"Careful selection?" Phlegethon asked. "What do you mean by that?"
"Here is the very first item," Azzie said, "around which I intend to build my Prince Charming."
He removed from his canvas bag the pair of legs he had won at the demons' poker game. The Lord Demons leaned forward to regard them. By the combined weight of their gaze a cloud of body memory issued forth, and each demon could see for himself the history of this pair of legs, and how their owner had come to lose them.
"A devilish cowardly pair of legs indeed," Belial said.
"True, my lord," Azzie said. "A prince with these legs would never stay the course of a difficult trial. The legs themselves would almost haul him back to shameful safety!"
"Is that the destined outcome of your planned charade?" Belial asked.
"No, it is not, lord," Azzie said. "I crave your indulgence not to force me to reveal the conclusion of my scheme too soon, for much of the pleasure in its making lies in following a creative intuition without knowing too firmly in advance its outcome."
There may have been difficulties about Azzie's plan, but the time to select an entry was at hand, and nothing better had come along. The assembled Lord Demons nodded. "I think we have something here," Belial said. "What do you think, my colleagues?"
The others humphed and griffed but finally gave their assent.
"Go forth, then," Belial said to Azzie, "and do what you have promised. You are our entry, our chosen one. Go, and produce horror and evil in our name."
"Thank you," Azzie said, genuinely moved. "But I'll need money to do this. Body parts such as I want don't come cheap. And there is the matter of the other things I'll need-two castles, one for each protagonist, and a mansion for myself from which to operate. Also the wages of a servant, and quite a few other things."
The lords issued him a black credit card with his name embossed in fiery letters above an inverted pentagram, insert-able anyplace dark and sinister. "With this," Belial said, "you will have instant and unlimited credit with Supply. You can call them up anytime and anywhere, so long as you find someplace foul in which to insert the card. But that should be no difficulty, the world being what it is. It is also good for control of meteorological phenomena."
"But you must supply your own hero and heroine," Azazel told him. "And, of course, the directing of the action is all your responsibility."
"Accepted," Azzie said. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
Chapter 4
If someone had been watching, from a high window in the steeply pitched narrow old house above the main square in the village of Hagenbeck, he might have seen a man arriving in the public coach from Troyes. This man was tall and attractive. He was neither young nor old. His face was not displeasing, and had about it a sternness that marked its owner as a person of some consequence. He wore clothing of good English cloth, and his shoes had fine brass buckles. He got off at Hagenbeck, went directly into the inn, and asked for rooms. When the owner, Herr Gluck, wondered about the new arrival's ability to pay, Azzie (for such it was) produced a purse in which rested innumerable pieces of Spanish gold cast in doubloons.
"Very fine, indeed, sir," the innkeeper said, cringing to show his appreciation. "We have our finest apartment open. Usually it is occupied, but everyone is gone to the great fair in Champagne."
"Then it is mine," said Azzie.
It was very fine, the main room having a large bower window. There was even a little bathroom in which to clean up, not that demons make much use of such things.
At first Azzie lay down on the big bed with its feather down coverlet and its fine plump pillows. It seemed to him that his career was finally beginning. He was amazed at how quickly he had moved, from a lowly servitor in North Discomfort 405 to the impresario of a fine new game for the Millennial celebrations. He lay on the bed and pondered his good fortune for a time, then bestirred himself, anxious to get his scheme started.
The first thing he needed was a servitor. He decided to consult the landlord about this requirement.
"Of course you must have a servitor," the fat landlord said. "I was amazed that such a fine gentleman as yourself didn't come equipped with servants and a considerable traveling chest. Since you have money, that shouldn't be hard to put to rights."
"I need a special sort of servant," Azzie said. "One who may be called upon to do deeds of a most unusual nature."
"Might I inquire," the landlord asked, "just what nature your excellency is speaking about?"
Azzie looked keenly at the landlord. He was fat and complacent looking, but there was a sinister cast to his features. This man was no stranger to evil deeds. He was a man who would stop at nothing, and who knew a sort of glee at the thought of evil deeds, finding in them the excitement his normal life lacked.
"Landlord," Azzie said, "the deeds I will require may not be entirely within the ken of the king's law."
"Yes, sir," the landlord said.
"I have prepared here," Azzie said, "a little list of the requirements I need in a servitor. I wish you could tack this up somewhere. ..."
He handed a sheet of parchment to the landlord. The landlord took it, moved it back and forth to get into reading range.
It read: "Servitor needed, a man not squeamish, accustomed to blood and gore, honest and reliable, up for anything."
He read it several times, then said, "A man like this might be found, if not in our village of Hagenbeck, then in nearby Augsburg. But I shall be pleased to nail this on our front wall, along with the listings for hay and oats, and we shall see what comes of it."
"Do that," Azzie said. "And send me up a flagon of your best wine, in case the wait becomes onerous."
The landlord louted low and took his departure. Within minutes he sent up the servant girl, a poor creature with deformed face and halting gait, carrying not only the flagon of wine, but also some small cakes which the cook had baked just that day. Azzie rewarded her with a silver penny, for which she was pathetically grateful. He then sat himself down and feasted. Demons do not really require food, of course, but when they take human form they also take on human desires. This appetite for food was one of them. Azzie dined well, and afterward sent for the blackbird pie he could smell baking in the inn's well-founded kitchen.
