A Farce To Be Reckoned With Page 12

  "The matter has not escaped our attention," said Zeus. "What about it?"

  "You know of this immorality play that the demon Azzie is trying to stage?"

  "I've heard about it," Zeus said. "Seems a cute idea to me."

  "If it has the effect on mankind that I expect, it will serve you no better than it will us."

  "How do you figure? We Greek deities don't have much truck with notions of Good and Evil."

  "This scheme is beyond Good and Evil."

  "Well… So?"

  "This scheme is not only amoral, it undermines the idea that Character is Fate."

  "What? What was that?" Zeus asked.

  "I thought that would gain your attention," Michael said. "But that is not all. Not only is Azzie's play going to prove that Character is not even Fate, but also it will demonstrate that the Unexammed Life is Well Worth Living."

  "That is too much!" Zeus said. "How can we put a stop to it?"

  "We need to pursue the tactics of delay," Michael said. "There's nothing I can do personally. I have already been warned by Ananke. But if you — or, better, one of your children—would care to do a little favor for me…"

  "It would involve the Cyclops," Michael said. "I would have something similar to what Phoebus set up for Odysseus. Only this time better. After that I'll have another little job for whoever among you does storms and rain and high wind."

  Athena thought a while, then said, "We divided that function among many gods, including Poseidon and you yourself, great Zeus."

  "That's true," Zeus said. "Well, we'll assign the weather job to someone. Ares, how would you like a really natural way of making war?"

  "As long as it hurts people, it's okay with me," said Ares.

  "Now listen up," Michael said. "There are a few points you need to know about weather making."

  Chapter 3

  A woman's voice cried, "Found it!" and there followed a click. Moments later came the sounds of a fence falling.

  Oliver rose to his feet to explore the limits of his confines.

  There were no limits. So he began walking.

  He wasn't sure where he was going, but since he had a Moronia spell he figured it would all come out all right. The spell pulled and tugged at him, and there was no doubt as to what direction he was intended to walk. He became aware that he was covering great distances. The spell began tugging him to the left, and he followed it.

  Soon he was on a beach. He continued walking, and after a while he saw a great cave. There was something forbidding about that cave, and he thought to give it a wide berth, but then he saw a rustic sign nailed up above its entrance: RINGHOLDERS WELCOME. So he went in.

  A giant sat on a stool just inside the doorway. "Have you got the ring?" the giant asked.

  "Sure do," Oliver said, and showed it.

  The giant studied it carefully. "Good, you're the one."

  The giant got up and rolled a boulder toward the entrance of the cave.

  "What did you do that for?" Oliver asked.

  "Orders," said the giant, sitting down again on his stool.

  "So what happens now?" Oliver asked.

  "Believe me, you don't want to know."

  "But I do want to know. Tell me!"

  "I eat you," the giant said.

  "You're not serious!"

  "I am perfectly serious. Did you ever know a giant to kid around?"

  Oliver said, "I've never done you any harm."

  "It's got nothing to do with that."

  "What has it to do with, then?"

  "Sorry, buddy, but I've got the work order right here. Eat the guy with the ring. That's what it says."

  "What guy with what ring?" Oliver asked.

  "It doesn't say. Just 'the guy with the ring.' "

  "But that could be anyone."

  "Look, buddy, maybe they didn't have time to spell it out any more than that."

  "But what if you get the wrong guy?"

  "Well, that would be somebody's tough luck, but it wouldn't be my fault if I did."

  "Of course not," Oliver said. "But they'd blame you anyway."

  "How do you figure?"

  "Don't they blame you anyway when something goes wrong, whether it's your fault or not?"

  "You got that right," the giant said. He moved back into the cave. He had an easy chair in back, and a bed and a lantern.

  Oliver looked around for a weapon, but there wasn't anything he could use. He did see, though, that a piece of paper was pinned to the giant's shirt.

  "What's that attached to your shoulder? " Oliver asked.

  "It's the dispatch ticket they gave me."

