by K. J. Parker
He was perfectly capable of doing that. “Can’t. I’m busy.”
My uncle Gyges doesn’t like me very much. “I was hoping you were going to say that.”
“Yes, but I really am genuinely busy. Dad knows all about it. He approves.”
I said the last two words in the shape of a dormouse, around which the talons of a golden eagle suddenly closed inexorably. “At least let me leave a note for the human,” I squeaked, but I don’t suppose he heard me over the rushing of the wind.
DAD WAS SEATED on the Throne of the Sun; always a bad sign. From there, he can look out over every corner of the world, and beyond, to the stars. It gives him a sense of perspective, he says; it reminds him that he really is the epicentre of the universe, master of all he surveys, the single most important entity in existence. I perceive it as a big gold chair, tastelessly overdecorated with prancing lions and anatomically impossible cherubim.
“You’ve done it this time,” he said.
“Come off it,” I said. “I missed a festival. The priests covered for me. It’s all right.”
He shook his head slowly, his beard touching one shoulder, then the other. “Afraid not,” he said. “Really and truly, pumpkin, you’ve gone and made a terrible mess of things.”
He explained. The festival was not, as I and ninety-nine per cent of the humans attending it believed, a bit of a spectacle and a chance to let off steam. It genuinely was an act of renewal—of the fertility of the earth, the balance of the forces of nature, the covenant between gods and mortals. Yes, the priests had faked it for me, so nobody but them knew that disaster was just around the corner; war, famine, pestilence, death. But within seventy-two hours there’d be earthquakes and a tidal wave. A week after that, a disease would start wiping out livestock. Bitter rain would fall, poisoning the rivers and killing the growing crops. The temperature would rise by at least three degrees, and so would sea level. All these disasters would cause panic among the mortals, who’d start blaming each other, giving credence to weird and savage religious cults; there’d be war, leading to floods of refugees crowding into the cities of the plain; more war, more famine, more pestilence and more death. All my fault. All because I couldn’t be bothered to show up.
“But that’s stupid,” I said. “And why the hell did nobody tell me?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Of course not, or else I’d have made damn sure I was there.”
He frowned. “How could you not know?”
“Maybe because nobody saw fit to tell me?”
“Well, we assumed—” He closed his eyes, and sighed. “Wonderful. What is it about this family? Why doesn’t anybody talk to anybody else?”
He didn’t need me to tell him that. “So,” I said. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Me?” He looked genuinely surprised. “Nothing.”
“You’re just going to sit there and let thousands of humans die.”
And I didn’t need to ask. I knew the answer. It would be yes. Yes, because there wasn’t really anything he could do. Theoretically, of course; theoretically, he could restrain the winds, order Thaumastus to hold back the sea, press down the earth’s crust with his foot to stop the fissures opening, reach out his hand and pluck the plague birds out of the sky and lock them in an adamantine cage, blow a mighty breath to scatter the poison clouds—he could do all that, because to the king of the gods all things are possible. But he didn’t have to, because nobody and nothing can make him do anything, and it wasn’t his fault. And, when it comes right down to it, why should he? After all, they’re only mortals. Plenty more, in a couple of dozen generations’ time, where they came from.
“Please?” I said.
I KNEW IT wouldn’t be that easy.
To do him justice, he saw to all the urgent business first, the holding back and the ordering and the stamping and the plucking and the puffing. Only when he’d finished with all that and was sure everything was going to be all right did he turn to me and pull a very sad face.
“Sorry, Pumpkin,” he said.
“Dad—”
“This is going to hurt me,” he said, “ a lot more than it hurts you.”
I got as far as “In that case—”. Then he grabbed me by the ankle, swung me round his head three times and hurled me from the ramparts of heaven.
IT TAKES THREE days to fall. I spent them reflecting on various aspects of ethical theory.
First, I reflected (my ankle hurt where he’d squashed it in his great paw; my ankle is divine substance, therefore in theory impervious to feeling, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. Presumably he wanted it to hurt, so it did), let’s start with the Givens. The prime Given is that Might is Right. Right is, by definition, the will of the strongest, just as among humans the law is by definition the king’s will. Pretty uncontroversial stuff. Nobody in their right mind’s going to argue with that.
