Two
Eight o’clock on a Monday morning several thousand miles above the Middle Worlds, Lucky was getting pummelled. The pummelling itself was nothing out of the ordinary; put a scrawny, red-haired pigeon in the path of the ugliest and most ham-fisted of the High-One’s sons, and one party was bound to take offence at the other. Lucky had come to accept this as The Way Things Were, and thus taken it upon himself to make those things as easy for himself as possible.
At first he had tried outrunning the other boys, but what they lacked in speed and cunning they more than made up for in brute determination. Whether sooner or later, eventually they would corner him and the pummelling would be all the more severe for their trouble. Nor would fighting back do him any good; that was just plain embarrassing. After years of careful experimentation, Lucky had discovered that it was best to just let them get on with it. He would toss out an insult or two, they would kick him around a bit, and everyone would be home in time for tea. It was elegant in its simplicity.
This cleverly orchestrated symbiosis was the pride of Lucky’s otherwise meagre existence. He took it rather personally, therefore, when things did not go According to Plan. Pummellings at eight o’clock in the morning, for example, were simply unacceptable. He was barely awake, and he had only just left the temple to scavenge some breakfast when they seized him, hooting and hollering with glee. He hadn’t even had a chance to insult them, for gods’ sake!
‘Off to steal your breakfast, are you?’ sneered the largest, most shovel-faced boy. ‘You little shit-snake!’
His knuckles connected with Lucky’s nose. Lucky reeled backwards, clutching his face. Hot blood spurted between his fingers.
‘What the fuck, you bloater?’ Lucky said thickly, pinching his bleeding nose. ‘I haven’t done anything!’
‘Does it matter?’ said the boy, and punched him hard in the stomach. Lucky doubled over in agony, choking on the blood from his nose. A vicious kick knocked him to the ground. ‘You’re a dead whore’s bastard,’ he said matter-of-factly, over jubilant yells from the other boys. ‘You shouldn’t even be alive.’
Lucky spat out a mouthful of blood and glared up at him through a haze of sweat and dirt. ‘Yeah, well, a pig’s arse probably shouldn’t have been allowed to procreate with a brick wall, but here you are.’
The boy’s face contorted in confusion and fury. Clearly understanding that Lucky had just insulted him (but not much else), he placed his boot on the side of Lucky’s head and pushed him firmly into the ground.
‘You think you’re clever,’ he sneered, grinding his heel into Lucky’s skull while Lucky groaned in pain. ‘You shit-eating little maggot. I bet your mother thought she was clever, too. She should have remembered her place.’ The boot came down hard, and Lucky felt stinging heat run down his jaw.
Lucky’s blood was burning. This happened sometimes, when he was angry, and by gods he was angry now. Fiery rage itched beneath his skin…
Make him pay for it.
The boy raised his foot to stamp again, and Lucky took his chance. Wildfire dancing in his eyes, he grabbed the boy’s ankle and yanked it out from under him. He landed heavily with a yell of surprise and pain, and a second later Lucky was on him, the shouts from the other boys turning fuzzy in his ears and his struggling captive’s screams ringing in his ears as Lucky pushed his thumbs into his eyes.
Later, he would not recall being pulled off the howling boy; only the sight of blood welling in the hollows beneath his thumbs and the sound of shrill, triumphant laughter ringing through his skull, before the fire rose up and consumed him.
*
‘You’re crazy,’ said Sig, with an element of pride, as he bandaged Lucky’s head.
‘Would you stop saying that?’ Lucky grumbled. ‘A hundred times is en-Ow! Watch it!’
‘Would you stop fidgeting? And stop trying to fix your hair, it’s fine.’
Lucky lowered his hand and began to tap out a nervous rhythm on his thigh. ‘He’s gonna be mad, he’s gonna be so mad…’
‘Who, old Baldy?’ Sig scoffed. ‘No way. Have you ever seen him mad?’ The boy paused. ‘Disappointed, maybe. Chagrined even, but never mad!’
Lucky twisted his neck to look at Sig in horror. ‘Oh, but you know that’s worse!’
‘I know,’ said Sig, giving Lucky a sympathetic pat on the cheek. ‘But didn’t that make you feel better for a second?’
‘Not really,’ Lucky grumbled. Sig patiently turned Lucky’s head to face front again.
