Wine of the Gods 1: Exiles and Gods

by Pam Uphoff

  "Looks like you two have my career path all sorted out. Thank you."

  They both grinned.

  "We know you'll do whatever you want, Simon." Kendra frowned at the God. "Including pretending to be a nice little brown-noser. But I think all the wrong gods will recognize you, now."

  River’s eyes fluttered open. Checked the people around her. When her eyes found Simon, she smiled.

  Good enough. I’ll worry about the details later.

  Chapter Thirteen

  New Years Day 2237

  River Wall, West Coast India

  River stayed back, observing. Barely within hearing range.

  Logic and War were looking down at the draggled remains of the army encampment. There were remarkably few bodies. The soldiers had, mostly, abandoned their attacks on the little gods when they abandoned the camp.

  "Makes me glad I don’t have any actual children."

  The goddess nodded. "We subtly encouraged the magically talented to marry talent. And of course they worked out how to have sons. But the strongest of this last generation of children . . . We tried to shed the attention of the collective onto them."

  The Wolf’s quick grin flashed. "And some of us succeeded."

  Logic glowered at him. "We must not do that again. The little gods who survived should marry the most common people they can find. And your attempts to dilute the attention of the collective must not happen again."

  "I’ll talk to Harry and Chance. With Mercy, we four were the worst offenders. And perhaps the Goddess of Fertility can whip up a spell that makes the talented be faintly repulsed by the talented."

  A man stepped out of nowhere. River started, but the Wolf just nodded politely. Chance, the God of Luck, or Chaos or Statistics.

  "Leave it to chance, now. You know we always, eventually, regret it when we load the dice."

  "Spoken by the expert. Yes, perhaps so." Logic turned her back on the desolate battleground and walked away.

  Chance sighed. "We really are stuck with this god thing, aren't we?" A rhetorical question, apparently. He look down at the little gods scampering around, helping wherever they were pointed. He glowed brightly, briefly. Two young women staggered, hand going to their heads, looking around as something intangible, but always with them . . . disappeared. The God of Chance disappeared as well.

  The Old Wolf, the true God of War, looked over at River. "Would you like to get home quickly?"

  "Thank you, but no." River looked back at the battleground. "There were people I should try to find . . ." She caught a distant curse, and squinted. "Ah. They appear to be arguing with Jet over the possession of several mares."

  Her foster father, the man who’d raised her, laughed. "I’d better go tell the old horse the bad news. I’ll send your friends up here."

  "Thank you. If the God of Love is still here, tell him there's a marriage to perform."

  The god paused.

  "No. Don't be silly, my friends need to get married. Witches don't do things like that."

  "Don't worry, sir. I'll work on her." Simon spoke from behind her.

  "I was raised by Kendra Star. Who is a very traditional witch." She pressed her lips together, trying to suppress a smile before she turned.

  "Who lives in a Winery with a god. I only have to persuade you to live with a penniless physics professor. Can't possibly be too difficult."

  River cocked her head and thought back. "I hope you don't live in a tiny apartment just off campus, because not only do you have two expectant mares, I seem to recall Professor Frasier saying something about experiments with explosives."

  "Well . . . Actually, not having been back to Sahara for nearly fifteen years, I don't have a home at all. So the possibilities are wide open. Perhaps you could help me choose something that a rather independent witch would find attractive . . . "

  Thieves and Horses

  333 years post exile

  Pam Uphoff

  Chapter One

  June 4th, 2449

  Scandia

  Mikey Flicker had done several jobs for the Golden Boy and been paid promptly and in a business-like fashion.

  So he wasn't the least bit concerned until he learned what the God of Peace wanted him to steal this time.

  "A statue of a horse from the private museum of the God of Art?" He boggled a bit.

