Downfall of the Gods (9 page)

She looked up and saw me. “I’m very busy,” she said. “Can’t you come back later?”

Just kidding, of course. “Hello,” I said. “I’ve got a favour to ask.”

“What?” She scowled at me. “If he’s thrown you out and you’re looking for somewhere to stay, you can forget it. I haven’t got the space.”

Down at floor level, the spirits of the dead sniggered and chittered. “No,” I said, “it’s not that. I’d like to borrow something.”

“What?”

I looked around until I found the ghost of the musician Lysippus. I pointed. “That.”

There was a long silence. “What do you mean, borrow?”

“Well, you know. Take it away with me, for a bit. I’ll bring it back when I’ve finished with it, I promise.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “You know that isn’t possible.”

“To the gods—”

“Oh, don’t give me all that rubbish. You know your father would skin me alive.”

I gave her my winning smile. “Suppose I brought a mortal here,” I said, “and he challenged you to a game of, oh I don’t know, chess or something, and if he wins you let me borrow Lysippus, and if you win, the mortal stays here for ever. That’d be all right, surely.”

“No.”

I pouted. “It’s only borrowing,” I said, “I’m not asking you to
give
me anything. It’d be like parole. You’d have him back again in no time. You wouldn’t even notice he’d been gone.”

“I’d notice.”

I came a little closer and lowered my voice. “Dad wouldn’t have to know about it.”

“Your father has already given permission for this idiotic stunt, as you well know. It doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference. The dead do not return.”

“How would it be,” I said, “if I borrowed Lysippus and I gave you Lord Archias, to keep, for your very own? A life for a life. That way, the equilibrium of life and death would be preserved.”

“What equilibrium? You’re talking nonsense. I’m not running a business here, I don’t need to balance the books. Now go away, you’re unsettling the stock.”

She had a point. The spirits of the dead were getting restless, quivering and shivering and yapping. I knew why, of course. I was still in a physical form, and my body heat had raised the temperature by some infinitesimally tiny fraction of a degree, and now they were all too hot. And she couldn’t open a window, because there weren’t any.

“Please,” I said.

But she shook her head. “Doesn’t work on me,” she said. Then she grinned. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but you’re even more stupid than you look. You made a ridiculous bargain with your father about getting Lysippus back from the dead, and you’ve come all this way, and you haven’t actually got a plan. Well, have you? You probably thought, it’s all right, I’ll think of something when I get there. And you haven’t. Have you?”

“There’s no need to be grumpy,” I said.

“To the gods all things are possible, you told yourself, of course you’d think of something. But not in this case, because there’s nothing to think of. You can’t have him. That’s final.” She sighed, then something like a smile spread over her regrettably featureless face. “You did your best,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll be able to talk your father round. You always were his favourite.”

News to me. “Really?”

“Of course, didn’t you know? Daddy’s little girl. So don’t worry, it’ll all sort itself out, you’ll see.” The smile broadened a little. “Now, since you’re here, let me get you something to eat. You must be famished after your long journey.”

I backed away. “Thanks awfully,” I said. “But—”

“Oh, go on. I insist. A nice cup of tea and maybe a few pomegranate seeds. Just a little snack to keep you going.”

I’d been wondering why she’d suddenly started being nice. “No, really,” I said. I backed away until I could feel the wall against my heel. “And besides,” I added, as I slid into the masonry, “you said yourself, you haven’t got the space.”

S
HE WAS WRONG
, of course. I had thought of something before I went in. I’d thought of the subtle difference between having and borrowing. Pity it hadn’t worked.

Ah well. Plan B.

I
SAT ON
a mountaintop somewhere and watched Lord Archias walking the last hundred miles. He took his time, which was sensible, drank plenty of water and always wore his hat. I could see his lips moving, which puzzled me, so I listened closely. He was actually praying as he walked—to me, mostly, but also to Dad, Pol, uncle Actis and aunt Cytheria—and when he wasn’t praying he was singing hymns and arias from sacred cantatas. He was completely alone, there wasn’t another human being in a hundred and twenty miles, so obviously he wasn’t doing it for show, since there was no-one to see him.

I was so engrossed in eavesdropping that I didn’t notice Pol swooping down beside me; first I knew of it was when I heard his voice, saying, “What on earth does the clown think he’s doing?”

