible. Just don’t blame me if it all ends in disaster.”
“Pol,” I said, “don’t be silly. What could possibly go wrong?”
LORD ARCHIAS WAS shocked. “You’re joking.”
“No.”
He tried to back away, but he was up against the cell
wall already. “It’s impossible. You can’t do that.” “To the gods—”
He shook his head. “Not that,” he said. “It’s specifically excluded, everyone knows that. To the gods all things are possible, but they can’t raise the dead. It’s— it’s fundamental.”
I sighed. “You poor dear,” I said. “You obviously don’t know the first thing about what we can and can’t do. We’re the gods, we can do anything.”
“Including—?”
I nodded. “We choose not to,” I said, “most of the time. But we have the discretion. Besides,” I added, “we’re not going to. You are.”
He gave me a look of pure distilled revulsion. “I can’t.” “With a little help,” I said. “Or maybe you don’t want to. Maybe you aren’t sincerely remorseful after all. In which case—”
“That’s not the point.”
I grinned. The words had come out all in a rush. He was afraid. I’d beaten him. “If you sincerely regret killing Lysippus the musician, you must want him to be alive again.”
“I do.”
“Fine. Then prove it. Go to the Kingdom of the Dead and bring him back.”
Directly behind his head was that wonderful view of the city and the mountains. I looked past them, across the Middle Sea, through the dense forests of the Mesoge, over the White Desert to the Holy Mountain, and met Father’s eye. I hope you know what you’re doing, I lip-read.
“There’s no such place,” he said. “There is no Kingdom of the Dead, it’s a human myth.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Is it really.”
“Yes. Logically, it must be.”
“Do explain.”
He looked up at me angrily. “The dead don’t come back,” he said. “Therefore, all and any accounts of the Kingdom of the Dead circulating among mortals can’t be based on eyewitness testimony. But the traditional accounts are full of lurid and picaresque detail. They must therefore be lies. Therefore there is no Kingdom of the Dead. Logic.”
“Mphm. It exists. I’ve been there. It’s run by my aunt. She’s not the nicest person ever, but compared to the rest of my relatives she’s not too bad. And you can take your logic and shove it.”
He breathed out slowly. “This is ridiculous,” he said.
He was getting on my nerves. “Do you have to make a fuss about every damn thing?”
He raised his hands in surrender. “There is a Kingdom of the Dead,” he said, “because you say so. If I don’t go there, I die and suffer eternal torment. The way I see it, I’ve got as much choice as a nail.” He looked up at me. “Well?”
“I think you’ve got the gist of it.”
He nodded. “That’s mortals for you,” he said. “We can be trained to perform simple tasks.”
I ADMIRED HIM for that remark, though probably I read too much into it. But consider the relationship between gods and men as roughly analogous to that between the man and his dog. The virtues the man ordains for his dog—unquestioning obedience, biting intruders, peeing outdoors, fetching sticks—aren’t the qualities that you look for in a good human; they’re dog virtues. The dog feels moral outrage because it brings back the stick, and then the man throws it away again; idiotic, irrational behaviour. but the man throws the stick to exercise the dog and keep it healthy; and the dog, of course, will never be able to understand all that, because it’s just a dog. The dog shouldn’t presume to pass judgement on the purpose or the merit of the simple tasks it’s trained to perform. from down there, they pass all understanding. from up here; well, it’s just a dog. it’s not like it’s a person.
“FIRST,” I SAID, “we’ll have to clear up this mess you’ve got yourself into.”
I made it sound easy. Actually, it wasn’t as straightforward as all that. To put Lord Archias back in the fortunate circumstances he enjoyed before he committed the murder I could reverse time, but then I’d have to edit and redact three months of history, every connection, every consequence: I can do that, but it’s awkward, fiddly work, involving co-operation with other members of my family. I chose a simpler approach.
The cell door blew open and crashed against the wall. a jailer ran up, sword drawn. “it’s all right,” I told him, and smiled. he backed away, looking foolish, and apologised. I led Archias down the long spiral staircase, with guards and warders skipping out of our way as we went. the porter on the main gate was delighted to shoot back the bolts and let us through. we walked briskly up horsefair to the council chamber, where the sentries let us pass without a murmur. as luck would have it the council was in session. we walked in; I cleared my throat. they all stopped talking. I explained that although Lord Archias was guilty as charged of the murder of Count Lysippus, it’d be nice if they pardoned him and restored all his properties, titles and privileges, effective immediately. they were only too happy to agree; carried unanimously.
“YOU CAN BUY me lunch,” I said. “As a thank-you.” I chose a wine-shop I like in the Arches. They do the most delicious sea bass.
“Why use raw power,” I explained, “when you can get the job done so much more easily with charm? Like pigs. You can drag the pig into the cart with a rope round its neck, because you’re stronger. Or you can put a few cabbage-stalks on the tailgate, and he’ll happily go in of his own accord.”
