It wasn’t necessary to take off the thermal gear. Tibet and the part of Hell where Sam had arrived were one and the same when it came to winter temperatures. The only difference was that in Gehenna, at least, it was always winter. Seven eighths of Hell burned for sixteen months a year, and he, Time help him, had chosen to come to the one eighth that didn’t.
Gehenna was a city with a lot of history. He knew that, because he was an integral part of that history. He’d built most of the place, after all. It rested in the far north of the planet, and for eleven months a year it saw sunlight for a maximum of five hours. The rest of the world, save for another small patch of ice on the southern pole, could claim the opposite. It hardly ever saw night.
In Sam’s lifetime Gehenna had been a village, then a town, then a city with a castle, then a pile of rubble, then rebuilt, then once more reduced, then rebuilt with city walls and a standing army, and never defeated again, although people tried.
Oh, how they tried.
But he’d been careful. Not only did he now have a resident Prince and council, but a network of spies and messengers. He could hear of an attack months beforehand, and travel Earth until the day it was due, to return to Gehenna in time to lay waste the approaching army with all the fiery tricks of his specialised trade.
Once, he’d ruled full time as king. But in recent centuries he’d become less an administrator and more a part-time emergency worker, as Gehenna, after years of nurturing, had come to do without him except in times of great crisis. He trusted the Prince and the council to manage their own affairs, and reasoned that after thousands of years of Hellish cuisine, and washing in water with bits of ice in it, he’d earned the right to Earth, caviar and central heating. Not being needed any more made him very grateful.
[…]
Climbing a flight of stairs he marched past stony walls hung with tapestries to keep the heat in, towards a wing of the huge Gehenna fortress where the fires always burnt. The tapestries depicted frost demons doing various things to their enemies that Sam didn’t want to look at. He was familiar with them, and they still sickened him.
He came to a large wooden door guarded by two demons, strode up to it and hammered loudly. It opened immediately.
Of the two people in the room, one was very old, one quite young. The elder lounged in a padded chair by a fire, wearing a mild smile that never waned. He’d been playing cat’s cradle, relentlessly patient, moving in and out of shapes with the concentration of a master craftsman. His long blue robe was frayed around the hem, and he wore fluffy slippers over a pair of outrageously coloured socks.
Sam, as he entered, was fixed with the old demon’s unchanging smile, and the same ancient eyes that never showed emotion. This demon’s voice never rose in anger. This demon had never desired the bloodlust of slaughter or killed his own wife for disobedience. This was the necessary demon, who filled the unsung post that the silent thinkers of the world – the children who never wanted to play the violent games in the playground or who invariably handed in their homework on time – always fill: civil servant. Court Vizier. Old Beelzebub. The power behind the throne.
No one knew he embodied such a power, but Sam knew. And Beelzebub knew. They could read the knowledge in each other, through each measured nod, and in each level word that revealed nothing save what it left unsaid.
The younger demon was in every way Beelzebub’s opposite. He didn’t even look up as Sam entered, but continued pacing round a map laid out on a table. Sam saw little wooden blocks with flags in them, and sighed inwardly. A child was playing with his toys again.
This younger demon wore long blue and white robes with trailing sleeves and lavish embroidery that, for all that they made him look regal, also gave the impression of a boy playing with his mother’s wardrobe. Nevertheless, this was that same Prince who had intrimidated many a baron into submission and had won his crown by slaying his brothers in duel after duel. He radiated energy as always, brow crinkled in a frown and fingers drumming up and down his sword.
And yes, he was a good Prince, thought Sam.
[…]
“Ah,” said Prince Asmodeus. “You’re back. Had a nice time on Earth?”
“Mildly interesting.”
Beelzebub was watching, silent as always. “Tell me,” demanded Asmodeus, “do you think I ought to send a demand to Belial, ordering him to withdraw his forces from the Clawed Pass, or should I go for a surprise attack?”
Sam wandered to the table and looked down at the map. “If you send a demand to Belial,” he replied evenly, “he’ll refuse it as an act of stubbornness.”
“A surprise attack, then?”
“I doubt if it’ll be a surprise. Belial has been looking for the right opportunity to invade for years. I don’t advise giving it to him.”
“Hum.” Asmodeus strode round to the other side of the map. “The Clawed Pass protects one of the best slave routes. The desert beyond is relatively undefended after his damned fort – the slave raiders would have a wonderful time if they can only get there.”
“I won’t help you take slaves.”
“No, you probably won’t,” he said sourly. “You don’t seem to do anything, do you? You’re never here.”
That’s because I’ve given up on you, my boy. “Would you rather I was here? Ruling as once I ruled? Wearing another crown?”
Asmodeus glanced to Beelzebub for help against this attack on his status. But the old demon had frozen over even more than usual and was staring into the flames. Though the Prince struggled to find a suitable answer, none came. Angry, with embarrassment making him more so, he strode towards the door, mumbling something about ‘state business’ as he went. As childish a tantrum as Sam had ever seen.
“Don’t provoke Belial to more war,” warned Sam, but Asmodeus had already closed the door.
Sighing, Sam sank onto the fireside chair facing Beelzebub, folding his legs up so that his chin rested on his knees and he was no larger than a child. “Why did we crown him?”
“Because demons acknowledge physical strength only. Because they want for Prince someone ruthless enough to kill his own brothers, and because we too want a man ruthless enough.” He was giving the answer Sam had heard many times before.
The old demon added, “You’re spending longer and longer on Earth. Are you finally giving up on us?”
“I don’t know. But I’m sorry anyway.”
“No. I am the sorry one.”
They sat in silence a while longer.
“Bubble, there may be bigger trouble coming than we thought,” said Sam finally. Bubble was the name he always used, partly to infuriate his companion, partly out of fondness, partly because he’d worn so many names himself he’d got into the habit of applying different ones to others.
“Bigger than Asmodeus waging another futile war on Belial?”
“Much. My family is at war again.”
[…]
Beelzebub looked worried, a flicker across his otherwise serene face. But even a flicker was so unusual that Sam was immediately alarmed.
“What is it?”
“Oh – anxieties. I’m growing old, you know. Perhaps it’s only me, but Asmodeus is becoming hard to control.”
“Do you control him?”
The demon gave a knowing smile, sharing in the secret that only they knew. So obvious was this secret, so blatant and so simple, that no one else had seen it. Sam had often said that the best place to hide was in the open.
“Of course not. I…
influence his decisions.”
“And it’s becoming harder?”
“Yes. Half of my influence stems from you, and you’re not here.”
Sam felt a start of guilt at this simple statement. “I will be. All I need is a little time to deal with whatever Freya wanted me to do.”
“At least,” said Beelzebub with a smile, “doing what she wanted was never a problem for you.”
But you, old demon? thought Sam as he trudged the last few steps up to his flat. In twenty-four hours he’d been to Devon, Tibet and Hell. Returning to London had a sense of homecoming, and it was with relief that he unlocked the door.
Have you got time? Sometimes I forget how soon you people die.But he didn’t forget now. As he lay down to sleep he remembered things he’d rather not. He’d been arrogant in misusing the years, when he was younger. He’d let everything move at a snail’s pace, forgetting that by the time one flower bloomed, the other would have withered.
He didn’t forget. Remembering Annette and others, he thought,
Mortal child, why did you have to grow so old?~Catherine Webb, Waywalkers