“That’s genuine faith,” I said. “I converted him.” “He’s up to something.”

“I’m glad you’ve turned up,” I said. “I’m going to need you after all.”

“Oh.” He didn’t sound happy. “I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Pol. Don’t you dare back out now.”

“It’s just—” There was genuine anguish in his voice.

“Have I got to? There must be another way.”

“I tried it. Didn’t work.”

“Dad is going to be so angry.”

“He’s given his permission, remember?”

“I don’t think you were entirely straight with him.

Maybe he doesn’t quite realise what you’ve got in mind.” I didn’t comment on that. “It’ll be fine,” I told him.

“I promise.”

“Only—” He paused, took a deep breath. “You do realise they’re all laughing at you.”

Well, I can’t say I was surprised. Thrown down from the ramparts of heaven; the ultimate degradation.

The odd thing was, I didn’t really feel it. True, I hadn’t yet confronted a gathering of my family
en masse
. Still; I’d expected to be engulfed in a deluge of shame and self-depreciation, and I hadn’t been. Somehow, without consciously debating the issue with myself, I’d arrived at the conclusion that if the episode reflected badly on anyone, it was on Dad, for over-reacting. And not even that. Just a bloody stupid system, that was all. Any cosmos that falls to bits if a goddess doesn’t show up on time at a particular place is clearly shoddily engineered and unfit for purpose. Not my fault; so why should I feel bad about it?

“Let them,” I heard myself say.

I think Pol was slightly stunned by that. “No big deal?” “No big deal. It’d be different if I valued their opinion of me, but since I don’t, who gives a shit?”

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled. “You’re going to get all sorts of stick,” Pol said with a shudder.

“They’re already making up nicknames for you.” “Good for them. I’m not bothered.”

“You can’t really mean that.”

“No, I’m serious,” I said, suddenly realising that I was.

“I got thrown off the ramparts, so what? It’s the worst punishment; it’s also the only punishment. So, sooner or later, it’s going to happen to all of us. And when we’ve all taken the long drop, it’s not going to matter any more. We won’t snigger at each other, because we’ll have been there too.” I paused. “You know what that means?” Pol thought for a moment. “Anarchy? Chaos?” “Freedom,” I said. “We’ll be free.”

Pol sniffed. “Same thing.”

“Maybe. But just think. Dad won’t be able to boss us around any more. We can do exactly as we like. To the gods, all things really will be possible. Well? Doesn’t that thought excite you?”

“With my god of wisdom hat on? No, not really.” “Don’t be so miserable.
Free
, Pol. No constraints whatsoever. That’s—”

“Inaccurate,” he said. “Actually, if you’re right, and I sincerely hope you aren’t, I anticipate seeing a lot more restraints around the place in future. Adamantine ones, probably. Not to mention a lot of mountains getting moved around, and a whole lot less freedom. Be careful what you wish for, Sis.”

“Killjoy.”

“Yes.”

I shook my head, as though he was something annoying caught in my hair. “Be that as it may,” I said. “You’ve got a job to do and I expect you to do it. All right?” He sighed. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

“Promise?”

“Word of honour.”

H
OW TIME FLIES
. I’d forgotten about that. I raced back to the White Desert, to find Lord Archias at the foot of the bridge. He’d built himself a little hut out of thorn bushes, with a corral out back for a small herd of goats.

He’d also grown a beard. There were grey streaks in it. “You’re back, then,” he said.

“Sorry, I got held up.”

“No, that’s fine.” He was resting on the handle of a crude, wooden-bladed shovel. “I’ve just been planting the spring beans. Should be a much better crop this year, I’ve been digging in plenty of manure.”

There was something different about him. “You seem quite happy here,” I said.

He nodded. “I am,” he said. “I’ve got everything I want. Fresh water, food, shelter, a shrine to the gods.

What more could any man ask?”

“A bit lonely, though.”

“And solitude, of course. The five pillars of happiness.” I clicked my tongue. “Well, I’m here now. We’d better get on with it.”

He gave me a wistful look. “Do we have to go right now?”

“Yes. No time like the present.”

“Mphm. Sorry, it’s just that it’s been so long, it’s hard to recapture the sense of urgency, if you see what I mean.” He laid his shovel down on the ground, looked over his shoulder at the goat-pen. “All right, which way?”