  "What does it say?"

  "Just that I'm to stay here till the guy with the ring shows up."

  "Does it say anything else?"

  "Not that I can see."

  "Let me look."

  The giant didn't think this was such a good idea. He was protective of his dispatch ticket, and he wasn't about to show it to some stranger. Especially not one he was going to eat.

  Oliver could understand all that, but now he was determined to get a look at the ticket. The only thing he could think of "was to offer the giant a back rub.

  "Why should I want a back rub?" the giant asked suspiciously.

  "Because it feels good, that's why."

  "I feel okay," the giant said, though it was apparent he didn't.

  "Sure," Oliver said, "I can see that you feel okay. But what's okay? Okay isn't much. It's almost nothing at all. How would you like to feel good?"

  "I don't know if I need this," the giant said.

  "How long is it since you felt good? I mean really good?"

  "I guess it's been quite a while. Nobody cares how a giant feels. Nobody even thinks a giant has feelings.

  No one inquires about his health or his general state of mind. People think giants are stupid, but we're smart enough to know that people don't give a damn about us."

  "You got that right," Oliver said. "What about the back rub?"

  "Okay," the giant said. "But do I gotta take off my shirt?"

  "Not if you don't want to."

  The giant lay down on the long slab of rock that he used for a bed. During the day, he made it up into a couch with boulders that resembled pillows.

  Oliver pushed up the giant's shirt. He began to pound and knead the giant's back, gently at first, but then with more force as the giant complained he couldn't feel a thing. Oliver pounded and slapped and hammered, all the time trying to get a look at the ticket attached with a bronze staple to the left shoulder of the shirt.

  At last he was able to make out what was written on the ticket: "This giant is vulnerable only under the left armpit, which is unarmored due to the need for ventilation. The giant should be careful not to let anything near this area." There was a manufacturer's mark under the writing, but it was blurred.

  So that was something, but not really enough, because Oliver had no idea how he was going to get at the giant's left armpit. Even the right one was inaccessible.

  A shadow crossed the cave door, and Oliver looked up. Standing there was a tall, well-dressed Italian-looking fellow.

  "Hi, there, I'm Aretino," the man said. "Azzie sent me. If you're quite finished with your massage, do you think we could get back to work?"

  "Who's that?" the giant asked sleepily.

  "Don't be alarmed," Oliver said. "It's someone for me."

  "Tell him to go away. After the massage I'm supposed to eat you."

  Oliver rolled his eyes and took his hand from the giant's back long enough to make an imploring gesture.

  Aretino now became aware of the giant. He walked slowly into the cave, keeping alert in case there were any more giants around. He whispered to Oliver, "Is he armored?"

  "Yes," said Oliver. "Everywhere but his left armpit."

  "You're going to have to catch him stretching."

  "Sure. But how?"

  Aretino whispered, "Are there any grapes around?"

  "
I'll ask," Oliver said, catching on at once.

  "Grapes? What do you want with grapes?"

  "Last meal before I die. It's the custom."

  "I never heard of it. But I guess we could find you some grapes. That was a pretty good massage."

  The giant heaved himself to his feet. "Come with me." He led Oliver outside. Quite near the cave was a very tall grape arbor.

  "I can't reach them," said Oliver.

  "Here, let me hand you down some." The giant stretched out his arm, in a movement that exposed his armpit. Aretino threw Oliver his sword; Oliver caught it. The giant's arm was still up there. But it was the right arm. Oliver hesitated.

  "Go for it anyway!" Aretino called out.

  Oliver gritted his teeth and plunged the sword into the giant's armpit. It was armored, just as he'd feared, but not very well armored. Aretino's sword passed into it.

  "Ouch! What did you do that for?"

  "I had to. You were going to kill me."

  "I would have changed my mind."

  "But how was I to know that?"

  The giant fell to the ground. He gnashed his teeth. "I suppose I should have expected this. Whoever heard of giants winning? By the way, that candlestick you've been looking for. I've got it in the back of the cave." He gave a convulsive heave and was dead.

