Free Downfall of the Gods by K. J. Parker Page A

didn’t even bother to reply to that.
    I GAVE HIM the sixty kreuzers; he bought new clothes and shoes, provisions, maps, a sword, lots and lots of rope. “Thank you,” he said, rather grudgingly.
    “You’re welcome.”
    “I’ll pay you back, naturally, if we ever get back home.” I laughed. “Forget it,” I said.
    “No. I pay my debts. It’s a point of honour.” I smiled at his choice of words. “I wouldn’t bother,” I
    said. “It’s not like it was even real money. I just conjured a one-gulden piece out of thin air.”
    He froze. “You paid my fine with counterfeit money.”
    “Well, I suppose, technically—”
    “You stupid—” He gazed at me. “You do realise, the penalty for passing false coin in these parts is death?”
    “Don’t make such a fuss,” I said. “Anyway, they’ll never be able to tell the difference.”
    He wasn’t listening. He was looking back over his shoulder. Out of the city gate rode a squad of troopers in shiny armour. They kicked up a big cloud of dust, and they were heading straight at us. He looked at me.
    “Run,” he said.
    W E SPENT THE next three nights cowering in ditches. “We can’t explain,” he told me, “or talk our way out of it. Passing false coin is what they call an offence of strict liability. If they can prove you were in possession of a counterfeit coin, you swing. That’s it.”
    “Really?” I was shocked. “That’s not justice.”
    He shrugged. “It’s the law. And you can see their point. Counterfeit money wrecks economies.”
    “But we didn’t do anything wrong. Well, you didn’t.”
    “Doesn’t matter. Makes no odds. Strict liability.”
    “And you approve of that?”
    He shrugged. “I believe in the rule of law,” he said.
    Presumably he also believed that the gods don’t bind each other in chains. Humans, eh?
    T HE JURISDICTION OF the loathsome little settlement where we’d committed our dreadful crime ended on the edge of the White Desert. Once we’d set foot on the sand, we were safe.
    He looked out over the endless dunes. “How far—?” “A hundred and seventy-two miles.”
    When he’d gone shopping, he’d bought four quart water-canteens, guaranteed leak and evaporation proof. Unfortunately, what with all the running away we’d been doing, we’d neglected to fill them with water. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You’ve got me with you, remember?”
    He solemnly unslung the canteens from around his neck and threw them away, one by one. “Of course.” he said. “Silly me.”
    “Last stage of the journey,” I said encouragingly. “We’ll be there before you know it.”
    A change came over Lord Archias when we were in the White Desert. He stopped whining and complaining about every last little thing. In particular, he stopped being so very difficult about accepting help. When he was thirsty, he let me materialise silver jugs of iced water, which he gulped down and thanked me for. Encouraged by this, when we stopped for the evening I conjured up a nice comfy tent, with silk cushions and a dinner table loaded down with his favourite dishes. It gets very cold in the desert at night, so I cast a warming aura round the tent, and he didn’t bat an eyelid. Of course, I couldn’t resist asking him why the change in attitude.
    “I’ve given up,” he replied, and helped himself to more cold roast lamb.
    “Given up,” I said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    He swallowed his mouthful and washed it down with iced jasmine tea. “It means,” he said, “that suddenly you are my shepherd, wherefore shall I lack nothing. You make me lie down in green pastures. Why, I can no longer be bothered to speculate. Any minute now I expect you’ll change your mind or simply forget all about me and go swanning off again, and then I’ll die of heatstroke. So, why not enjoy what’s going while I can?” I was shocked. “What sort of an attitude is that?”
    “I think it’s called pragmatism,” he said