He looked at me over his wine-glass. “But you could drag him,” he said. “You just choose not to.”
“For convenience,” I said. “To the gods all things are possible, but some things are easier than others. Did I mention, I’m the Goddess of Charm?”
“Really.”
“Among other things. It’s significant that charm has two meanings. It really is a kind of magic.”
Archias nodded. “A man sits in the market square,” he said. “He’s got a sign up, Magic Performed Here. Someone stops and asks him, what kind of magic? Well, says the magician, pay me two gold coins, I’ll use a magic talisman to make a perfect stranger do exactly what I tell him to. So the magician leads his customer into a baker’s shop, and he hands the shopkeeper a penny and says, Give me a loaf of bread.” He shrugged. “That kind of magic.”
“Yes.”
“Ah. Are we going to charm the Queen of the Dead into letting Lysippus go?”
“You can try.”
>
“I don’t do charm.”
Not strictly true, though I suspect he didn’t realise that was what he was doing. “You’ll think of something, I’m sure,” I said. “A resourceful man like you.”
He sighed. “All right,” he said. “If the Kingdom of the Dead is an actual place, where is it?”
“Beyond the Portals of the Sunset,” I said, “on the far edge of the Great White Desert, at the place where the River of Lost Souls passes under the Bridge of Forgetfulness.” He gave me a blank look. “I’ll draw you a map.”
“Which country is it in? Can we ride there, or do we need a ship? Are we at war with the people whose land we have to cross? Can I drink the water? Do I have to get a visa?”
I told him where we were going. Forgive me if I leave out the specifics; classified. “At this time of year? I’ll freeze.”
“Actually, the White Desert is the hottest place on Earth.”
He’d gone pale. “This is going to be a logistical nightmare,” he said. “We’ll need wagons, mules, drivers, porters, a large armed escort—”
I shook my head. “You can’t take anyone else with you,” I said. “Not other mortals, anyway.”
“Why the hell not?”
“They’re not the ones who need to redeem themselves. Only you.”
“For pity’s sake, woman.” He realised what he’d said and glanced at me. I shrugged. “For pity’s sake,” he repeated. “In order to cross mountains, forests and deserts I’m going to need food and water, far more than I can carry. And a tent, and climbing gear, and an axe for firewood, and money, and weapons. Or are you going to magic all that out of thin air whenever I need it?”
“In your dreams,” I said. “This is a penance, not a holiday.”
“Why do I get the feeling you haven’t thought this through? I’ll need changes of clothing, spare boots, rope, accurate and detailed maps, a portable stove and cooking gear. Don’t just shake your head like that, I’m human. I need things.”
“No,” I said. “You just think you do. All you actually need is for me to forgive you your terrible sin, because if I don’t you’re going to die. Everything else is just would-be-nice.”
SOME PEOPLE JUST won’t listen. The rest of the day was incredibly dull. We had to go to see his bankers, so he could draw out money. Then we had a dreary trudge round the city while he tried on about ninety pairs of boots, ditto travelling cloaks, hats, thornproof leggings, ultra-lightweight oilskin trousers, whatever. The only points of interest for me were the gadgets he insisted on looking at; folding knives with six different blades and a spoon, collapsible tents that doubled as stoves and dog-sleighs, hats with button-down compartments for fish-hooks, flints and tinder. The ingenuity of it all; the idea that mortals can to some degree compensate for their lack of strength and endurance by the judicious use of things. Buy this hat or that four-in-one shovel/waterflask/boar-spear/walking-stick and you can hike your way up the pyramid of hierarchies until you’re practically a god. Poor darlings. If only it were possible.
He kept it to the bare minimum (so he said) but by nightfall he was struggling along under a hundred and twenty pounds dead weight, and with every step he took he clanked like a dozen buckets. “Satisfied?” I asked him.
“No.”
“You should be. You’ve redistributed a considerable amount of wealth and provided for the families of hardworking artisans. And when you get sick of lugging all that junk around and dump it by the roadside, I expect the poor villagers who find it will be able to sell it for good money.”
He stopped, and leaned against a wall. “Clarify something for me, please.”
“Sure.”
“If I die while trying to carry out this idiotic quest, will I escape eternal damnation?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. For crying out loud—”
“I hadn’t considered the point,” I said. “I mean, it’s hard to me to understand. I was sort of assuming that of course you’d make it there, because for me it’s a twominute stroll. But you mortals are so frail, you drop dead from the silliest things.”
He was breathing hard through his nose. “Consider it now.”
“Don’t rush me,” I said. “There are arguments on both sides. How dare you try and bounce me into making up my mind?”
He groaned, and shifted the weight of his Feather-Lite combination rucksack/tent/parasol/coracle. “When you decide,” he said, “please tell me. I’d like to know if I’ve got the option of just giving up and dying.”
