A Farce To Be Reckoned With Page 11

The logical place to interrupt him was somewhere before he emerged from the forest. She could intercept his path. But what then? She needed a way to stop him, but a way to do that without harming him.

  "I've got it!" she said. She packed up her scrying equipment and conjured an afreet of her acquaintance.

  The afreet soon appeared, large and black and with an ill-tempered look. Ylith explained briefly what was going on, and how Sir Oliver had to be stopped or delayed.

  "He must be stopped," Ylith said to the afreet.

  "I'll be happy to oblige," said the formerly evil being who had recently converted to the side of Good.

  "Shall I strike him dead?"

  Creatures like this still had a certain propensity toward violence, which was looked down upon in quieter times when a certain liberalism was allowed to reign in Heaven. But this was not a quiet time, and the feelings of the intellectuals in Heaven could no longer be worried about.

  "No, that's going too far," Ylith said. "But do you know that roll of invisible fencing we took from Baal's magicians some years ago?"

  "Yes, madam. It was declared an anomaly and stored in one of the warehouses."

  "Find out which warehouse and get yourself a good- sized piece of it. Here is what I want you to do with it."

  Chapter 8

  Oliver sat up slowly and said to himself, "Wow, what was that all about?" He clutched his head where a precursor to a migraine was tapping busily. Something had gone very wrong. He wasn't sure what it was, but he knew it was bad.

  He stood up and looked around. The place was almost perfectly featureless, and even though there was

  "Could you tell me where I am?"

  The owl cocked his head to one side. "Difficult to say. It's rather a sticky wicket, old boy."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean it's plain you've gotten yourself surrounded by an invisible fence."

  Sir Oliver didn't believe in invisible fences. Not until he walked up and poked gingerly at its supposed surface.

  His finger didn't go through it.

  There seemed to be no way around it.

  He mentioned this to the owl.

  "Of course," said the owl. "That's because it's a sidetrack."

  "A sidetrack? Where does it lead?"

  "Sidetracks only go around in circles. It's in their nature."

  "But that's not right. I can't get sidetracked now. I need to find a magic horse."

  "Nothing like that here," the owl said.

  "Actually, I'm looking for a golden candlestick."

  "Sounds nice," said the owl, "but I don't have one."

  "Even a magic ring would be nice."

  The owl gave a guilty start. "Oh, the ring! I've got it right here."

  The owl burrowed in his feathers, found a ring, and gave it to Oliver.

  Oliver turned it in his fingers. It was a pretty ring, with a large sapphire in a plain gold setting. He thought he could see shadows move in the gem's depths.

  "You shouldn't stare at that for too long," the owl said. "It's meant for doing magic, not for looking at."

  "What magic? What am I supposed to do with it?"

  "Haven't they told you?"

  "No."

  "Well, then," the owl said, "someone has been very remiss. I think you have every right to complain."

  Oliver looked around, but there was no one to complain to. Only the owl.

  "That's a Hell of a note," Sir Oliver said. "How am I supposed to have fine adventures if I'm stuck here?"

  "We could play a hand or so of patience," the owl suggested. "To pass the time."

  "I don't think so," Oliver said. "I don't play card games with birds."

  The owl took a small deck of cards out from under his wing and began to shuffle them. He gave Oliver a quizzical look.

  "Go ahead, deal," Oliver said.

  Soon Oliver was engrossed in the game. He had always liked patience. It helped to pass the time.

  "Your deal," said the owl.

  Chapter 9

  Back at the inn, Azzie wiped his crystal ball and gazed into it. It remained cloudy until he remembered to say, "Show me what Sir Oliver is up to." The crystal ball flashed to acknowledge the message, and the cloudiness was replaced by a scene of Oliver in a gray foresty place, playing patience with a screech owl.

  "This wasn't supposed to happen," Azzie said to himself. He needed Aretino here to lend a hand.

  "Where's my messenger?" the demon inquired.

  The door opened and a small person walked in.

