A Farce To Be Reckoned With

by Roger Zelazny

  "Prizes?"

  "Really, Pietro, get with it. You thought up the candlesticks. Or remembered the story, whichever it was.

  There are seven of them, so we will have seven pilgrims. All they have to do is get the candlesticks, and their dearest wishes will come true. How do you like that?"

  "And not because you did anything to deserve it, either," Azzie said. "Just because you possessed the magical object. That's how things ought to work. Sometimes that's how they do work. At least, that's what our play is going to say. I'm going to tell my volunteers that all they need to do is find the candlesticks and their problems are over. Basically."

  Aretino raised his eyebrows, but nodded and also murmured, "Basically, yes. But how will they get the candlesticks?"

  "I'll give the pilgrims each a spell, and the spell will lead them to the candlesticks."

  "Sounds all right to me," Aretino said. "So we're going to Limbo. Is it very far?"

  "Quite far, by any objective standard," Azzie said. "But the way we do it, it'll take very little time at all. As a playwright you should find this interesting, Pietro. No living man, to my knowledge, has been to Limbo

  — except Dante. You're sure you want to make the trip?"

  "Wouldn't miss it for the world," Aretino said.

  "Then we're off." Azzie made a sign, and the two of them vanished.

  Aretino's first view of Limbo was disappointing. The place was all done up in shades of gray. In the foreground were rectangular blocks that might have been trees, on one of which Azzie stood. Or perhaps they stood for trees. It was hard to tell what stood for what in this place.

  Behind them, triangular blobs, lighter in color and smaller, seemed to indicate mountains. Between the trees and the mountains were areas of crosshatching that might have been anything at all. There was no stir of wind. What little water there was lay in stagnant pools.

  Presently a small dark blob on the horizon attracted Aretino's view. They moved in that direction. Bats squealed around them and little rodents hurried by.

  Chapter 7

  Above the door of castle Krak Herrenium was a sign that said ABANDON THE FANTASIES OF

  REASON, YE WHO ENTER HERE.

  Soft music came from within the castle. The tune was lively, yet it had something of a dirge about it.

  Aretino wasn't exactly frightened—it is difficult for a poet to be frightened when he's walking with his demon. The demon is more scary than the "world around him.

  A man came through a low arched doorway, stooping to fit under. He was a large man, and tall. He wore a billowing cloak over his baldric and jacket; on his feet were peaked boots. He had a bold face with large and expressive eyes. Clean-shaven he was, and there was about his face a look of powerful subtlety.

  The man stepped forward and bowed low. "I am Fatus. Who might you be?"

  "So this is Fatus' castle," Aretino mused. "How fascinating!"

  "I knew you'd like it," Azzie said, "what with your well-known reputation for seeking novelty."

  "My taste for novelty extends itself more to people than to things," Aretino said.

  Fatus' eyes twinkled as he said, "Good day to you, demon! I see you have brought a friend."

  "This is Pietro Aretino," Azzie said. "He is a human."

  "Delighted."

  "We have come on a quest that I think you can help us with," Azzie said.

  Fatus smiled and gestured. A small table and three chairs appeared. There was wine on the table, and a bowl of sweetmeats.

  Fatus said, "Perhaps you would care to have a snack with me while we discuss it?"

  Azzie nodded and sat down.

  They munched and talked, and after a while Fatus made a gesture calling for entertainment. At his signal, a troupe of jugglers came out of a back room. These men were of the breed called legal manipulators, and they threw a circle of torts and reprisals into the air and passed them from hand to hand and up and down and in and out, and Azzie marveled greatly at their dexterity.

  At length Fatus smiled and said, "So much for illusion. What may I do for you?"

  "I have heard," Azzie said, "that you store many old and curious items here in your castle."

  "That I do," Fatus said. "Eventually it all comes to me, and I find room for it, whatever it is. Usually it's dross, but sometimes it's the real thing. Sometimes these treasures are truly prophesied, sometimes the stories are without a shadow of truth to them. I don't care, I make no distinction between real and unreal, realized and unrealized, manifest and hidden. What treasure are you seeking?"