  "Oh come now, you know we aren't really gods. We're just very powerful magic users. Artie was unconscionably rude, and I'm going to take his favorite horse statue. He's got three—one of a horse standing alone, a pair of foals playing, and a group of four running. I want the single horse." He pulled out two metallic buttons. "This one will keep you unnoticed by people, this one will unlock the door and turn off all offensive and defensive spells. You'll need some way to lift and move the statue, which weighs roughly a thousand pounds. In three days, Artie will be attending the opening of 'Romeau and Gisetta' and should be absent from six in the evening until midnight."

  It actually sounded easy. The God had never steered him wrong before.

  "Right. Friday night, then. And where do you want the statue delivered?"

  He pointed out the window. "To my garden."

  Mikey nodded. "Right. Will you be here?"

  "No. I'll be attending the wretched play. Just leave it." Pax, God of Peace, the Golden Boy, call him whatever you wish. He was three hundred and fifty years old, more or less, and could easily be taken for less than twenty. And like all the thirteen Gods, he was "just" a powerful magician.

  "Yes, sir." Sounded easy. Really it did. Now, moving a thousand pounds . . . Igor and a pallet on wheels? Umm. Half a ton. A very, very heavy cart. An engine hoist. That would do it. A box truck with a long ramp. Ramps in case of internal stairs. "We'll try to have it in your garden by the time you get home."

  The butler showed him out silently.

  He started up his little runabout, and whizzed away. Electric cars were so economical when one had the power to charge them one's self. Mikey knew he'd never qualify as a powerful magician, but he could pull power from movement and thermal differences and convert it to electricity. He could detect spells and charms and wards and traps. Disarm them if the magic user hadn't put too much power into them. But apart from being able to charge his car batteries by sitting half in the sun and half in the shade for three bloody damn whole hours, there just wasn't any use for magic any more. Hell, they didn't even test the kids these days.

  If it got much worse, he might have to work for a living.

  He drove past the target on the way home. A showy building with three cantilevered floors, each larger than the one under it. The god, if he recalled his society scream sheets correctly, was one of those who moved their entire homes with the seasons. Bombay for the winter, New Tokyo for spring, Scandia for the summer and Sahara for the fall. Not only was the building an upside down pyramid, it was up on a bit of a mound, with steps and formal landscaping.

  But if he backed the truck up to the steps, he might be able to avoid pushing a thousand pounds up a ramp. Or at least as far up. The signal changed and he drove off, making plans.

  Igor Benny was lifting weights when he stopped by. His best buddy from school, they were both brown haired and twenty-two. All resemblance ended there. Mikey had always been average in height and appearance; his father had been known to comment that he hardly needed an unnoticeable spell. Igor bulged with muscles and was nearly two meters tall. And agreeably ugly. Well, ugly.

  "So, want to lift a thousand pound statue?"

  Igor grunted, and racked the five hundred pounds he was bench pressing.

  "Only half of it." The big man scratched his flaky scalp. "Does it come apart?"

  "I figured we'd get an engine hoist to help."

  Igor's eyes lit up and he nodded. "Dan has one."

  "So we wouldn't even leave a rental record. Excellent. Let's go talk to him."

  Igor's older brother was a practical mechanic, unable to hold a job for long, as the alcohol always sucked hi
m back under. He mostly fixed the cars of friends and acquaintances, and fixed up junkers to sell. At that he was doing better than Igor, who simply didn't seem to be able to manage anything but manual labor, under supervision. At least Dan had a wife and kid. Or somebody's kid, Mikey seemed to recall Vera'd already been expecting when she took up with Dan. Or maybe she been expecting by the time Mikey noticed she'd become a part of his circle of friends and useful people. Who cared? The Kipper was a cute little thing, eight years old now.

  Dan was quite happy to loan out the hoist for a few bucks. Vena took half for food, the little girl jumping up and down at the prospect of a shopping trip.

  Mikey got another friend to rent a truck for them, and by Friday they were ready to go.

  At seven in the evening he backed the truck up the driveway and hopped out, clipboard in hand with a delivery slip to another address as he knocked and waited for an answer. He pounded, to be sure. Nothing. Excellent.