  "Take this note to Aretino at once." Azzie scrawled a note with his fingernail on a parchment pad: "Come at once." He folded it twice and handed it to the messenger.

  "Where will I find him?"

  "In Venice, no doubt, carousing on my money."

  "Could I have a spell to get there with?"

  "You're supposed to have your own spells," Azzie grumbled. "But take a general one off the table there."

  The messenger pocketed several from a cut-glass bowl. "To Venice!" he said to the spell, and he was off.

  In his rush, Azzie had not recognized Quentin, who had taken this chance to get himself into the action.

  Chapter 10

  In Venice, meanwhile, Pietro Aretino had found that Azzie's cash advance had come in very handy.

  Aretino had always wanted to throw a really good party, one that would stand the dear old city on its ear and demonstrate yet again what a wonder Pietro Aretino was. This party had been going on for several nights and days — ever since Azzie had left.

  Aretino had imported a German band for his festivities. The men had loosened their doublets and were drinking rather a lot. It was a gay and friendly time. Too bad it had to be interrupted by a messenger.

  The messenger was quite young. A child, in fact, dressed in nightclothes, a handsome young boy with a full head of blond curls. It was Quentin, still slightly breathless from hanging on while the spell he had taken from Azzie whirled him over the Alps and down to Venice.

  When the servant brought him to Aretino, he made a sweeping bow and said, "Aretino, I bring you a message."

  "I really don't need it just now," Aretino said. "This is all turning out quite amusing."

  "It's from Azzie," Quentin said. "He wants you to come at once."

  "I see. And who are you?"

  "I'm one of the pilgrims. You see, when my sister Puss, that's short for Priscilla, went to sleep, I decided to poke around a little myself. I wasn't really asleep, you see. I hardly ever am. So I went up to the second floor. I saw a door and I peeked in, and the next thing I knew, I was in the messenger business."

  "But how are you able to get around?" Aretino asked. "You are a mortal like me, aren't you?"

  "Of course. I took a handful of spells from Azzie."

  "I hope that's true," Aretino said thoughtfully. "What does Azzie require of me?"

  "Your presence, immediately."

  "Where is he?"

  "I'll take you to him. By magic spell," Quentin said.

  "Are you quite sure those spells are trustworthy?"

  Quentin didn't dignify this with an answer. He had gotten quite accustomed to spells in a short time, and he could hardly wait to tell Puss that traveling by domestic spell was no big deal.

  Chapter 11

  Azzie had planned to celebrate when Sir Oliver was finally on his way through the passageway, for it meant that his immorality play was well begun. All Aretino had to do was observe Oliver's progress and then record it. But no sooner was the knight launched than it became obvious that he was experiencing difficulties.

  Azzie lost no time looking into what had gone wrong. He traced Sir Oliver's journey into the realm of faery, utilizing those telltale signs by means of which Evil is able to follow the progress of Innocence. And so Azzie went to the strange realm in the forest in which the lands of reality and those of faery were commingled.

  After a long tramp through the gloomy corridors of the forest, Azzie came to a clearing. At
the end of it he saw Sir Oliver, sitting on a log, with an owl perched opposite him. They were playing cards with a small, narrow deck, one just the right size to permit the owl to hold them in his claws.

  Azzie didn't know whether to laugh or cry; he had intended Sir Oliver for great deeds. Azzie hurried over, saying, "Hey, Oliver! Stop kidding around and get going!"

  But his words weren't heard, and he was unable to get closer than about twenty feet from the pilgrim.

  Some sort of rubbery invisible wall blocked his path. The wall seemed to be soundproof as well, and perhaps was even able to block or distort vision waves, for Oliver was unable to see him.

  Azzie walked around the invisible circle until he came to a point exactly opposite where Sir Oliver's gaze would have to fall if he chanced to look up. Azzie poised himself at that place and waited. After a moment, Oliver's eyes raised, and he seemed to look right through Azzie. He soon returned to his card game.