It was not long before the first applicant knocked at his door. He was a tall young man, thin as a weed, and with wild light blond hair that floated around his head in a sort of nimbus. His clothing was presentable, although much patched. He held himself well, and bowed low when Azzie opened the chamber door.
"Sire," the stranger said, "I read your notice belowstairs, and I have come quickly to present myself to you. I am Augustus Hye, and I am a poet by trade."
"Indeed?" said Azzie. "This is a somewhat unusual post for a poet."
"Not at all, sire," Hye said. "Poets must perforce deal with the most extreme of human emotions. Blood and gore would suit me fine, since they would prove good subjects for my poems, in which I will consider the vanity of life and the inevitability of death."
Azzie was not entirely satisfied with what he heard. The poet didn't seem really suited for the task. But Azzie decided to give him a trial.
"Do you know the local graveyards?" Azzie asked.
"Of course, my lord. Graveyards are a favorite place for poets who crave contemplation to bring to their minds great and dolorous deeds."
"Then hie you to such a place this evening, when the moon is down, and bring me a nicely aged human skull, with or without hair, it makes no difference. And if you can bring me some ladies' fingers, all the better."
"Ladies' fingers, sire? You are referring to the confection of that name?"
"Not at all," said Azzie. "I am referring to the actual and literal objects."
Hye looked uncomfortable. "Such items are hard to come by."
"I know that," Azzie said. "If they were easy, I would go forth and get them myself. Now go and see what you can do."
Hye left, not happily.
Already his hopes were fading. Like all poets he was more used to talking about blood and gore than actually getting his hands into it. But still, he decided to attempt the task because Lord Azzie, as he called himself, was evidently a wealthy man and might be counted upon to give out much largess.
Azzie's next caller was an old woman. She was tall and lean, dressed entirely in black. She had small eyes and a long nose; her lips were thin and bloodless.
"I know you advertised for a man," she said, after dropping a deep curtsy, "but I hoped that you might not be adamant in that choice. I will make a wonderful servitor for you, Lord Azzie, and you can enjoy my favors into the bargain."
Azzie shuddered. This old beldame really fancied herself if she thought that any lord, or any demon masquerading as a lord, would fancy her for anything more than pulling off his boots after a hard day's riding. Nevertheless, he decided he would be fair about it.
He repeated the instructions he had given the poet Hye. The aged beldame, whose name was Agatha, also seemed taken aback. She was one of those who believed that appearance was the better part of evil. For many years she had gotten by in Hagenbeck solely by her appearance, and the reputation it had given her for evil deeds. She had thought this job would be just the right thing for her, since she already looked the part of one who would stop at no evil deed and would take delight in blood and gore. But, despite her appearance, she was one who had difficulty even in cutting off a chicken's head. Nevertheless, she said she would do her best and promised to return at midnight with her spoils.
That was the end of the applicants for that day. Azzie was not well satisfied. The people in these parts seemed to have little appetite for his sort of work. But he would see. Having a servant was absolutely necessary.
Chapter 5
That afternoon, Azzie went to nearby Augsburg and spent the rest of the day strolling about observing its ancient churches. Demons are very interested in churches, which, though Powers of Good reside in them, can as often as not be twisted to serve evil. In the early evening he returned to the Inn of the Hanged Man in Hagenbeck, but learned from the landlord that no other persons had applied for the post he had offered.
He took out the black credit card and looked it over carefully. It was a beautiful thing, and he had the desire to call up something that would amuse him, like dancing girls. But he decided against it. First things first. He needed a good human servitor. After that, both the work and the fun would begin.
In the evening he decided to take his dinner downstairs with the tradespeople. He had a special table for himself, curtained off from the crowd. But he kept a bit of the curtain drawn back so he could watch their antics.
The people ate and drank and caroused, and Azzie wondered how they could be so light of heart. Did they not know that the Millennium was approaching? Elsewhere in Europe men knew about this, and were taking whatever precautions they could. There were Dances of the Dead being held on blasted heaths, and all manner of signs and portents. Many people were sure the end of the world was coming. Some turned to prayer. Others, deciding they were doomed, passed their time in eating and sexual activity. The Angel of Death had been sighted in a dozen places around Europe, surveying the territory and making a preliminary census of all who would be taken. In churches and cathedrals anathemas were intoned against promiscuity and license. But all this was to little or no avail. People's spirits had been roused and frightened by the approach of the grim year when it was said the dead would rise in the streets, the figure of the Antichrist would be seen in the land, and all things would gather themselves for Apocalypse, the last great battle between the forces of Good and Evil.
Azzie himself had no need for such vulgar superstitions. He knew that mankind's game was a long way from being played out. There would be contests like this for many thousands of years into the future, as there had been for thousands of years into the past, though the memory of mankind retained only the most confused memories of this.