Except, I found myself doing so; mostly to pass the time, because three days with nothing to do except fall is boring. Is what the strongest wants necessarily Right? Well, of course it is.
To understand that, consider the meaning of the word Right. Doesn’t take long to figure out that it doesn’t actually mean anything. It’s not like black or left or serrated or strawberry-flavoured; it has no objective meaning. ‘Right’ is just a shorthand way of saying ‘what we think is right’. Because the strongest must always prevail, therefore, their notion of what they think is right must also always prevail. Glad we’d got that settled.
And the alternative; simply doesn’t bear thinking about. The alternative would require the existence of some absolute ideal of Right, supervening and more powerful than the strength of the strongest. Right would confront the strong over some contentious issue, and the strong would back down, tails between legs. Bullshit. Pure fantasy.
No, go back to the true definition of right; what we think is right. The key words are ‘what we think’. Which is why I’d prevailed over my father, by using the magic word ‘Please’. Short for, if it please you. If it pleases you to do what I ask, regardless of the fact that you don’t have to and nobody can make you. Also implied; if it pleases you to do this thing and thereby win my gratitude and good opinion; because, for someone like you who can have any material thing he wants just by snapping his fingers, the only thing left that you might want and not be able to get just by commanding, is the gratitude and good opinion of others. Their love.
Objection, I objected. To the gods, all things are possible, and the strongest prevails even over the strong. If he were to command me to love him, I’d have no choice. But of course he’d know. He’d know I didn’t really love him, it was just magic.
That, of course, is why he’d thrown me off the ramparts of heaven (this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you); and why I really didn’t want to be thrown. Physical injury was out of the question. The true horror of the ultimate divine sanction isn’t mere bodily discomfort. It’s having all the others snigger at you behind their hands for the rest of eternity, the perpetual loss of face, which never goes away and never heals. Shame is the word I’m looking for here. Honour on the one hand, shame on the other. Right is what brings you honour, wrong is what brings you shame. Which is why we bother with mortals—all right, their good opinion isn’t worth a lot, they’re only mortals, but when you’re poor, dirt-poor as the gods when it comes to things of real value (meaning things you want and can’t have for the asking), even the good opinion of mortals counts for something. Like the love of a dog. It’s only a dog, but it still counts for something.
The amusing thing is that mortals don’t understand this. They believe in monolithic, abstract, objective Right and Wrong. Asked to define these terms, sooner or later they’re forced to admit that Right is that which pleases the gods, Wrong is what pisses them off. Even the few mortals who don’t believe in us think that way, except that in their case, right is defined as that which we were taught is pleasing to the gods, back when we believed in
them—the ancient pie-in-the-sky confidence trick, whereby the stronger are kidded into subjugating themselves to the weaker, in consideration of goodies, trinkets and shiny beads once they’re dead. Lord, what fools these mortals be.
So, I thought; why am I doing this? To gain the good opinion of one lousy mortal. What makes him special? He’s met me, he’s seen me in my true form, he’s been granted the ultimate transcendental vision of the Deity, and he doesn’t like me. This makes him special; make that unique (blessed are those who have seen and yet have not believed). Therefore, I am doing this to win the good opinion of one mortal, because it’s precious to me; because I can’t have it.
AND THEN THE GROUND JUMPED OUT AT ME AND HIT ME. IN YEARS TO come they’d call it the Great Asteroid Crater. I climbed out of it, dusted myself off and looked round to see where I was.
Believe it or not, even though I’ve been living on and around Earth for millennia beyond counting, there are still some places I’ve never been. This was one of them. It took me a moment to get my bearings, until I saw the unmistakable profile of the Sugarloaf Mountain far away on the western horizon. That put me about dead centre of the Sparkling Desert, on parts of which rain has never fallen, and where you can fry an egg on a rock. I was about to sprout wings and get the hell out of there when I happened to look down at my feet, and saw a nugget of gold the size of my thumb.