  Azzie knew something uncanny was going on, something beyond the usual tomfoolery of which he was a master. He wondered who had taken a hand here.

  His first suspicion was of Babriel, but this seemed to be beyond the angel's mental powers to conceive and execute. Who did that leave? Michael? It somehow didn't have Michael's finely polished touch. It was not Michael's sort of thing —but driven to desperation, Michael might be capable of anything.

  That left only Ylith. He wouldn't put it past her! But what, specifically, had she done?

  A moment later, she was standing beside him. "Hi, Azzie," she said. "Unless I miss my witch's guess, you were thinking about me." Her smile was simple and beautiful, and it gave away nothing.

  "What have you done here?" Azzie asked.

  "I thought up a bit of mischief I could do you," Ylith said. "It's standard-gauge invisible fencing."

  "Very cute," Azzie said. "Now take it down!"

  Ylith walked up to the invisible fence and felt around. "That's odd," she said.

  "What's odd?" Azzie asked.

  "I can't find the anomaly that powers the fence. It was supposed to be right here."

  "This is just too much," Azzie said. "I'm going to Ananke."

  Chapter 12

  Ananke had invited her old friends the Three Fates over for tea. Lachesis had baked a cake for the occasion, Clotho had hunted through the souvenir shops of Babylon until she found just the right gift, and Atropos had brought a small book of poems.

  Ananke generally didn't let herself appear in human form. "Just call me an old iconoclast," she was fond of saying. "I don't believe that anything really important should be capable of being pictured." But today, just to be social, and because she liked the Three Fates, she had gotten herself up as a rather large middle-aged German woman in a tailored suit and with her hair in a bun.

  Ananke and the Fates were having their picnic on the slopes of Mt. Icon. Thyme and rosemary perfumed the air of the upland meadows. The sky was a deep blue, and occasional little clouds gamboled by like albino rats.

  Ananke was pouring tea when Lachesis noticed a dot in the sky. It was coming toward them.

  "Look!" she cried. "Someone is coming!"

  "I left word I was not to be disturbed," Ananke grumbled. Who had dared disobey her? As supreme principle in the world, or at least very close to that, Ananke was accustomed to people cowering at her name. She liked to think of herself as She Who Must Be Obeyed, although that was a little grandiose.

  The dot resolved itself into a figure, and the figure, in turn, could soon be seen as a flying demon.

  Azzie made a graceful landing close to the picnic area. "Greetings!" he cried, bowing. "Sorry to disturb you. I hope you are all well?"

  "Tell me what this is about," Ananke said sternly. "It had better be good."

  "That it is," Azzie said. "I have decided to mount a new kind of play in the world, an immorality play, to act as partial counter to the many morality plays which my opponents unleashed upon the world and whose propaganda value is as insensate as it is senseless."

  "You've disturbed my picnic to bring me news of your play? I know you of old, you scamp, and I am not interested in your little games. What does this play have to do with me?"

  "My opponents are interfering with my production," Azzie said. "And you are preferring their side to mine."

  "Well, Good's nice," Ananke said, somewhat defensively.

  "Granted. But I am still allowed to oppose it, am I not? And you are here to make sure I can make my point."

  "Well, that's all true," Ananke admitted.

  "Then you'll stop Michael and his angels from interfering with me?"

  "I suppose so. Now leave us to get on with our picnic."

  And with that, Azzie had to be content.

  PART SEVEN

  Chapter 1

  Michael was in his office, relaxing in Plato's original Ideal Form of an Armchair—the archetype of all armchairs, and by definition the best ever conceived. All he lacked now was a cigar. But smoking was a vice he had given up long ago, so he really didn't lack anything.

  Contentment is as hard for an archangel to find as it is for a man, so Michael was by no means taking this moment for granted. He was enjoying it to the fullest even while wondering, somewhere at the back of his mind, how long this bliss would last.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Michael had a sense that whatever came through was not going to please him. He considered not answering. Or saying, "Go away." But he decided against that. When you're an archangel, the buck stops at your office door.