‘Shame. Now will you keep still so I can finish? You’re lucky you’ve still got a skull after what that ape did to you, and I’d like it to stay in one piece!’
Lucky did as he was told. There was a loose thread poking out of the seam of his trousers; he picked at it in a desultory fashion.
‘Do you think he’ll be okay?’ he asked quietly. Sig’s hands went still.
‘I don’t know,’ Sig answered at length. He gave the end of the bandage a sharp tug, making Lucky wince. ‘Sorry. Does it matter? As far as I’m concerned, he got exactly what he deserved.’
‘I could have killed him!’
‘Oh, don’t be stupid.’
‘I’m serious! If you hadn’t pulled me off him…’ Lucky tipped his head back and made a face at Sig. Sig rolled his eyes.
‘But I did pull you off him,’ Sig reminded him, pushing Lucky’s head forward. His slender fingers made a tight knot in the bandages. ‘So stop thinking about it. There, how’s that?’
A cautious finger probed the side of Lucky’s head. He winced.
‘A little tight.’
‘It has to be tight. You’ve already got little enough brains without more of them falling through the cracks, Lucky.’
Lucky swivelled around and stuck out his tongue, and Sig laughed.
Sig and Lucky were what the rest of World Above called “pigeons”; orphans or bastards who had been adopted into the Temple. They were so called because of their grey attire, and their ability to be almost universally underfoot. It was a less than glamourous life, but in return for their service as general dogsbodies they were given a roof over their heads and the kind of religious schooling most gutter snipes can only dream of.
Lucky, a pigeon from birth, had been nine when Sig came to them. Brutally raped and left for dead, the boy who had crawled, broken and bleeding, to the steps of the Temple was a world apart from the Sig that Lucky knew now. A year older than Lucky, but smaller, Sig had a headful of soft, brown curls and delicate, almost feminine features. Lucky often joked that he should have been born a girl. ‘I know, darling,’ the older boy would sigh, ‘I know.’
‘Come on,’ said Sig, giving Lucky a playful dig in the ribs. ‘I know what’ll cheer you up.’
‘Don’t you think we should stay here?’ asked Lucky, as Sig pulled him out of the chair. ‘You know, in case…’
‘No, I do not,’ Sig answered primly. And that was that.
Lulled by the certainty in Sig’s voice and the fuzzy ache between his ears, Lucky allowed himself to be shepherded out of the Temple and into the sun.
*
Two boys stood at the Edge of the World – specifically, they stood at the edge of a tree branch as wide as a highway – and looked down. Because really, when one is that high up, down is the only way to look. It’s where all the good stuff is. Occasionally the Perpetual Cloud would shift and they would catch a glimpse of the grey-brown disc below it. It felt oddly naughty, like seeing a flash of ankle.
One boy curled his toes against the smooth bark of the Tree and wondered what it would be like to feel earth beneath his feet.
The other idly touched his chest and wondered what it would be like to have breasts.
*
The High One was not happy.
‘I’m not happy, Sweeper,’ said the High One, waddling back and forth behind his desk. ‘Not happy at all.’
‘Really, sir? Couldn’t have guessed.’
A lordly finger zeroed in on the end of the Sweeper’s nose. He very carefully did not go cross-eyed.
‘I’ve had just about enough of you,’ said the High One. ‘Scuttling about with that silly little stick of yours, thinking you can do whatever you bally well please.’
The Sweeper’s knuckles tightened on the handle of his broom. ‘Silly little stick, sir?’ There was a dangerous look in his eyes. It was the kind of look that sent spiders scurrying home to their mothers, and for a moment it made the High One unsure of exactly who was in charge.
‘Yes,’ he said at length, with some effort. ‘You heard me.’ The High One drew himself up, which was about as impressive as a balloon being slowly overinflated. ‘We had an agreement, and that feral pigeon of yours nearly killed my dear Hector!’
‘Henri,’ the Sweeper corrected. ‘And you of all people should know that it’s not the size of one’s stick that matters, but how one uses it.’
‘Whatever! Enough is enough! He ought to be Put Down.’
‘That seems a little harsh,’ the Sweeper said pleasantly. ‘There’s no reason he shouldn’t lead a full life, even with most of his vision gone…’
‘Most of his…’ the High One blinked. ‘No, not Hector, I’m-’
‘Henri.’