“Sissy,” I said.
THERE ARE SEVERAL different ways for members of my family to take on human form. We can weave a cloud of illusion—mortals look at us and see what we want them to—or we can create and inhabit an actual physical body. I tend to favour the latter. I’ve always loved dressing up, ever since I was a little girl, and besides, if you want to understand a man, I always say, you need to walk a mile on his feet. I take pains to equip myself with bodies that are fit, strong and healthy as well as radiantly beautiful. The body I’d selected for this job was about as close to functional perfection as human flesh and blood can get. Height-to-weight ratio, metabolic rate and lung capacity were optimal, the muscles and tendons perfectly tuned and supple, and I’d fuelled it with the full recommended daily intake of vitamins, proteins and carbohydrates. But next day, after nine hours or so of walking—
“Keep up, can’t you?”
“I’ve got a stone in my shoe,” I lied.
“You’re dawdling.”
“I’ve got shorter legs than you.”
“So make them longer.”
I’d toyed with the idea, but I was pretty sure he’d notice. So, when he was looking the other way, I dispensed with the flesh and blood, resumed my usual form and clothed it in an illusion of what I’d been looking like all day. Much better. I could float along beside him comfortably without getting splints in my shins. “You’ve changed,” he said suspiciously. “There’s something different about you.”
“I’ve done my hair. How much further is it?” “Not long now.”
“Let me see the map.”
Boring. A waste of time. They have so little time, yet
they don’t seem concerned about frittering it away on repetitive activities such as walking. If I had to move at their pace I’d die of frustration.
“You’ve got the map upside down,” he said. “Makes no difference. I can read non-relativistically.” He pulled a sad face. “I don’t need a fixed viewpoint,” I explained.
“But you do need a map.”
“I’m trying to enter into the spirit of things.”
“Admit it,” he said. “You’re tired.”
Well, it was very perceptive of him. “Yes,” I said. “My mortal body can’t keep up with me.”
“Fine.” He took off his cloak and spread it on the grass. “Have a rest.”
“No, thank you.”
“Have a rest,” he repeated. “Look, we’ll cover far more ground if we rest for half an hour and then proceed for three hours at three miles an hour than if we drag on at two and a bit for three and a half hours. Simple mathematics.”
I sat down. It felt wonderful. “You’re not tired,” I said.
“No. I’m used to walking.”
I thought for a moment. “You could’ve insisted we carry on, thereby causing me pain and humiliation. But you didn’t. Why?”
He shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been a nice thing to do.”
“But politically, in the power-struggle between us, you’d have scored points. You’d have allowed me to make a fool of myself, thereby securing a slight edge.”
He gave me a curious look. “I don’t think in those terms. Do you?”
“Always.”
He gathered some dry sticks, lit a fire, boiled some water and made jasmine tea. My feet were killing me— my real ones. As I said, I’d got rid of the flesh-and-blood ones earlier; but the ache somehow lingered, just as humans claim the
y feel pain in long-since-amputated limbs. I pulled off the illusion of boots and wriggled my toes till the feeling started to come back.
He was looking at me. “What?” I said.
“Nothing.”
He was lying. “What?” I repeated.
“When you’re ready,” he said, “we’d better get going. We’ve still got a long way to go.”
I shrugged, and suffused my entire being with strength and vigour. “Fine,” I said. “I was just giving you a chance to rest.”
Up in the sky, my uncle Actis was about four-fifths through the daily grind. I hoped he hadn’t seen me, but when I looked closely, he winked and waved. Clown.
“You shouldn’t do that.”
“What?”
“Stare straight into the sun. You’ll hurt your eyes.”
“Sweet of you to be concerned,” I said.
The collar of the illusion of a coat was chafing the back of my neck—yes, all my imagination, but a chafing sensation is none the less uncomfortable when it’s all in your head—so I peeled it off. He screamed, and dropped to his knees.
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.” I created the illusion of a longsleeved blouse.
“You stupid bloody woman,” he was shrieking. “I’m blind. I can’t see.”
“Careless of me,” I said, restoring his sight. “It’s all right. No harm done.”
He opened his eyes, rubbed them and groaned. “You just don’t get it, do you? You’re like a giant in a playground. You never look where you’re putting your feet.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
He was massaging his forehead. “Headache?”
“Yes. No, don’t do anything,” he snapped, “just leave me alone, all right?”
“Now you’re being childish.”
“This is hopeless,” he said. He struggled to his feet, then sat down on the ground. “No offence,” he said, “but how would it be if we split up and I met you at wherever this place is we’re going?”
“Don’t be stupid. You’ll never get there on your own.” “I can try.”
“You’ll die,” I told him. “And if you die before you’ve fulfilled your penance, you’ll suffer eternal torment. Probably,” I added. “At any rate, it’s not worth the risk.”