  "Come in," he said.

  The door opened and a messenger entered.

  The messenger was small, a child with golden curly locks, clad in nightclothes, with a package in one hand and a bunch of spells in the other. It was Quentin, who was getting on with his messenger business with a vengeance.

  "Got a package for the Archangel Michael."

  "That's me," Michael said.

  "Sign here," Quentin said.

  Michael scribbled his signature on the gold-leaf bill of lading Quentin handed him. The boy folded it and put it away, and gave the heavy package to Michael.

  "You aren't an angel, are you?" Michael asked.

  "No, sir."

  "You're a little human boy, aren't you?"

  "I believe I am," Quentin said.

  "Then why are you working in a supernatural messenger service?"

  "I don't really know," Quentin said. "But it's loads of fun. Is there anything else?"

  "I suppose not," Michael said.

  Quentin turned on his spell and was gone.

  Michael scratched his head, then turned to his package. It was wrapped in plain gray paper. He tore it open and removed a large brick made of brass. Turning the brick over, he saw writing. Holding the thing up to the light so he could make out the letters, he read: "Michael! Stop interfering at once with the demon Azzie's play. Go put on your own play if you want, but stop being swinish about Azzie's. Yours faithfully, Ananke."

  Michael put down the brick, his mood entirely ruined. Who did Ananke think she was, giving orders to an archangel? He had never really accepted the notion that Necessity, Ananke, ruled both Good and Bad. Who said it had to be that way? Sloppy planning, that's what it was. He wished God hadn't gone away. He was the only one who could really arbitrate this mess. But He had gone away, and somehow this Ananke person had been left in charge. And now here she was trying to tell Michael what to do.

  "She can't make laws against me like that," Michael said. "Maybe she's Destiny, but she isn't God."

  He decided he'd better do something about it.

  A little checking by Research showed him there were several ways of doing something about Azzie's play. Simple delay might be enough.

  Chapter 2

  Try again," Hephaestus said. "I am trying!" Ganymede said. "I tell you, I can't get through."

  All the gods were clustered around their side of the interface, the other side of which was Pandora's box in Westfall's chambers
on Earth. This was the route Zeus had taken to free himself, and now all of the gods and goddesses wanted out, but the interface refused to allow them through. Hephaestus, the craftsman of the gods, had tried various tricks to enlarge the passage. He had never worked on interfaces before, though.

  It suddenly gave off a faint humming sound, and they all stepped back. A moment later Zeus walked through and stood before them in all his strength and glory.

  "So the great man returns!" Hera said. She always had had a bitter tongue in her mouth.

  "Peace, woman," Zeus said.

  "Easy enough for you to say," Hera said. "You get to play your dirty little games out in the world while we stay imprisoned here in this hateful place. What kind of a chief god do you think you are?"

  "The very best," Zeus replied. "I have not been idle. I have a plan. But you must do what I say, for your very freedom depends on it, and upon your cooperating rather than squabbling as you usually do. I understand Michael the Archangel is coming here soon."

  "Hah! The enemy!" cried Phoebus Apollo.

  "No," said Zeus, "a potential ally. He is going to come here and ask for something. We must speak to him reasonably and do what he requires."

  "And then?"

  "And then, children, it will be our chance to take over the world again."

  "Ah, it's the new fellow!" Zeus said when Michael finally arrived.

  The archangel found it hateful, the way Zeus referred to him as the new fellow — as if he were some recently jumped-up deity, rather than a spiritual being of a power equal to Zeus'.

  "Mind your manners," he said to Zeus. "We still have powers capable of blasting you and your half-naked crew of sybarites to the deepest Hell."

  "We just came from there," Zeus said. "Once the worst has happened, it doesn't have quite the same power over you as before. Anyhow, what did you want to see me about?"

  "You are aware, I suppose," said Michael, "that a new power has entered the cosmic stage?"