‘Whatever! I mean the pigeon! That bally feral pigeon! I’ve half a mind to throw the damned thing over the edge myself, and have done with it.’
‘And the other half, sir?’
‘The other half, Sweeper,’ the High One snarled, ‘would very much like to do the same to you.’
The silence was palpable as the two men considered what had just been said. The High One did not see so much as feel the room grow darker around him, and as the Sweeper’s eyes began to glow with an unearthly copper light he experienced the unique sensation of wanting to retract into a shell that he did not have. The broom in the Sweeper’s hands suddenly seemed a lot bigger and a lot more ominous than it had before, and he bally well did not like the way the Sweeper was grinning…
‘With all due respect, my lad,’ said the Sweeper, ‘which is to say none, you rather ought to remember your place.’
The High One, his face sheened with nervous sweat, made a sort of choking sound.
‘What was that?’
‘I said, I am the High One!’ said the High One in a strangled voice, his chins trembling with effort.
‘And I am the Sweeper!’ the Sweeper intoned. He pointed a gnarled finger in the general direction of the High One. ‘Don’t you bloody forget it.’
The Sweeper turned and shuffled away, and light flooded back into the room like someone had opened the curtains. The High One gaped after him, simultaneously outraged and relieved to see the back of him and his broom, and unclenched his globe-like buttocks.
And that, as they say, was that.
*
They were wrong.
That was most certainly not that.
Night fell like a drop-sheet over a dead aunt’s chest of drawers, bringing with it the smell of ozone and burnt cinnamon. There was an air of certain portentous stars aligning. Somewhere, a dog howled for no reason. Alone in a temple, a boy was sweeping around a certain Staff. His name might have been Lucky, but tonight he was not feeling it.
‘You will sweep all night,’ the Sweeper had told him. ‘You will not sleep, you will not rest, you will not think of anything but the harm you have done. You will sweep, and think, and in the morning you will come to me and tell me what you have learned.’
I’ve learned that sweeping is the most boring thing in the boring history of boring, Lucky thought bitterly. He had lost all feeling in his legs some time ago, and his arms had become red-hot noodles of agony. But he swept, and he thought, because how could he not? He thought about the impossible shade of red the boy’s blood had been. He thought about the surge of violence and elation he had felt when the boy’s eyeballs had popped beneath his thumbs...
He thought about the look on Sig’s face when he had seen the boy’s eye sockets, so dark with blood that they were almost black. ‘You were laughing,’ Sig had said.
I couldn’t stop, Sig. Why couldn’t I stop?
Loki, said a voice without a body.
‘Shut up!’ Lucky yelled, throwing the broom down and angrily wiping his eyes. ‘I’m not crying!’
I never said you were. Come here, would you?
‘Leave me alone.’
Loki.
‘That’s not my name,’ Lucky said tiredly. ‘Why do you always call me that?’
You are Loki.
‘I’m not. My name is Lucky. And I told you to leave me alone.’
If you say so. Loki.
Lucky sighed and bent to retrieve the broom. There was no use in trying to argue with the Staff; he had learned this shortly after realising that the voices in his head were in fact one voice, and that it had a source here in the Temple. He had told no one, not even Sig, because clearly he was mad and that really wasn’t the sort of thing one ought to share around. That had been a year ago.
It had been a very long year.
Once, he had asked the Sweeper who Loki was. ‘A real twat of a god’ had been the old man’s reply. Lucky had found this as offensive as it was unhelpful, and he had not asked again. How the Staff had managed to confuse an orphan with dirty feet with a banished god was beyond him, but he figured that, with his only other option being to ask the Staff itself about it, he would rather not know.
I’ll rock myself right off this pedestal, it was saying now. I’ll do it this time, Loki.
Aside from insisting that his name was Loki, the Staff seemed to have no purpose other than to try to convince Lucky to touch it. Lucky, despite his apparent insanity, sensed that this would be a Very Bad Idea. It was number one of the Sweeper’s Rules: Don’t Touch the Staff. He had found that ignoring the Staff’s demands usually led to it making idle threats or petty insults, but as it was an inanimate object and really had no power to do anything, Lucky reasoned that he could safely ignore these as well.
‘Right,’ said Lucky, and resumed his sweeping.