Oh dear, I thought.
It wasn’t the only one. My impact crater had revealed a phenomenally rich seam of gold-bearing quartz; one which, in the normal course of events, would have stayed safely hidden for more or less ever. Now, though—it was only a matter of time before some wretched mortal stumbled across it; another matter of time, probably weeks, before the dreary, lethal desert all around me was covered with shacks, shanties and the headstones of fools. I quickly conjured a freak rainstorm, which turned the crater into a lake, but I knew I was kidding myself. In a few days’ time the murderous heat of my uncle Actis would evaporate the water, leaving the deadly lure once more exposed. Unintended consequences, I thought. Hundreds, probably thousands of dead miners; billions of guldens’ worth of unsupported specie, fuelling inflation, destabilising economies, collapsing markets and ruining lives. Not my fault; I had no control over where I’d landed. Just one of those things.
Or, if you happen to be a true believer; if a god falls to Earth, naturally you’d expect to find something rich and rare at ground zero. Everything the gods do, every trace they leave is wonderful and perfect; pure gold. It’s the greed and folly of men that causes all the trouble.
THIS RELATIVITY-TIME-DISCREPANCY THING is a total bitch. As far as I was concerned, I’d only been away long enough to fly to heaven and fall back down from it; twenty minutes plus three days. In Lord Archias’ timescale, however—
“I’m here to see the prisoner,” I said.
The warder looked at me. “What, 5677341 Archias?” I’d taken the precaution of dressing up as a dropdead-gorgeous honey blonde, a type that seems to appeal to prison guards everywhere. “Yes, if that’s all right.”
“Why?”
“I’m his wife,” I said sweetly.
Stunned silence, of a level of profundity I can’t remember having experienced since the world was very, very young. “You’re kidding. You, married to him?”
I nodded. “I’ve come to pay his fines and his debts and get him released.”
The guard rolled his eyes. “This way,” he said.
Archias was sitting on the floor—no comfy stone benches in provincial jails—staring down at his feet. He looked up when the door opened. His face creased as though with pain.
“Oh for God’s sake,” he said.
“Hello.”
Mute anguish filled his eyes. “I thought,” he said, “I honestly thought, after all this time, I’d finally got rid of you.”
“Three days?”
He glowered at me. “You what? It’s been six months. Six happy, happy—”
“How long have you been in here?”
“Five months.”
“How long are you in for?”
“Twenty years. But I didn’t mind. Really, I didn’t mind one bit.”
“What did you do?”
“Huh? Oh, I stole a loaf of bread, because I was penniless and starving. But so what, no big deal. I was free of you, that was all that mattered.”
Twenty years in solitary for stealing a loaf. That’s what right-and-wrong leads to. “Well,” I said, “it’s all right, I’ll have you out of here in no time and then we can carry on with the quest. So that’s all right.”
Oh, the infinite weariness as he rose to his feet. “Don’t be silly,” I said. “You can’t want to stay in here.”
“Can’t I?”
“Don’t be such an ungrateful pig.”
I left him and went to pay his fine—twenty years, for stealing a loaf, or a forty-kreuzer fine; justice. I found the governor. Paying was embarrassing, because the smallest coin I had on me was a one-gulden, and nobody had any change. They had to send a runner to the wine-shop. No, really, I protested, keep the change. The governor looked at me darkly; we aren’t allowed to do that. Then spend it on the welfare of the prisoners. He didn’t even bother to reply to that.
I GAVE HIM the sixty kreuzers; he bought new clothes and shoes, provisions, maps, a sword, lots and lots of rope. “Thank you,” he said, rather grudgingly.
“You’re welcome.”
“I’ll pay you back, naturally, if we ever get back home.” I laughed. “Forget it,” I said.
“No. I pay my debts. It’s a point of honour.” I smiled at his choice of words. “I wouldn’t bother,” I
said. “It’s not like it was even real money. I just conjured a one-gulden piece out of thin air.”
He froze. “You paid my fine with counterfeit money.”