“Straight on over the bridge. I’ll be right behind you.

Don’t look at me like that,” I added. “I do mean right behind you. I’ve just got to get some things. I’ll catch you up.”

He sighed.

T
HUS IT WAS
that, not very long afterwards, we walked up the long drive of my aunt Feralia’s house. I carried a silver chalice. Lord Archias led two lambs on string halters.

“There doesn’t seem to be a door.”

“There isn’t.” I knocked on the wall three times.

“Keep your mouth shut,” I told him. “Don’t say anything.”

“Mphm. Look, do you actually need me here for any thing? Because if not, I can wait outside.”

“Quiet,” I told him, then grabbed him by the wrist and led him through the wall.

Nothing, it goes without saying, had changed since I was there last. Auntie didn’t appear to have moved so much as an inch on her throne. Around her feet the squeaking dead still clustered, like dogs begging at table.

“Hello, auntie, it’s me again.”

“You’re back. Why?”

“I’ve brought Lord Archias with me,” I said brightly.

“If it’s all right, he’d like to have a quick word with Lysippus.”

“Would he really.”

“Yes. He wants to apologise. Don’t you?”

Archias was standing rooted to the spot, eyes bulging, mouth open. I gave him a warning tug on the wrist.

“Don’t you?”

“What? Oh yes. Please,” he added, quite unprompted by me. Of course, it doesn’t carry quite so much weight coming from a mortal.

Auntie looked at him, then back at me, trying to make up her mind. There is, of course, a protocol for such situations. Why there should be one or how it came to be formulated I have no idea. Mortals can’t get into Auntie’s house, because there is no door. In spite of that, there’s a protocol.

It goes like this. If a mortal wants to ask a question of the dead, he must go to the House of the Dead (see above). Having received permission from the Queen of Death, he must then sacrifice a lamb and fill a silver chalice with its blood—that’s all to do with the ancient superstition that blood somehow encapsulates the life-force; it does no such thing, but never mind. He pours a libation of blood onto the ground; the ghost he wants to question drinks the blood and is temporarily re-animated, resuming a simulacrum of his physical body for just long enough to answer the question. There’s a bunch of other rules and regulations—no eating or drinking while you’re there, no looking back over your shoulder as you leave, stuff like that—but basically that’s it. Perfectly straightforward, if a bit archaic and pointless.

I realised I’d forgotten something. “Did you bring a knife?” I hissed in his ear.

He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a flake of knapped flint. “Will this do?”

Not ideal; but I couldn’t very well ask for the loan of one. No metal in Auntie’s house, she’s old-fashioned. “That’s fine,” I said. “Kill the lamb and drain its blood into the chalice.”

“Have I got to?”

“Kill the bloody lamb.”

He did so, prising its head up with his crooked elbow under its chin to expose the throat. It struggled a few times, then relaxed and stretched out. The flow of blood into the cup sounded like an old man peeing.

“Permission granted.” Auntie sat up just a little and sniffed a couple of times. “Who did you say he wants to talk to?”

“Lysippus, auntie. Lysippus son of—” I dried. “Melias.”

“Lysippus son of Melias of the deme of Mesogaea,” I said. “Him,” I added, and pointed.

Auntie nodded stiffly. I picked the chalice up off the floor and tilted it until a single drop of blood trickled over the rim and dropped (like a goddess falling from the ramparts of heaven) onto the dusty, quite filthy floor. The black splodge it made in the dust started to smoke. The smoke wavered and thickened, and became a man. Just a shape at first; then it sort of came into focus—eyes and a nose, then particular eyes and a particular nose, in a unique configuration that made an individual, rather than merely a generic human. He opened his eyes, blinked. “Archias?”

“Hello, Lysippus.”

“Good God, man, I barely recognised you.”

“It’s been a while.”

“Has it?” Lysippus frowned, as if trying to work out some impossible problem. “Didn’t you just kill me?”

“Yes.”

The look on Lysippus’ face was that first-thing-in-the morning, not-properly-awake stare. “You stabbed me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I caught you in bed with my wife.”

“What? Oh, yes, so you did.” Lysippus massaged his forehead with his fingers. “Look, I’m sorry about that.”