You’ll have no choice then.
‘Mhmm.’ Swip, swip.
I’ll do it.
‘Fine by me.’ Swip, swip.
It won’t be, though. You’ll get the blame.
‘Fantastic. Go ahead.’ Swip, swip.
They’ll throw you off the edge of the World, you know.
‘If you say so.’ Swip.
If you’re going to die, wouldn’t you rather it were for a reason?
‘Not particularly.’ Swi-
Liar.
Lucky paused. Calling him a liar was nothing new, but something was off this time. It seemed… pleased with itself, somehow. He could see the Staff in the corner of his eye; was it just a trick of the candlelight, or could it be trembling ever so slightly? Unease began to build in Lucky’s chest.
Come and get me, Loki.
‘What are you doing?’ Lucky asked cautiously.
What does it look like?
Lucky turned to look at the Staff properly. It was definitely trembling now, and getting dangerously close to the edge of the pedestal. Panicked, Lucky dropped the broom and ran towards it. ‘Don’t you dare!’
Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Loki.
‘I’m not Loki!’ Lucky screamed, reaching out to grab the Staff as it toppled-
Liar.
-and white-hot pain sliced through his skull. The world went red, and then…
Nothing.
*
Here endeth the story of Lucky the Pigeon, and here begineth something a great deal more wild.
Loki stood up and stretched. Gods, it was good to be out! Albeit he was still stuck inside a homeless twelve-year-old with questionable personal hygiene, but Hel, it sure beat the alternative. At least he had the reins now.
Grinning, Loki hefted the Staff, feeling its weight and warmth in his hand. The Sweeper could eat his damn heart out; the proverbial shoe was on the other foot now, and things were finally about to get interesting. It had been an impossibly lucky twist of fate that he had ended up here, feet away from the one thing that would let him unleash a Hel of mischief on the Worlds, and the last thing Loki was going to do was waste it.
That would just be rude.
‘Well, my old friend,’ said Loki, raising the Staff high. His eyes blazed. ‘Shall we begin?’
*
The Temple lit up like a Christmas tree, if that Christmas tree were on fire. A few accessory buildings went up like smaller Christmas trees. It was unusual to see stone burning so heartily, but this was Loki; if he had written the book on burning stuff, he would have burned that, too. He danced above it all like a demented angel, the Staff crackling with power in his hand and his eyes sparking electric green.
This. Oh, this was what it meant to be alive.
The Sweeper watched this all from a safe distance, Sig a small, curly-haired shape at his side.
‘This,’ the Sweeper began thoughtfully, ‘is not what I expected at all.’
‘Lucky?’ asked Sig, in a tone that suggested he did not want to know the answer.
‘Not hardly,’ said the Sweeper, as a burning pillar came crashing down and Loki cackled like a mad hen. ‘This is something far more unpleasant.’
‘But he’s got the Staff! That can’t be good, can it?’
‘It’s not ideal, no.’
‘You seem very calm,’ Sig observed.
‘That’s because he hasn’t spotted us yet- ohshit.’
Loki landed in front of them with a noise like a thunderclap.
‘Evening,’ the god said pleasantly, giving them a prim little bow. ‘Do you like what I’ve done with the place?’
‘It’s a little heavy-handed for my tastes,’ said the Sweeper, as something in the distance exploded.
Loki threw back his head and laughed. Sig fought back a sudden wave of nausea. This thing was wearing Lucky like a suit; its eyes were too wild, its smile too crooked, and it was taller than Lucky had been, like it was stretching him apart…
‘What have you done with Lucky?’ he heard himself demand. Loki turned his terrible eyes on him.
‘Oh, I’m afraid he is quite dead,’ he said, grinning widely. ‘But he did leave a parting gift for his special lady.’
Before Sig had even seen him move, Loki was kissing him. He gasped in surprise and the god’s tongue was inside his mouth, burning with electricity and flavoured with ash and… cinnamon? He pulled away, horrified, and Loki cackled.
‘What a hungry little slut you are,’ he said. ‘And I say that with the utmost respect. Your little friend has been wanting to do that for years; believe me, I would know,’ he added, and tapped the side of his head. ‘You would look fantastic with breasts, by the way-’
‘That’s enough, Loki,’ the Sweeper interrupted, while Sig blushed furiously, levelling the end of his broom at Loki’s sternum. ‘You’ve got what you came for, now leave us in peace.’
