The Disjointed Tales Of Renryre Island

19-1: Don't Mind Me

"Another drink?"

"Certainly."

He watched as the innkeeper meticulously poured a half pint of golden ale, careful to ensure the perfect combination of froth and profit margin. Deklow handed him the mug, and waited, staring at him with uncertainty.

"You are sure we are ready?" asked the innkeeper.

"Absolutely."

Deklow didn't look at all convinced; but he clenched his words behind his grimace.

"I have spent nearly forty years planning this," he added reassuringly. "I have been through every detail a thousand times. In truth, I have been in control for the best part of a decade."

"And if your predictions are wrong? Some minor detail missed?"

"Predictions? I do not predict the future. I calculate it. The universe isn't built upon random events; rather, it is the convergence of predefined variables that produces the result. It is simple mathematics, really."

"If it's so simple," said Deklow, "then why has no one else been able to understand it?"

"Variables, my old friend. I am the result of the perfect combination of variables – infinitely improbable, entirely implausible, and undeniably present. The very paradox of existence."

It wasn't the first time they had discussed the matter, and the innkeeper's face was once again drawing tight in confusion. Deklow, as kind as he was, didn't have the capacity to comprehend the depth of his own existence – not that it was unusual for the gods to be a little dimmer than their immortality would suggest.

"You do want to go home, don't you, Deklow?"

Deklow had found his place on Renryre Island. Working in the inns, he was always close to people, able to help them in the simplest ways – lending an ear or extending a little credit. He'd grown to like the mortals. So much so that he had managed to build a life of synonymous self co-existence, where he could be present in numerous places at once, all but monopolising the island's tavern industry, capitalising on the fact that most punters always returned to the same bar.

"Of course I want to go home... it's just..."

"Yes?"

"What about Lytette? She will never agree to this."

"I have seen to it that she will. In fact, just today, Madrik has been deposited into the desert. The chain of events leading to Lytette's allegiance has already begun."

"What if we fail? What if you fail? The Three will be watching."

They would most certainly be watching. In fact, he was counting on it.

"We won't fail, Deklow. You are the only person who knows, therefore you are the only one who can change the outcome. We won't fail if you do exactly what I tell you to."

"But how can you be sure?" pleaded the innkeeper.

"I have calculated everything. Even the finest of details."

More than that, in fact. He had calculated all the variables, and that was the critical part. He understood every possible outcome. And that meant... well, that's why he was known as the god of time.

"The next forty-five days will go exactly as planned, Deklow."

The innkeeper was momentarily distracted by another guest. He was an important guest, but it wasn't his time yet. Not for another month. The innkeeper soon returned, lowering his voice to avoid having eavesdroppers overhear something they shouldn't.