It was a testament to how hungry they were that none of them questioned her too closely. They were most likely worried that it was a trap – it wasn’t uncommon for street kids to be kidnapped and sold into slavery – but they couldn’t afford to refuse. What if her offer was genuine? Having enough food to eat each day was a dream, but having enough to last them for a while was a miracle – one she’d be happy to provide.
The group trailed after her until they reached one of the larger roads running through the area. She knew, courtesy of her divine powers, that a wagon carrying bread and other food was about to pass by en route to the house of a wealthy nobleman whose servants were more eager to save time than to do the sensible thing and go around this part of the city instead of through it. The nobleman in question already ate enough to feed three people. He certainly didn’t need more food, and he should actually thank her for taking the food off his hands before he could stuff it into his belly and eat himself to death.
“May I borrow your rat?” Mischief asked one of the street kids.
“My rat?” The street kid, Sara, clutched the little animal closer to her chest. Mischief had learned from the others that Sara had spent weeks taming the rodent, which had lived near one of the group’s hiding places. It was now one of her best friends, and Mischief had also been told that Sara had already endangered herself several times to protect it. “What are you going to do with him?”
Sensing Sara’s unease, one of the older children moved to stand between her and Mischief. The goddess bit back a smile. They were almost a family, these street kids. Helping them wasn’t necessary, but it would be fun. She might even drop in on them now and then. Several of them had some marvellous potential as pickpockets, impersonators, and the like.
“I promise I won’t hurt him,” Mischief said. “And if you let me borrow him for a second, you’ll get him back – and enough food to last you a week if you’re careful.” Sara bit her lip and then handed her rat over. The little critter could always find enough food to survive, no matter how dire things became. The same could not be said of her and the others. “Okay, all of you need to be ready to run. You’ll understand why in a second. Grab as much as you can and then run for it. Do not take more than you can carry. Understand?” Normal children would have baulked at following a little girl’s orders, but the streets had a way of hardening the young. Any kid who’d managed to survive on her own – the way she appeared to have – was either extremely lucky or extremely cunning. “Be ready. We’re going to move any second now.”
Precisely ten seconds later, the wagon laden with food trundled past. Mischief threw the rat at the driver. The effect was instantaneous and impressive. The driver shrieked, and the wagon veered sharply to one side. One of its wheels caught in the gutter, and the driver’s shriek turned into a foul-mouthed curse as bread and other food spilled out of the wagon. Mischief didn’t have to signal. The street kids raced forward and grabbed what they could before sprinting for the safety of the back alleys. Mischief saw Sara hesitating as she looked around for her rat, so she scooped the animal up off the ground and gestured for Sara to run. The last thing she wanted was for the girl to get caught. Sara would be beaten or worse.
A short time later, hidden in one of their hideouts, the group stopped to catch their breath and examine the spoils of her little prank. Easy laughter soon broke out, and there were smiles all around. They’d gotten enough to fill their bellies and last them a week if they rationed the food wisely and took care of it. For a group like this, it was like a blessing straight from the gods. Of course, in a way, it was.
“That was great,” Jared said, walking over to sit beside Mischief. He was the second-oldest member of the group, but he was considered the group’s leader and protector. Mischief had a feeling that he hadn’t started his life on the streets. He didn’t have the same accent as the other street kids, and he carried himself differently. It was possible he’d ended up on the streets after his family had come to financial ruin or some other disaster. It made her a bit sad. Mortals could lose their lot in life through no fault of their own. A bit of bad luck was often more than enough to crush their hopes and dreams.
“I have my moments.” Mischief handed the rat back to Sara, and the little girl gave her a sunny smile. Mischief smiled back and handed Sara one of the sweet buns she’d swiped. “Are you going to the festival?”
“Are you kidding?” one of the others muttered. The other kids called him Patches because of the heavily patched cloak he wore everywhere. He was Jared’s best friend, and his light touch and ability to disappear made him a talented pickpocket. He helped the group by selling or trading whatever he could steal for food, clothing, and medicine. He also helped patch their ragged clothing when it got worn out. From what Mischief had heard, he’d lived with his uncle, a tailor, until plague had taken him. His uncle’s creditors had thrown him out onto the street, and he’d scrounged a living for a few years before meeting Jared. “We’re not allowed. We’d be lucky if all they did was put us in jail.”
“I don’t know about that,” Mischief murmured. The more she looked at Jared, the more familiar he seemed. Her eyes narrowed. Yes, it was there in the line of his jaw and the shape of his nose, in the way his brows furrowed when he ate. Her lips curved up into a grin. She knew who he was now. He reminded her of the king – the king who was currently without any heirs, legitimate or otherwise. Oh, this was too good. Who knew what she could do with someone like him? Truly, Luck was on her side. She’d have to thank the other goddess the next time she saw her. Besides, these kids had grown on her, and she might never get an opportunity like this again. “I have an idea.”
Jared studied her keenly. “Is it as good as your last idea?” He nodded meaningfully at the food they’d gathered. The others had stopped eating to listen. On the street, results were everything, and she’d already shown she could deliver.