  "Quick!" Aretino said. "Get the candlestick!"

  Oliver ran back into the cave and found the candlestick behind a boulder. Now he had the ring, the key, and the candlestick. He took two steps forward and recoiled.

  Aretino was gone. An entirely different man was standing in front of him.

  Chapter 4

  Who are you?" Oliver asked. "Your second-in-command, sir," the man said. "Globus is the name.

  Serving greatness is the game."

  Oliver's peripheral vision kicked in, and he realized he was in a different place. Picking up the candlestick seemed to have done the trick. The beach was gone. He was standing in a large meadow outside a village with mountains to one side and a wide plain to the other. A river sparkled in the middle of the plain; near the edge of the river was an encampment full of men and tents.

  "The White Company," Globus told him.

  The White Company was famous. Its original commander, Sir John Hawkwood, had led this group to many notable victories all over Italy. There were about ten thousand of them, fighting men from every corner of Europe — swarthy Letts, pixie-haired Poles, mustached Germans, Italians with rings in their ears, Frenchmen with marcelled hair, Scotsmen with tufted eyebrows. These troops were the finest, the merriest, the bloodthirstiest, yet also the most obedient to orders, of all the troops in the civilized—even in the uncivilized—world.

  "Where is Hawkwood?" Oliver asked, inquiring after the company's famous commander.

  "Sir John is taking a paid leave in England," Globus told him. "He didn't want to go, but my master paid him a price he couldn't refuse."

  "Who is your master?"

  "I'll not name him directly," Globus said, "except to say that he's a Hell of a good fellow. He bade me give you this."

  From his haversack Globus took a long slim instrument and handed it to Oliver. Oliver recognized it at once as a baton of command, such as a field marshal might carry.

  "This is your insignia of command," Globus said. "You will show this to the men and they will follow you anywhere."

  "Where am I supposed to go?"

  "We are situated just now on the south side of the Alps." Globus pointed in a southerly direction. "It's a straight march down that way and along the river to Venice."

  "All I have to do is lead the men there?" Oliver asked.

  "That's it."

  "Then let us go join the men!" Oliver cried exultantly.

  Chapter 5

  Oliver reached the purple tent that had been reserved for him. Inside, sitting on a campstool and filing his nails with a little silver file, was none other than Azzie.

  "Hi, Chief!" Oliver cried.

  "Welcome to your command, Field-Marshal," Azzie said. "Is everything to your liking?"

  "It's wonderful," Oliver said. "You've gotten me a wonderful bunch of soldiers. I had a look at some of them as I came up here. Real toughs, aren't they? Anybody trying to stand against me is going to be very sorry. Is there anyone I have to fight, by the way?"

  "Of course. On your march south, which I expect you to begin immediately after we finish this briefing, you will encounter the Berserkers of the Death's Head Brigade."

  "They're not tough at all. I gave them that name because it sounds good to the press. Actually they're a bunch of disenfranchised local peasants, farmers from the district who have been put off their land for nonpayment of the exorbitant taxes. They are armed only with axes and scythes, have no armor, no bows and arrows, not even proper lances. Also there are only a couple of hundred of them against your ten thousand. Not only are these men poorly prepared, they are also guaranteed to betray their comrades and flee at the first clash of arms."

  "That sounds okay," Oliver said. "And then what?"

  "Then you'll march into Venice. We'll have the press prepared."

  "The press? Surely I haven't done anything to warrant torture!"

  "You don't understand," Azzie said. " 'Press' is our name for the various persons who make things known to other people: painters, poets, scriveners, that sort of thing."

  "I don't know anything about that," Oliver said.

  "You'd better learn if you expect to become famous for your victories. How will you become legendary unless the writers write about you?"

  "I guess I thought it just happened," Oliver said.

  "Not at all. I've hired the finest poets and writers of the age, headed by the Divine Aretino, to sing your praises. Titian will do a huge propaganda poster of whatever victory we ask him to portray. And I'll hire a composer to write a masque in memory of the victory, whatever it is going to be."