At last Azzie grew tired and went up to the bedroom. It still lacked a half hour or so of midnight. Azzie didn't believe either Hye or Agatha would return. They seemed not to be made of stern enough stuff. But he decided to show them the courtesy of staying up for them anyhow.
The minutes dragged by, and a hush fell over the village. This was the time Azzie loved best, the minutes approaching midnight, when the complexion of the world changed, when the dusky sanctities of evening had been forgotten, and the saving grace of dawn was still far away. It was in these hours, between midnight and dawn, that evil always felt most at peace with itself, most experimental, most in need of strangeness and sin, most in need of producing the ever-pervading perversions which needed constant renewal, and the doing of which was a delight to the evil soul.
Midnight came and passed and no one knocked at his door. Azzie was growing bored, and the big four-poster bed with its Huffy eiderdown looked exceedingly comfortable. It was a temptation, and since demons are not supposed to resist temptation, he gave in, got up on the bed, and closed his eyes. He fell into a deep sleep, and in that sleep a dream came to him. In his dream three maidens clad all in white came to him carrying holy articles in their hands. They beckoned to him, saying, "Come, Azzie, join us in our frolic." And Azzie, looking at them, was greatly desirous of joining them, for they smiled and winked at him most enticingly. But there was something about them he didn't like, something which said to his trained eye that they really didn't care for evil, were merely feigning it in order to lure him into their clutches. Nevertheless, he was drawn toward them, almost against his will, even though he repeated to himself lines from the Credo of Evil: that the good is capable of assuming a pleasing form and that a demon must take care not to be seduced by that which only seems evil. The Credo didn't help. They reached out to him. ...
He never learned the outcome because he was awakened by a tapping at the door. He sat up and pulled himself together. How ridiculous it was to be afraid of being tainted by good! It was a standard fear among demons, and it gave him a turn, dreaming of it.
The tap came again.
Azzie checked his appearance in the cracked mirror. He smoothed his eyebrows, brushed back his red hair, and gave an experimental leer. Yes, he was decidedly horrific tonight, ready for any applicant who came through the door.
"Come in," he said.
When the door opened and he beheld his visitor, he was more than a little surprised.
The person who entered was not familiar. He was a very small man with a large hump upon his back. He had on a large black cloak which was wrapped completely around him, its hood raised. His long, bony face was dead white, sepulchral. As he advanced Azzie noticed that he walked with the help of a cane.
"And who," Azzie asked, "are you, to come calling upon me at this hour?"
"I am Frike," the lame hunchback replied. "I have come in answer to your ad. You wanted a servant, it seems, one who would be up for anything. I put myself forth as just such a person."
"You are not afraid to recommend yourself," Azzie said. "But there are two applicants ahead of you. I set them a simple task and now I await their return."
"Ah, yes," Frike said. "I happened to meet them, the poet and the beldame. They were at the gates of the cemetery, trying to get up the courage to do what you required of them."
"They should not have delayed so long," Azzie said. "The time set for their appearance is already past."
"Why, master," Frike said, "they met with certain unfortunate accidents. And so I have come in their stead."
"What accidents?" Azzie asked.
"My lord," Frike said, "I brought the items you requested of them."
Frike reached inside his cloak and took out a leather satchel of tanned cowhide. Opening it, he removed two packets wrapped in sackcloth. Opening one, he removed eight fingers and one thumb, neatly severed, perhaps with a razor.
"Behold," Frike said. "The lady's fingers."
"These are somewhat gummy," Azzie said, examining th
e fingers and nibbling one of them.
"They are the best I could provide on short notice," Frike said.
"And why is there not a full set? A thumb is missing!"
"Your lordship might not have noticed," Frike said, "since to notice such a thing would be beneath your dignity. But I would point out, sire, that Agatha, who aspired to the post of your servant, had a thumb missing. I do not know the story of its loss, and I'm afraid now I can't find it out for you."
"It is of little importance," Azzie said. "But I also asked for a head."
"Ah, yes," Frike said. "The quest you set for the poet. Now you would think, sir, that his would be an easy task, since our local cemetery is full of the sort of specimens you asked for. But he walked around outside the graveyard, then finally went in and put his spade here and then changed his mind and put it there, until at last I got sick of waiting for him to complete the task. So I took the liberty, my lord, of procuring the object and eliminating my opposition in a single stroke."
So saying, he opened the satchel and displayed the head of Hye, the poet.
"Not cleanly severed, I notice," Azzie said, but it was just for form's sake, for he was well pleased with the work of this applicant for the position of his helper.
"I regret there was no time to wait for the perfect stroke," Frike said. "But since he is well known hereabouts as a bad poet, I daresay he's missed many a clean stroke himself."
"Frike, you have done very well. You shall enter my employ at once. I think that you are a paragon among mortals. And since you have done so well at this, I'm sure you will have no problem getting me the things I need, once I have explained them and scouted out the territory."
"I expect to serve you well, master," Frike said.
Azzie went to his chest, opened it, and from a small deerskin bag, extracted four golden thalers. He gave these to Frike, who louted low in gratitude.
Zelazny, Roger - (With Robert Sheckley) Bring Me the Head of Prince Charming (v1.0) Page 5