  He walked back to the truck sizing up the steps and rolled up the back door of the truck. "We'll need just three of the step ramps, once we back the truck around. I'll get them, you bring the hoist."

  Mikey climbed into the front of the truck and got the two buttons, activated both and dropped them in his pocket.

  Ramps in place, he touched the door pad, and they swung open for him. Slick, having a God to do the tricky bits.

  There were pictures and statues all over the place.

  The single horse was, unfortunately, up on a pedestal. Mikey cursed and went back to the truck for another ramp.

  Igor was petting the statue of the two foals, one rearing and one kicking. "Aren't they purty?"

  "Yeah. I gotta say this guy has good tastes in art. Look at that bull!"

  Igor sniffed at the angry bull and patted the foal good bye. He pushed the engine hoist up the ramp and looped the chain around the horse. Mikey worked the lever, and the hydraulics did their thing. The horse came off the pedestal, and they very carefully rolled it down the ramp, Igor straining, and Mikey standing by with a wedge in case the hoist started rolling too fast. Igor started rolling the horse across the floor, and Mikey grabbed the ramp and hauled it back to the truck. He hustled back to help maneuver the horse through the doors, then Igor stopped while he backed the truck around and up to the steps. The ramp was more of a bridge, not too much of an uphill fight. As soon as Mikey had it secure, Igor walked across it, grunting with the weight of a foal statue.

  "Igor. Bad idea. We can't sell something like that, we'll get caught and end up in jail."

  "It's for Kipper."

  The little girl. His niece, or whatever. Good Grief.

  "Oh, what the hell . . . " Mikey got back to the horse and started pushing it along the sidewalk. Igor walked past him, and he looked back in disgust as the big man went back inside. "Igor . . . "

  As he'd feared, the big man came back with the other foal. As he strained and walked, Mikey went back and shut the doors, hitting the lock pad. He pushed the horse halfway to the truck before Igor got back and helped him push it the rest of the way, up the slight incline of the ramp and into the truck. Mikey wedged the wheels of the hoist, stowed the ramp and rolled the doors closed. He climbed up to the cab and drove away. The first car to almost hit him reminded him, and he turned the buttons off. Some times being unnoticeable was dangerous. But when he turned into the God of Peace's street, he turned it back on. No need to attract the attention of the neighbors . . .

  The Golden Boy's damn rock paths were a real pain to roll the hoist over. But Igor grabbed the horse and pulled it upright as Mikey released the hydraulics, and there it was. All done.

  They wheeled the hoist out and drove off. They dropped the engine hoist and the foal statues off at Igor and Dan's place, and Mikey took the truck to his friend, who would return it in the morning.

  He walked home, feeling a pleasant sense of accomplishment. The two foal statues in Igor's back yard were a bit worrisome, but it wasn't like he was going to try to sell them or anything.

  In the morning a messenger came by with a package for him. Mikey tipped him and sat back in satisfaction to count his money. It was even more than he'd expected, and he split it up and hid it in various places, and took a wad to the friend to reimburse him for the truck rental, with a nice bonus so he'd jump at the chance to do Mikey another favor sometime.

  Then he drove to Igor's, and joined the family in admiring the foals.

  Their house had been their parents'. Igor lived mostly in the big master bedroom, and Dan used the three smaller bedrooms and the garage. Back and front yards were for spare parts and projects being worked on. But the corner that had been cleared out to be Kipper's play area sported the two foals, and the little girl was delighted. She climbed up and rode on the rearing foal, then climbed across to the kicking one, giggling manically.

  Vena was shaking her head. "They must be worth some money . . . "

  Mikey shook his head. "Nah, perk of the job, but I'd get into trouble if they showed up for sale. Some people you just don't want to look unappreciative around, you know?"

  Vena nodded. Like all petty crooks, they lived in the cracks between the law of the land and the law of organized crime. And sometimes the law of gangs and gods, too. You had to get along with all of them, else you got crushed between them.