  Azzie rose and walked to the entrance of the tent. A few fat drops of rain were falling, and big black clouds had come up from behind the Alps. "Looks like a bit of weather making up," he said. "It'll blow over soon, no doubt, and you can get your men on the road to Venice. Don't worry about how to address them, or in what language. Just tell Globus and he'll make sure everyone understands."

  "Good. I was worried about that," said Oliver, who hadn't thought about it at all but wanted to sound alert.

  "Good luck," Azzie said. "I suppose I'll see you in Venice by and by."

  PART EIGHT

  Chapter 1

  Darkness held sway over Europe, and nowhere more than in the little inn where Azzie — despite small journeys of reconnaissance and aid—was still busily recruiting people for his play.

  "What news, Aretino?" Azzie asked.

  "Why, sir, Venice already buzzes with rumors that something strange and unprecedented is going on. No one knows what, but there is talk. Venetians are not privy to the secrets of the Supernaturals, though we certainly ought to be, so special are we among the peoples of the world. Citizens meet day and night in San Marco's Square to discuss the latest marvel glimpsed in the sky. But you did not send for me, sir, to discuss gossip."

  "I caught a glimpse of him as I was riding up," Aretino said without much enthusiasm. "It's a rather unusual way to cast a play, taking the first applicant and giving him the role willy-nilly. But no doubt he'll do. Who's next?"

  "We wait and see," Azzie said. "If I am not mistaken, those are footfalls upon the stairs."

  "They are indeed," Aretino said, "and by their sound I judge them to belong to a person of no particular quality in terms of station in life."

  "How can you say so? I'd love to know your secret of distant perceptions."

  Aretino smiled sagely. "You'll note that the boots make a scraping sound, even when heard through the material of a door and from the distance of half a corridor. That, sir, is the unmistakable sound of untanned leather. Since the sound is high-pitched, one must ascertain that the boots are stiff, and that the
one rubbing against the other is like two pieces of metal rubbing together. No man of quality would wear such material, so it must belong to a poor man."

  "Five ducats if you're right," Azzie said. The sound of the boots stopped just outside the door. There was a knock. "Come in," said the redheaded demon.

  The door opened and a man entered slowly, looking both ways as if unsure of his reception. He 'was a tall yellow-headed fellow wearing a ragged shirt of homespun and boots of cowhide that looked as if they had been annealed to his legs.

  "I'll pay you later," Azzie said to Aretino. To the stranger he said, "I do not know you, sir. Are you part of our pilgrimage, or did you come upon us in the dark?"

  "In a corporeal sense, I'm one of the group," the stranger replied, "yet in a spiritual sense I am not one of the party."

  "The fellow hath a pretty wit," Azzie said. "What is your name, fellow, and your station in life?"

  "They call me Morton Kornglow," the man said. "My regular occupation is grooming horses, but I was impressed into the job of valet to Sir Oliver, since I live in his ancestral village and have always been handy with a currycomb. Thus I may fairly claim that I am one of you as far as the physical body is concerned, but a company is generally thought of as composed of like-minded members, and one does not include the dogs and cats who may stray along with them, nor the servants, who are no more than the animals, though perhaps a little more valuable. I must ask you at once, sir, does my lowly station in life bar me from participating in this event? Is your contest open only to nobles, or may a common man with dirt under his fingernails volunteer?"

  "In the Spiritual World," Azzie said, "the distinctions men make between each other are meaningless. We think of you all as souls for the taking, wearing a temporary body and soon to give it up. But enough of that. Would you be one of our seekers of the candlesticks, Kornglow?"

  "I would indeed, sir demon," Kornglow said. "For though I am but a commoner, there is that which I desire. I would go to a bit of trouble to procure it."

  "Name your desire," Azzie said.

  "That'll be enough," Azzie said. "Spare us the rest of your rustic pleasantries and tell me what you want of the lady."