  "Seven golden candlesticks," Azzie said, "given by Satan to Father Adam."

  "I know the ones you are referring to. I have some pictures of them you could look at."

  "I want only the real things," Azzie said.

  "And what do you intend to do with these candlesticks once you have them?"

  "My dear Fatus, I am beginning a great enterprise, and these candlesticks play a part in it. But perhaps you need them for some purpose of your own."

  "Not at all," said Fatus. "I'd be delighted to loan them to you."

  "What I had in mind," Azzie said, "is loaning these candlesticks to humans so that they could get their dearest wishes fulfilled."

  "What a nice idea," Fatus said. "There really should be more of that in the world. How do you plan to carry this out?"

  "With the aid of spells," Azzie said.

  "Spells!" Fatus said. "What a good idea! Spells can make just about anything work."

  "Yes," Azzie said. "That's the wonderful thing about them. Now, if you'll permit, Aretino and I will just collect those candlesticks and then go back to Earth and get the spells."

  Chapter 8

  The next part of this, the procuring of the spells, was best done without human participation.

  Azzie took off at once, using his season pass on the Secret Routes to Hell to get him a direct line through the firmament to the river Styx. The Secret Route dumped him in Grand Central Clearing Station, where all of Hell's destinations are exhibited on the Devil's own bulletin board, with flashing lights to show trains soon to depart. The long banks of trains, many of them steam driven, stretched as far as the eye could see. Each one had a conductor in front, looking impatiently at his watch while eating from his brown-bag lunch.

  "Can I help, sir?"

  Azzie had been approached by a professional guide of the sort that hangs around every great terminus.

  This fellow, a goblin with a cap pulled down over his forehead, pocketed Azzie's coins and took him to the right train.

  Azzie had time to find the club car and have an espresso as the tram pulled out of Hell Station and chuffed direct across the dry Badlands to the river country where Supply was located. In an hour or so they arrived.

  There wasn't much to see. Supply was a flat and monotonous little town, with a scattering of honky-tonks and fast-food joints. Just beyond it lay Supply itself, the great complex on the banks of the Styx that provided the inhabitants of Hell with everything they needed to conduct their nefarious tasks.

  Supply was made up of a series of stupendous warehouses, built on the always-popular super-Quonset model. The ground these warehouses stood upon sloped marshily down to the low muddy banks of the Styx. Culverts, ditches, and water causeways ran from these buildings down to the river. All of Hell's refuse poured directly into the Styx, without any treatment at all. This didn't pollute it; the Styx had been at maximum pollution since it was first brought into existence. Refuse and contaminants from other sources had the paradoxical effect of purifying the River of Hell.

  Azzie found the building where spells "were stored and applied directly to the clerk, a long-nosed goblin, who looked up from his comic book. "What kinda spells? What do you want to do with them?"

  "I need spells to lead people to seven candlesticks."

  "Sounds straightforward enough," said the clerk. "In what way were you planning on having the spells work? The simplest spell merely gives a direction, an addr
ess. It'll typically be a scrap of parchment or a shard of clay or an old scrap of leather on which will be the words, for example, 'Go straight to the crossroads, then turn right and walk until you reach the big owl.' That's a typical instruction from a spell."

  Azzie shook his head. "I want the spells to bring my people to the candlesticks, which will be hidden somewhere in the real world."

  "The assumed real world, I think you mean," the clerk said. "Okay, you want a spell that doesn't just tell its recipient where to go, but also supplies the power to take him there."

  "That's it," Azzie said.

  "How much do your people know about spells?"

  "Very little, I should think," Azzie said.

  "I was afraid of that. Is the spell supposed to offer its holder any protection on his way to the candlesticks?"

  "That would cost more, wouldn't it?"

  "Of course."

  "Then no, no protection. They've got to take some risk."

  "So what we have now is a spell with built-in power that will indicate when the holder is on the right track by clicking or flashing or singing or something like that, and then I suppose will signal when he has reached the right place, the place where the candlestick is."