  Scandia was no worse, and from all he'd heard, a bit better than any of the other large cities.

  With his new found prosperity, Mikey figured he was set for the rest of the year. No taking chances, he'd scope out some possible high return targets, do a really thorough job and . . .

  "Hey! Mikey! Man wants to see you."

  Oh hell, one of Doscompos's men. Just what he needed.

  Not that he was stupid enough to ignore the summons.

  "A little birdie whispered in my ear." The big man leaned forward in his chair and put his elbows down on the desk. "An' you know what he said? He said you'd made a big score, and hadn't even remembered your old friends, who keep you and your good friends and their families safe in their beds."

  "Ummm . . . "

  "Why don't you go think about it? Think about the local widows and orphans, and donate generously to them."

  "Uhh . . . " Mikey could see his money swirling down the drain. "I, uh, got some real nice stuff that needs a buyer, but you know, maybe being the smart man you are, you'd appreciate the art, know where it could be sold for more money. For the widows and orphans, you know?"

  "Really." Doscompos looked unconvinced.

  "I'll, uh, bring it by tomorrow, you can decide for yourself. I mean, what do I know about art?"

  Snort. "Now that's the truth. Show me what you've got."

  Oh. Bloody. Hell.

  As he walked out, Mikey started turning explanations over in his head. Actually, it was easy. Wait until school was in, and offer Vena money. All he'd have to do then was get one of those damn heavy foals into a vehicle of some sort.

  He caught a horse drawn tram for a few blocks to save his strength, and cut over a street to his apartment . . .

  The big steamer limo was waiting for him. The door opened as he walked by. "Get in." The chauffeur drove off with a hissing from the steam cylinders.

  "Sir?" Mikey looked at the Golden Boy uncertainly.

  "It's not often that I admit to a mistake, but some news I've received makes it necessary for Artie to rejoin my circle of friends. I need to completely divert his suspicions of me. Do you have any ideas about how to manage that?"

  "Hmm, gotta pin it on someone else. There a fellow, mex syndicate, big cat . . . he'd be easy to blame it on; he collects art. Maybe if you just mentioned his name, as someone you'd heard was in the black market? Even though he didn't recover his statue, he'd think this fellow was responsible . . . I still have that button that opened the doors, I could drop it off there, to make it more obvious . . . I don't see why my name should come into it, but I could take a vacation, maybe a cruise or something . . . "

  "What an excelle
nt idea. What's his name?"

  "Estaven Doscompos. He has a warehouse, Ed's Storage on East Halleluiah Street. I'll, umm, have everything there by noon tomorrow."

  "Excellent. Perhaps I can manage lunch with the man." The Golden Boy simply handed over a box and tapped on the chauffeur's window. The man pulled over and Mikey stepped out, and walked away without looking back.

  "I am in so much trouble." He reluctantly turned up the street to Igor and Dan's house.

  "I don't like the kicking horse." Kipper met him halfway down the block. "He's no fun to ride."

  "Hmm, maybe I should take him away and bring back one that would be fun?"

  "I want a pinto pony. A real live one. But Mommy says no, and Daddy's in trouble again."

  Once he made it inside the house, it was clear that Vera was upset.

  "Dan won't ever be able to hold a job. He's never going to overcome this. We can't pay the taxes, we just can't and we're three years behind and owe more than the house could possibly be worth and I don't care how big the houses are that they are building three blocks away. It not fair!"

  Vera usually saw the sunny side of everything, so Mikey started worrying seriously. "What is it this time?"

  "He got a bit of work at Milt's garage, because they had two mechanics out sick. He was test driving a car after fixing the brakes and crashed it. It wasn't his fault, but they said he'd been drinking."

  And Dan always does drink. Mikey bit his lip. Could he use this?

  His eye caught something in the paper scattered around the living room.

  He picked it up and tapped it. "How about emigrating? This George Scooner Company has a pretty good reputation, and you know there won't be many organized shops out there."