She cackled. “It’s even better.”
* * *
Rabble chuckled merrily and ordered another round of ale for his newfound companions amongst the merchants. Ah, mortals. They could be such greedy creatures. Of course, the gods could be greedy too, but Rabble himself was not especially given to that emotion. As long as he had his siblings by his side and the freedom to do as he pleased, he was content. No, he was more than content. He was truly happy. Indeed, he gave thanks to the Supreme Mother and Supreme Father every day for making him the way he was. What greater gift was there than the ability to take joy in the simple things, like instigating a minor argument or a small squabble? Too few gods could enjoy a day spent walking the roads of the mortal world with good company, and too few of his fellows understood that it wasn’t the destination that mattered so much as the journey and the companions who came along. It was hardly surprising that he’d gone on quite a few heroic journeys over the years when his siblings were busy, serving as a loyal friend and advisor to several legendary mortal heroes.
Rabble took another sip of his ale. It was at times like this that he missed the mortal friends he’d made over the years. They might be reborn every few centuries, but it wasn’t the same – they weren’t the same, even if he was. Oh well. He grinned. What was the occasional moment of sadness compared to all the wonderful memories he had? His siblings could understand – they walked amongst mortals as often as he did.
But that was enough thinking about the past. The merchants here had greeted him warmly after he’d shown enough coin and offered vital information about the markets and conditions in certain areas that were notoriously tight lipped. Naturally, his information had lies mixed in with the truth, so it would be wonderfully amusing to see which merchants would be clever enough to spot the lies and which ones would fall for them. Who knows, if enough of them simply gave in to their greed and acted without verifying his words, there might even be a collapse in several of the markets they dealt in. Wouldn’t that be funny?
He had a good feeling about his current scheme. Banks were something of a rece
nt invention in the mortal world although Bureaucracy had already written about a billion different laws to handle every conceivable kind of bank, even the kinds that didn’t exist yet. Apparently, she was already growing concerned about the possibility of a sub-prime mortgage crisis in the mortal world, whatever that was. The idea behind a mortal bank was relatively sound. Mortals would accept promissory notes in lieu of coin, safe in the knowledge that such notes were indeed backed by gold or other valuables. The foolish merchants, the ones unable to detect his lies, would seek to obtain far more funds than they truly needed, causing panic amongst their fellow merchants who would rush to do the same to avoid being left behind. If that happened – and it was up to the mortals to exercise some common sense to avoid it – then he would be right there to enjoy the show and urge on the angry mob that would undoubtedly form.
“You must have worked hard to obtain this information,” one of the merchants murmured, mulling over Rabble’s words and peering into his mug intently.
“I did. They’re secretive in the north, but enough gold will loosen anyone’s tongue. And you know what they say: one gold coin spent wisely today can easily beget ten tomorrow.” Rabble smirked. “And I’d like to think my generosity in sharing this information will be remembered.”
The merchant smirked back. They would have been suspicious if he’d offered the information for free, but they could understand this. After all, exchanging information for favours was a natural avenue for a merchant to take. “Well said, my friend. Well said. As for your generosity, we don’t forget people who help us.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “If you ever wish to start a business here… arrangements can be made. There’s no need for a fine merchant like you to bother with all the rules and regulations. In the meantime, do you have any news from the east? I seek silk, but prices from my usual suppliers have been much higher as of late. They won’t tell me why, and you know how strictly they guard information about their homeland.”
“The east? My friend, you are in luck. I travelled there before heading north, so I have information although it may be several months out of date.” Rabble spun a wondrous tale of the east. It was again full of fanciful lies mixed with truth and useful information. He attributed the rising price of silk to a shortfall caused by plague brought in by raiders who sought to plunder the wealth of the eastern lands. It would be delightful to see how the merchants took the news. As he was finishing his story, he heard his sister’s voice in his mind. He had to bite back a smile. How amusing. She’d found a very interesting person, and she’d come up with an even more interesting plan. He would be sure to do his part.
“Did you know,” Rabble whispered. “There are rumours that the king is concealing the severity of his illness. I’ve even heard that certain individuals might be planning something…”
* * *
Despite being a festival to celebrate the peace treaty that had unified the kingdom, there were ample opportunities for warriors, mercenaries, and others of a martially inclined nature to show off their aptitude for violence. It was a good idea. Mortals were forever trying to kill each other, so establishing some rules and making a pile of money out of it by selling tickets to the arena was the smart thing to do.
Mayhem had no intention of competing. It would have been completely unfair. A mortal warrior could stab him in the eye with their favourite spear and all they’d do was break a good spear. At the very least, it would take a divinely forged weapon wielded by a powerful demigod to harm him. And even if his body were somehow destroyed, he’d simply be forced to make a new one. This body, if it could even be called that, was little more than a shell for his divine energies. His true self – what made him who and what he was – could be found in his soul, which was also the source of his divine power and his connection to the powers and forces that governed Creation. The ability to destroy his soul – to actually kill him – was something only other gods and the Void Born possessed. Natural advantages aside, he was also more skilled with a blade than any mortal could ever hope to be. His talent and millennia of training and experience had seen to that.