  "Well, it should do more than signal," Azzie said. "I don't want there to be any doubt about their finding the candlesticks."

  "In that case you're better off going with a half-spell operation."

  "I don't think I know that one," Azzie said.

  "Chaldean. A spell like that comes in two parts. The wizard—that's you — puts half the spell in a place the recipient wants to get to. A place of safety, say. Then let's say the recipient, the holder of the half spell, is in a battle. It grows very dangerous. He turns on the half spell and it spirits him away to where the other half spell is. This is the best way if you want to get someone out of somewhere fast."

  "Sounds good to me," Azzie said. "I can put seven half spells near the candlesticks, and give the other half spells to my people, and when they invoke them, that'll get them there."

  "Precisely. Now, do you also want a set of magic horses?"

  "Magic horses? What on Earth would I want magic horses for? Are they necessary?"

  "Not really, but if you're planning this for an audience the magic horses provide a spirited spectacle. They also add another layer of complication."

  "Not too serious a complication, I hope?" Azzie asked. "I don't know how smart my contestants are going to be. But assuming they're like most humans…"

  "Point taken," said the clerk. "The magic horses complication should be easy enough to manage. And it does add a lot of class."

  "Put me down for seven magic horses," Azzie said.

  "Right," said the clerk, scribbling on an order form. "Now, do you want the horses to have any real magical qualities?"

  "Such as?"

  "Well, extra puissance, nobility, comeliness, ability to fly, ability to talk, ability to metamorphose into another animal— "

  "Those sound like expensive additions."

  "You can have anything you want," the clerk said, "but you do have to pay for it."

  "Make them magic horses then, but without any extra qualities," Azzie said. "That ought to be good enough."

  "Fine. Are there any other complications you want to introduce between the receipt of the half spells and the arriving at the candlesticks?"

  "No, if they just get that bit done, that'll be fine," Azzie said.

  "Okay, what caliber spell?" the clerk said.

  "Caliber? Since when did they come in calibers?"

  "New ruling. All spells must be ordered by caliber."

  "I don't know what caliber I need," Azzie said.

  "Find out," the clerk said.

  Azzie gave the clerk a bribe and said, "Each spell should be able to transport a human being from a location in one realm of discourse to a location in another. Then it needs to take him on to another destination."

  "Then you need double-barreled spells rather than half spells," the clerk said. "Can't ask all that of an ordinary spell. There's a lot of energy required, changing realms of discourse. Let's see, how much do these humans weigh?"

  "I don't know," Azzie said. "I haven't met them yet. Let's say a maximum of three hundred pounds each."

  "The caliber is double if the spell has to move more than two hundred and fifty pounds."

  "Make it two fifty, then. I'll make sure none of them weighs in above that."

  "Okay," the clerk said. He found a scrap of paper and did some figuring. "Let's see if I've got this straight. You want seven double-barreled spells that'll each transport a two-hundred-fifty-pound human

  — and that includes anything he's carrying—to two different spots in two different realms of discourse.

  I'd say it'll take forty-five-caliber spells. Which brand do you want?"

  "There are different brands?" Azzie said.

  "Believe it," said the clerk. "Moronia Mark II is a good make. So's Idiota Magnifica 24. Makes no difference to me."

  "Give me either."

  "Hey, you've got to make the choice yourself. Do I gotta do everything for you?"

  "Make them Idiota spells."

  "We're out of Idiota spells. I expect some more in by next week."

  "I'll take the Moronia spells, then."

  "Okay. Fill in here and here. Sign here. Initial here. Initial to indicate you've initialed yourself. Okay. Here you go."

  The clerk handed Azzie a small white package. Azzie opened it and examined its contents.

  "They look like small silver keys," he said.

  "That's because they're Moronias. The Idiotas look different."

  "Will these work as well?"

  "Some say better."

  "Thanks!" Azzie cried, and he was gone. Back for the weary round back through Grand Central Clearing Station, and then to Earth again. But he was elated. He had what he needed. The legend. The story. The candlesticks. The spells. Now he just needed the people to act out his story. And that ought to be the fun part.

