Bad Gods, page 40
“I believe the word is ‘spying,’” I said. “And, no offence intended, but were you drinking before I got here? Because, me? I’m not the discreet type. Nor am I particularly inclined to go about things in the approved fashion. I can hardly imagine anyone less suited.”
“Aside from all the reasons I have just given, that is why I am inclined to think you might be precisely suited.”
“You... what?”
“Madam Steel...”
“Oh, hells, you might as well go back to Babylon.”
He raised his glass. “Let me put it this way. The Diplomatic Section, or some version of it, is as old as Scalentine. And that has its advantages, in terms of experience, and knowledge. But it also has massive disadvantages.”
“‘The right orders, correctly signed’?” I said.
“Indeed. That sort of attitude can be a dangerous drag on getting things done. You do not seem to suffer from that kind of... over-caution.”
That time, I did laugh.
I said, after another glass, that I’d think about it.
And I will.
But I’m going home to the Lantern, first, and I’ll invite the Chief to eat supper with me and the crew. He’s one of us, now.
It’s the best life can offer. Better than godhead any day. Good food, good drink and good companions, safe under a friendly roof.
THE END
Acknowledgements
A list like this is always incomplete and will no doubt riddle me with guilt when I realise who else I haven’t mentioned, when it’s too late. However.
My parents, for bringing me up in a house full of books and trying to encourage me even when they didn’t know why I wanted to write this weird stuff. My sisters, for their constant support. Michelle Crawford, for being a wonderful teacher. The Noises Off bunch – you know who you are. The extraordinary T Party Writers (http://t-party.org.uk/) – I really couldn’t have done it without you.
Martin Owton for constant nudging. Sarah Ellender, superlative friend, muse, and ever-absorbent shoulder; and Luke, who lets me appropriate her a lot. My lovely agent, John Jarrold. The fabulous people at Solaris.
Dave, for more than I can possibly say. Thanks, sweetie.
And you, dear reader, for being interested enough to read at least this far.
About the Author
Gaie Sebold was born in the US to an American father and English mother, and has lived in the UK most of her life. She now resides in that bit of South East London known as ‘not as bad as New Cross.’ She began writing shortly after learning to read, and has produced a large number of words, many of them different. She has worked as a cleaner (don’t laugh, Mum), secretary, till-monkey, stage-tour-manager and editor, and now works for a charity and runs occasional writing workshops. She is an obsessive reader, enthusiastically inefficient gardener and occasional poet. She has a wonderful boyfriend, a paranoid cat and too much stuff.
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Gaie Sebold, Bad Gods