For a split second, Sig thought he saw a look of uncertainty flash across Loki’s face and wondered, not for the first time, if the Sweeper’s broom was more than what it seemed…
‘Fair enough,’ Loki said cheerfully. ‘Lots to do. Goddesses to locate, things to burn, et cetera. Oof, here comes the cavalry! So long!’
And he was gone, with laughter ringing after him like the tail of a comet.
‘What did he mean, “goddesses”?’ asked Sig. ‘You don’t think there are more of them, do you?’
‘I think,’ said the Sweeper, turning on his heel, ‘I need a cup of- oh bloody hell.’
The High One was puffing down the hill towards them with all the gravitas of a steam train, thronged by what appeared to be the entirety of his palace guard.
‘WHAT IN GOD’S BALLS IS GOING ON HERE?’ he roared.
‘Well, it’s funny you should say that,’ the Sweeper said brightly. ‘You see, we have a bit of a god problem.’
The High One’s eyes bulged. ‘A god… problem?’
‘Indeed sir. One of them appears to have escaped.’
‘Escaped.’
‘Well, not so much escaped as, um. Well, he was here the whole time. Inside one of my pigeons, it turns out.’
‘Here the whole time. Inside a pigeon.’
‘Are you having a stroke, sir?’
‘What?’ The High One’s chins were wobbling dangerously. ‘Don’t be daft. Fit as a wossname, trumpet thing. How did this happen, exactly?’
‘Oh, who knows,’ the Sweeper said dismissively. ‘All to do with morphic resonance, I expect. He went that way,’ he added. ‘If your men hurry, they might even be able to catch him.’
‘I’m not happy, Sweeper,’ said the High One, once most of his guards had trooped off into the night. The Sweeper noted, with some satisfaction, that the High One was wearing a dressing gown. There were ducks on it. ‘Temples burning down, gods on the loose… People will question my authority!’
Slippers, he was wearing slippers…
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as that, sir.’
‘I bally well won’t have it!’ the High One’s fists were balled, his red face screwed up like a used bus ticket. The Sweeper had a sudden vision of an enormous baby about to launch into a temper tantrum. ‘First thing in the morning, the whole bally lot of you are going over the Edge! I knew that bastard would be poison to me from the start, and I’ll not make the same mistake again! And is someone going to put those bally fires out or do I have to do it myself?’
There was some shuffling around within the group of guards before a handful broke off and raced towards the Temple, which was now smouldering in an almost embarrassed way. A wad of smoke hung overhead.
‘The rest of you, with me! Gods only know if I’ll get any sleep after all this nonsense, but it’s worth a try.’ The High One directed a sausage-like finger at the Sweeper. ‘First thing in the morning.’
‘Right you are,’ said the Sweeper, and he smiled.
‘Do you think he meant that,’ asked Sig in a small voice, as the High One and his guards lumbered out of earshot. ‘About throwing us off the Edge?’
‘No doubt, no doubt,’ said the Sweeper. He turned to Sig and grinned. ‘But whether he’ll remember to do it is another question entirely.’
*
The Sweeper had been right about morphic resonance. The universe likes continuity, and it just so happened that Lucky, the red-haired bastard pigeon, had created just the right shape in the fabric of the universe for a god named Loki to slip into. He could only hope that Yggdrasil had been as fortunate, and that he wouldn’t find her in a desert somewhere and have to dig her out of termite hill.
He ran slowly along the boughs of the Tree, hanging back now and then to let the guards catch sight of him. It was more fun to let them think that they were doing a good job. So far he had been thoroughly disappointed by their lack of enthusiasm; what was the point of having guards if they didn’t shout “Halt!” or “Who goes there?” once in a while?
Eventually he ran out of tree. Using the Staff to balance himself, he turned to face the oncoming mob who, clearly lacking the god’s fine motor skills, had ground to a halt at a safe distance.
‘Is that it, then?’ Loki called. ‘Not even a “Halt” or a “You’re nicked, son” for my trouble?’
One enterprising fellow said: ‘Er, halt?’
Loki sighed. ‘Pride of the Palace, you lot are,’ he muttered and, spreading his arms wide, dropped backwards off the end of the branch.
*