  PART FIVE

  Chapter 1

  On a brilliant morning in June, on an unpaved country road to the south of Paris, a coach and four came round a bend from behind a clump of majestic chestnut trees with a jingling of harness and a pounding of horses' hooves. Aside from the noises made by the horses, and by the creaking of the swaying coach, there was nothing to be heard but the hum of the cicadas and the loud cry of the coachman: "Gee up there, Holdfast!"

  The coach was a big one, painted yellow and red, and it had two footmen on top behind the driver.

  There was a similar coach fifty feet behind it, and behind that, several horsemen moving along at a smart canter. A dozen mules were at the rear.

  Inside the lead coach were six people. Two children — a good-looking young boy of nine or ten, and his sister, a girlwoman of fourteen with a head of crisp red curls and a pert expression on her comely face.

  The others were adults, wedged together uncomfortably but making the best of it.

  The coach had begun to lurch badly. Had one of the following horsemen galloped up beside it, he would have seen that the right front wheel was making a curious looping movement. The coachman felt the change and pulled his horses back just as the wheel came off, and the coach came to rest on its axle.

  The leading horseman, a corpulent, red-faced man, pulled up beside the window of the coach.

  "Hallo! Everybody all right in there?"

  "We're fine, sir," the boy said.

  The horseman bent over and peered inside. He nodded to the adult passengers, but his eyes rested on Puss.

  "I am Sir Oliver Denning of Tewkesbury," he told her.

  "I am Miss Carlyle," she said, "and this is my brother, Quentin. Are you part of the pilgrimage, sir?"

  "I am," the man said. "If all of you will get out of the coach, I'll have my man Watt see what he can do with that wheel." He jerked his head at Watt, a dark little Welshman.

  "We are obli
ged to you, sir," said Puss.

  "Not at all," said Sir Oliver. "We could have a bit of a picnic while Watt gets the wheel back on." His vague glance didn't quite include the other occupants of the coach.

  They found a sunny, grassy spot in a small clearing not far from the coach, and Sir Oliver unfolded a camp blanket that smelled not unpleasantly of horse. He was evidently an old campaigner, because he had victuals and even some utensils packed in a leather saddlebag.

  "This is very nice indeed," Sir Oliver said, once they were settled down and he had a nicely roasted drumstick in his hand. "How often have I eaten like this during the recent wars in Italy, where I had the honor of serving with the renowned Sir John Hawkwood."

  "Did you see much action, sir?" Quentin asked, more to be polite than any other reason, because he had decided that Sir Oliver spent most of his time around the quartermaster's wagon.

  "Action? Oh, yes, a goodly amount," Sir Oliver said, and he spoke of a clash of arms outside of Pisa as though all the world should have heard of it. After that he alluded familiarly to other armed encounters in and around the Italian cities, which he termed desperate engagements. Quentin had cause to doubt this since he remembered his father telling him that most of the warfare in Italy consisted of bellicose public words and behind-the-scenes private negotiations, after which a city would fall or a siege be abandoned according to what had been agreed upon. He also remembered hearing that that wasn't true when the French were involved, but held for the most part in dealings between the Italians and the Free Companies. Sir Oliver never mentioned the French. Only the Colonnas and Borgias and Medicis and suchlike foreigners. Sir Oliver had some rousing tales of early-morning engagements in which small groups of warriors would engage similar groups with sword and lance. He spoke of midnight vigils in the south of Italy, where the Saracens still held sway, and told of sudden desperate encounters at little walled cities where death might drench you from above in the form of boiling oil and molten lead.

  Sir Oliver was a short, thickset man, built like a block of wood. Middle-aged and balding, he had a habit of jerking his head emphatically as he made his point, and when he did that his little goatee waggled. He often punctuated his more dire pronouncements with a peremptory clearing of his throat. Puss, who was always up for any kind of mischief, had begun to imitate him, and Ouentin was hardpressed to restrain his laughter.