“Well, I suppose, technically—”
“You stupid—” He gazed at me. “You do realise, the penalty for passing false coin in these parts is death?”
“Don’t make such a fuss,” I said. “Anyway, they’ll never be able to tell the difference.”
He wasn’t listening. He was looking back over his shoulder. Out of the city gate rode a squad of troopers in shiny armour. They kicked up a big cloud of dust, and they were heading straight at us. He looked at me.
“Run,” he said.
WE SPENT THE next three nights cowering in ditches. “We can’t explain,” he told me, “or talk our way out of it. Passing false coin is what they call an offence of strict liability. If they can prove you were in possession of a counterfeit coin, you swing. That’s it.”
“Really?” I was shocked. “That’s not justice.”
He shrugged. “It’s the law. And you can see their point. Counterfeit money wrecks economies.”
“But we didn’t do anything wrong. Well, you didn’t.”
“Doesn’t matter. Makes no odds. Strict liability.”
“And you approve of that?”
He shrugged. “I believe in the rule of law,” he said.
Presumably he also believed that the gods don’t bind each other in chains. Humans, eh?
T HE JURISDICTION OF the loathsome little settlement where we’d committed our dreadful crime ended on the edge of the White Desert. Once we’d set foot on the sand, we were safe.
He looked out over the endless dunes. “How far—?” “A hundred and seventy-two miles.”
When he’d gone shopping, he’d bought four quart water-canteens, guaranteed leak and evaporation proof. Unfortunately, what with all the running away we’d been doing, we’d neglected to fill them with water. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You’ve got me with you, remember?”
He solemnly unslung the canteens from around his neck and threw them away, one by one. “Of course.” he said. “Silly me.”
“Last stage of the journey,” I said encouragingly. “We’ll be there before you know it.”
A change came over Lord Archias when we were in
the White Desert. He stopped whining and complaining about every last little thing. In particular, he stopped being so very difficult about accepting help. When he was thirsty, he let me materialise silver jugs of iced water, which he gulped down and thanked me for. Encouraged by this, when we stopped for the evening I conjured up a nice comfy tent, with silk cushions and a dinner table loaded down with his favourite dishes. It gets very cold in the desert at night, so I cast a warming aura round the tent, and he didn’t bat an eyelid. Of course, I couldn’t resist asking him why the change in attitude.
“I’ve given up,” he replied, and helped himself to more cold roast lamb.
“Given up,” I said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He swallowed his mouthful and washed it down with iced jasmine tea. “It means,” he said, “that suddenly you are my shepherd, wherefore shall I lack nothing. You make me lie down in green pastures. Why, I can no longer be bothered to speculate. Any minute now I expect you’ll change your mind or simply forget all about me and go swanning off again, and then I’ll die of heatstroke. So, why not enjoy what’s going while I can?” I was shocked. “What sort of an attitude is that?”
“I think it’s called pragmatism,” he said with his mouth full. “If you mean, why have I stopped fighting for what I believe in and sold out to a corrupt and decadent theocratic regime—” He did a huge shrug. “We’re in a desert,” he said, “with no camels and no water. So I’ve got two choices, sell out or die. I’ve always taken the view that staying alive is a useful prevarication, keeping all options open. And you can’t drink pride.”
“You’re just full of it,” I said.
“Pride?”
“No.”
The journey across the desert was actually rather nice, if you like warm sunshine. Once we got past the dunes it was all very flat, so none of that wretched walking uphill (I was back in a physical body, to catch some rays). I never could see the point of gradients. If I had to be a mortal for any length of time, down with up would be my battle-cry. Lord Archias was mercifully quiet, practicing his newly-minted philosophy of unquestioning acceptance. I must confess I spoiled him rather, plenty of nice food and cold drinks and soft cushions to sleep on. He actually put on a bit of weight—he’d got terribly skinny while I was away—and by the time we reached the Something-or-Other oasis which marked the halfway mark, he was in pretty good condition, bright eyes and glossy hair. A bit dispirited, maybe, but that was better than having him yapping all the time.