Tom Holt (10 page)

'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 angrily. 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...'

Jason scowled. 'Sorry,' he said. 'Forget it, all right? I've had a hard day. What's in the sandwiches?'

His mother noticed a slight cur on the knuckles of his right hand. 'You've been fighting,' she said.

'That's right,' Jason replied. 'You remember, the war, all that stuff. Ham, is it?'

'Yes, dear,' said Mrs. Derry. 'You going to have a bath before you go to bed?'

'In the morning,' Jason said, yawning. 'Right now...'

Mrs. Derry gave him a meaningful look and said 'Sharon rang.'

Jason yawned again. 'Oh yes?' he replied and yawned again, this time artificially.

'Twice.'

'Wouldn't want her 'phone bill, then; said Jason. 'Any Coke in the fridge?'

'Yes; sighed Mrs. Derry. 'I think so. You could phone Sharon tomorrow. It's her day off.'

Jason winced. 'Look, Mum; he said, 'that'd be really great, only I've got a lot on tomorrow. Maybe next week, all right?'

His mother sniffed and went up to bed. Jason stood in the hall for a few seconds longer, shrugged and went to look for the sandwiches.

It is the tradition, now well over three thousand years old, that the Sybil or Pythoness of Delphi trains her successor in her priestly duties. Betty-Lou Fisichelli, for example, had been trained by the Old Pythoness (confusingly named Sybil), who in turn had been initiated into the Mysteries by her predecessor, the great Madam Arcati.