Anne Ursu - The Shadow Thieves

So a millennia or three ago Hades locked the doors and threw away the key, metaphorically speaking. No Admittance. No Exit. There would be only one way for mortals to get in, and once that happened, there would be no getting out.

After all, he would say to the Queen, Death is not a place from which to come and go, to stop by for a holiday, for a quick jaunt- Oh, I know, let's stop by Death for a quick bite to eat and maybe some gelato. That'd be splendid.

Through his minions he let word slip about some of the more extreme fates one could meet in his backyard. That, combined with an unforeseen sociopolitical shift in the Upperworld, gave his domain a reputation as a wholly undesirable place to visit. No one willingly goes to a nine-level torture chamber; when your welcome mat says ALL HOPE ABANDON, YE WHO ENTER HERE, it tends to keep out the riffraff.

The Underworld was no hell, of course; at least Hades didn't think so. Sure, if you had been really, really bad (like, in the upper one half of one percent of all time bad), his Department of Eternal Rewards would send you to Tartarus and devise something suitably punitive-monkeys swinging by your entrails for eternity, say-but your average Joe would be just fine.

Really, Hades tried to be a good king. As he said to himself, if his lot in life was to rule the Domain of Death, darn it, he would be the best Domain of Death ruler the world had ever seen. He tried to keep his subjects reasonably comfortable-or at least make sure they were not uncomfortable. After all, they would all be together for a very long time. A very, very long time.

And once Hades passed his Decree for Underworld Preservation and Sanctity, the realm ran very smoothly for a good number of years. The King himself was so much happier without having to deal with mortals, and Immortals (people with god or demon blood) were governed by a strict invitation-only policy that kept out anyone who might mean him ill.

But nothing (other than Death) lasts forever, and as the centuries passed by, the Underworld became a more and more difficult place to manage. The problem was simply the lack of turnover in the population; people kept moving in, but no one ever moved out.

"Times change, and the Underworld must change with them," he would say to the Queen. "We must adapt!"

Hades may have been a Greek god, but that didn't mean his leadership practices had to be ancient. There were any number of great business minds in the Underworld, and Hades could spend as much time as he wanted picking their brains, sometimes literally. You can't manage a burgeoning nether realm on your own, he learned. Not if you want to survive in today's competitive atmosphere. Organize. Delegate. You're only as good as your weakest link.

He began to appoint various Regents and Vice-Regents, Directors and Chairs, luring Administrators from the Universe's ever-growing pool of Immortals with the promise of flexible hours and a good pension plan.

By the turn of the twenty-first century the Underworld had become a vast network of Divisions and Departments and Directories, with plenty of Subdivisions thrown in for good measure. Hades himself could barely keep track of them all, but it did not matter. Every Division and Department had a firm organizational structure, a careful and clear hierarchy that was quite literally etched in stone. The Assistant Managers reported to the Managers, the Managers to the Heads, the Heads to the Directors, the Directors to the Ministers, the Ministers to the Regents, the Regents to the Chancellors, the Chancellors to the Demigods, and the Demigods to the Lord of the Underworld himself. Any Assistant, Manager, Head, Director, Minister, Regent, or Chancellor who violated the carefully conceived management structure or (Zeus forbid) bothered Hades with the petty problems of his Division, would find himself living among the whip-happy Erinyes in Tartarus, where he could spend some time contemplating the benefits of adhering to management protocols.

As a result ruling the Underworld had become a much less hands-on process than it used to be, and Hades, who once tried to visit every corner of his realm, now barely left the Palace. He got daily briefings from Thanatos, his Chief of Staff, and Hypnos, his Domestic Affairs Adviser. The twin brothers really ran the place, and they did such a good job, such a very nice job. So as the Underworld expanded, Hades's duties contracted, and as a result he was able to enjoy the finer things of life. Or rather, death. It's only right. He's a god, after all.

What with everything left to his advisers, and his advisers' advisers, and so on, if there had been any trouble, Hades would really have been the last to hear about it. (The last except perhaps for his lovely bride, Queen Persephone, who did not venture out into the Kingdom at all, nor did she have anything resembling a daily briefing.) But really, how much trouble could there be? The Dead are a listless sort, not prone to revolt-they're Dead, after all. And his management staff had all been carefully screened- though no longer by Hades himself, but surely they had been, hadn't they?

Hadn't they?

There was that one incident. But Hades was sure he had handled it effectively.

Really.

One night not so long ago, on the date of their anniversary, Hades was eating dinner with his wife. This was rare indeed; there were so many social duties involved with being King of the Underworld. Hades always seemed to find himself hosting dinner parties for various visiting Immortal dignitaries, luminaries, and/or personages, but on this particular night Hades wanted to spend some quality time with his wife, his queen, his bride, the love of his life, the answer to all his prayers, in the hopes that she might one day actually speak to him.

Usually on their anniversary or on Persephone's birthday or on Valentine's Day or sometimes Just Because, Hades would throw a large party in honor of the Queen. Unfortunately, the Queen didn't always bother to attend these functions, perhaps thinking that with so many guests he would not notice her absence. But he did. He always noticed. So this year he pronounced it would be just the two of them. Alone. Together. She'd have to come then.

He had their personal chef prepare all her favorites-beginning with a light pomegranate soup because Persephone could not resist pomegranate. He had the table set as if for their finest dinner party. He informed all of his household staff that he was Absolutely Not to Be Disturbed.

Together, the husband and wife sat in their places at either end of the long dining room table, silver spoons clinking against china bowls, crystal goblets filled with the finest of wines, the flames of tall candles twinkling above silver candleholders, silk napkins folded like swans, shadowy servants bringing out large, steaming, silver tureens. The table could seat sixty-six, but on this night it was just the two of them-he in his white tie and tails, and she in a diamond tiara and one of the gowns she'd had imported from Paris (the city, not the man).

"Such a beautiful night, my love," he said.

Persephone sipped her soup.

"You look ravishing this evening."

Persephone took a bite of bread.

"The green makes your eyes look like emeralds."

Persephone coughed and turned to one of the butlers. "Would you ask the King to pass me the salt?"

The butler bowed. "Certainly, madam." He turned to King Hades. "My Lord, would you pass Queen Persephone the salt?"

"Certainly, my dear," said Hades, smiling at Persephone. He reached for the salt shaker, and that's when the heavy dining-room door burst open.

At the sound of the interruption Hades stood up, knocking his tall ebony chair over. The chair hit the ground with a deadened thump, and all the servants in the room jumped. Persephone took a long, languid sip of wine and sat back in her chair. In front of the door had appeared a tall, dark, angular shape clutching a bowler hat.