To amuse himself since he wouldn’t be fighting, he used his powers to tilt the odds in favour of the underdog of each match. He made sure to avoid causing any serious or lasting injuries, and the defeated experienced wounds more to their pride than to their bodies. But as underdog after underdog somehow emerged victorious, the people taking bets and running gambling rings grew paler and paler. Panic set in. What were they supposed to do when hundred-to-one underdogs won five times in a row? Where would they find the money to pay people their winnings? The answer, as it turned out, was to find a quiet place to throw up in sheer, unbridled terror.
In the meantime, he carefully tweaked a few other things, which resulted in an all-out brawl between the contestants in the archery contest. They did their level best to beat each other to death with their bows before guards swamped the arena and dragged them apart. Oh, it was a wonderful sight. People sometimes thought of archers as being fairly weak, but anyone who had spent years using a powerful bow was bound to be reasonably strong. Bows could also be used as clubs in a pinch, and one particularly cunning archer had even tried to garrotte his opponent with his bowstring. In short order, however, the guards had wrestled the archers to the ground, but the whole thing quickly devolved into a massive fight as the other competitors took the opportunity to resolve their grievances the traditional way – with a punch to the jaw and a kick to the groin.
Contradictory to common belief, Mayhem did not revel in violence. What he really enjoyed was the chaos it often involved. It was also wonderfully therapeutic. Letting go of one’s inhibitions was a fine way to enjoy life, so long as one didn’t indulge too often. Mortals were fragile creatures, so he had to be careful not to push them too far. There was a time and place for that – the gods of war existed for a reason – but he intended to enjoy the rest of the festival. He could also be a patient god when he wanted to be. A temporary increase in his amusement was hardly worth the dearth of fun that would be caused by large-scale casualties. He wanted to enjoy the rest of the festival, and a bloody, deadly riot here would only lead to it being cancelled or the most enjoyable parts being turned into utterly tedious affairs due to heightened security.
As he contemplated his next move – the riot was coming to an end without a single fatality – his sister reached out to him. He smiled. What an interesting plan she’d devised. Well, he’d have to check some things even if it meant he would have to leave the arena to observe the king and his advisors more closely. Mischief could have done it herself, but she appeared to be having too much fun with those street children she’d met. At the moment, she was helping them procure some new clothes courtesy of a foolish merchant who’d said some unkind things about their place in the divine pantheon.
Fool. He should have known better than to insult Mayhem, Mischief, and Rabble. He was just asking for trouble.
* * *
It was trivially easy for Mayhem to infiltrate the palace and observe the king and his advisors. As a god, he could simply hide himself from the senses of mortals and walk right through the walls of the palace. However, to make things more interesting, he’d restricted himself to using only mortal means to sneak around, and he was very, very good at sneaking around. He found a suitable position to observe the king and then took a quick stroll through the old man’s mind although he was careful to tread lightly. This was more someone like Muse’s expertise. Mayhem was better at influencing people, but his mental touch was less subtle than either Mischief’s or Rabble’s.
He didn’t have to look very hard to find the king’s concerns. The king had married relatively late for a royal, and he’d only produced a handful of legitimate children. Through a variety of circumstances – most of them quite horrible – none of his children had survived long enough to succeed him and produce legitimate heirs of their own. The king had also been rendered unable to father any more children due to an ailmen
t. It was a terrible conundrum since although the king was a good ruler he was also very old, and his potential successors, most of whom were the children of high-ranking nobles, were a depressingly talentless bunch. The kindest thing the king could say about the best of them was that they might – maybe – be considered mediocre.
More relevant to Mischief’s plan was the sword the king carried. It symbolised the authority of the royal family, and it had been given to his ancestors by one of the gods of war. It was a truly magnificent weapon, amongst the finest in the mortal world. However, a condition had been placed upon it: only the rightful king or his rightful heir could wield it. Thus it was widely held by the people of the kingdom to be a symbol of divine favour, proof that a potential successor was worthy of the crown. Alas, none of his potential successors had been able to wield it, which would most likely lead to a civil war when he died since none of them would be able to distinguish themselves enough from the others to secure the throne.
A civil war would be so depressing even if it would give Mayhem plenty of opportunities to work his magic. But it was the chaos he enjoyed the most. He’d leave the carnage, bloodshed, and fury to the gods of war. He’d have to lend his sister a hand, but how could they engineer a favourable situation? It would have been easy to simply appear in his divine form and proclaim the boy she’d found as the king’s rightful heir, but where was the fun in that? Ah, yes. The king was scheduled to appear at the festival later this evening. They could use that to their advantage.
Of course, they did have to make sure that the boy Mischief had found was actually the king’s grandson. If he weren’t, things would get ugly. A quick glance through the king’s mind confirmed the possibility. He had sired a bastard in his youth, and the bastard had been raised reasonably well before meeting an unfortunate end. The bastard had also been fond of visiting brothels, so it was entirely possible that he’d sired a bastard of his own. The boy could thus be the king’s grandson by blood. In theory, if he was worthy, the sword should accept him.
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