If at Faust You Don't Succeed

by Roger Zelazny

  Marguerite's lips parted in wonder as she saw a nimbus of glory arise from the objects and engulf first Faust, still holding his sack of wine, and then herself.

  And so, when the guard arrived, out of breath and with pikes at the ready, trotting into the Closed Chamber, there was no one to arrest.

  CHAPTER 11

  Faust and Marguerite, somewhat windblown from their flight through the aether, arrived at the dank meadow outside of Rome where the great Witches' Sabbat was customarily held. The meadow lay between two mountains with heads like gargoyles. One rim of the great swollen red setting sun revealed that quite a celebration had been held here not very long ago. But now the party was definitely over.

  Empty wine sacks and paper hats were strewn all over. The orchestra players were putting away their instruments and getting ready to return to Budapest. The huge raised altar at the center of the meadow was piled high with sacrifices. But the worshipers had left, and demon servitors were cutting up the meat to distribute to the evil poor, for the poor are always with us, on Earth, above, and below.

  He approached one of the workers, a bearded dwarf with stumpy legs cross-gartered with strips of leather, wearing a horned steel cap of Norse design, and with a spade fastened to a little knapsack at his back.

  "How is it going?" Faust asked.

  "Quite poorly," the dwarf said. "This demon grabbed me and my friends to clean up after this Sabbat, but demons never pay enough, and they never leave anything to drink."

  "Drink?" Faust raised the sack of Spanish wine that he had managed to cling to since leaving the Closed Chamber of the Jagiellonian. "I could perhaps offer you some drink."

  "Very kind of you, sir! My name is Rognir and I am at your service." He reached for the wine sack, but Faust drew it back out of his grasp.

  "Not so fast! There's something you can give me in exchange."

  "I knew it was too good to be true," Rognir said. "What do you want?"

  "Information," Faust said.

  Rognir, whose heavy wrinkled face had been knotting into a scowl, now raised his brows and smiled.

  "Information, sir? Aye, you can have all the information you want. I thought you wanted jewels. Whom do you want me to betray?"

  "It's nothing so dramatic," Faust said. "I merely seek to find two individuals who were here at this Sabbat.

  One was a tall, yellow-haired human, the other a black-haired devil named Mephistopheles."

  "Yes indeed, they were here," Rognir said. "Laughing and carrying on they were. You'd think they'd never been to a Witches' Sabbat before."

  "Where did they go?" Faust asked.

  "That's the sort of thing no one tells a dwarf," Rognir said. "But look you, sir, I have a parchment that Mephistopheles wrote and gave to that red-haired demon over there."

  The red-haired demon to whom he alluded was none other than Azzie Elbub, the dapper, fox-faced demon who had Set the previous Millennial contest on behalf of Darkness, but whose creation, Prince Charming, had come to such an equivocal ending that Necessity, who had judged the contest, declared it a push. This found no favor in the eyes of the Lords of Darkness, who had looked forward to victory and the right to rule mankind's destiny for the next thousand years. And so Azzie had not been consulted in the matter this time, the choices being left solely with Mephistopheles and the Archangel Michael.

  Faust asked, "This demon, he just handed you the parchment?"

  "Not exactly," Rognir said. "He crumpled it up and threw it away angrily as Mephistopheles and his rejuvenated friend vanished in a cloud of smoke and fire."

  "Give me the paper!"

  They glared at each other, then cautiously exchanged objects. While Rognir was drinking, Faust looked at the parchment and saw a list of places and dates. He knew some of the places: Paris, for example. But not London or the court of the Great Khan in Peking. And the times were all different, some of them in the past, some in the future. One thing stood out, however. The first place on the list was Constantinople, and the date was 1210. Faust remembered from his history that that was the time of the ill-fated Fourth Crusade. That, obviously, would be the first of the situations he had overheard Mephistopheles mention to Mack.

  While he was puzzling over this list, a voice at his left shoulder said, "You were talking about me, I believe."

  Faust looked up and saw Azzie, the demon to whom Rognir had been alluding, standing beside him.

  "How could you overhear me?" Faust said. "I spoke in a whisper."

  "Demons always know when someone is talking about them. You're wondering about that parchment? I'll tell you. Mephistopheles has been put in charge of the Millennial games that will decide the destiny of mankind for the next thousand years. They chose him rather than me. And me a two-time winner! He and Michael have agreed that Mephistopheles will put Faust into five situations, and the choices he makes will be judged as to Goodness or Badness, outcome, and motive, by Necessity, whom we know as Ananke."

  "But I am Faust!" Faust cried. "Mephistopheles has gotten .the wrong man!"

  Azzie eyed him. His bright fox eyes narrowed, and his ruddy demon's body took on a tension that a skilled observer, had one been present, might have found significant.

  "You are the learned doctor?"

  "Yes! I am! I am!" Marguerite tugged at his sleeve so insistently that Faust added, "And this is Marguerite, my friend."

  Azzie acknowledged her with a nod, then turned to Faust. "This is a very interesting turn of events."

  "Not for me," Faust said. "I just want to see justice done. It's me that Mephistopheles wanted in this contest. I want my rightful place! Will you help me?"

  Azzie paced up and down the trodden grass of the meadow, thinking. He harnessed his usual impatience, because there were many angles to consider here, and he needed more information before he took any action at all. But unless he missed his guess, this could be a time of opportunity for him.

  "I'll get back to you later on that," Azzie said.

  "Give me a piece of advice, at least! Tell me where to go next to find them."

  "All right," Azzie said. "My advice is that if you intend to pursue Mephistopheles and the impostor, you will need to travel in time, and to do that, you must visit Charon and make arrangements for passage on his boat." Thanks!" Faust cried. And picking up the chestnut-haired girl and invoking the second pan of the spell which he had concocted in the Closed Chamber of the Jagiellonian, Faust vanished into the air.

  CHAPTER 12

  Azzie watched Faust leave, noting how well the human did his vanishing. It was a crisp and definite disappearance, here one moment, gone the next, no sloppy edges or bleeding colors as less skilled enchanters were wont to leave. The fellow handled magic well for a mortal. Of course, he was Faust, and that made a difference. Even Azzie had heard of Faust.

  It was just past midnight. The cleanup crews had finished with the meadow where the Sabbat had taken place. The sanitation team was just sterilizing the places where unclean beasts had burrowed. Spiritual ecologists were repairing the damage done to trees by lightning and hellfire, planting new grass on the trampled sward, and purifying the soil of the baleful elements that had been spilled on it during the night's merriment.

  "That's the lot of it," the dwarf foreman, Rognir, said. "More swill than last year."

  "Yes, it was pretty good," Azzie said, his eyes indicating distance and absorption.

  "Can we go now?" asked Rognir. He was annoyed. He really hadn't wanted this job. Before running into Azzie, he had been walking along one of the dwarves' underground paths, humming to himself, intent on getting to the Uppsala Dwarveria Jamboree, which was being held under Montpellier this year. It was the greatest holiday of the dwarf year, a chance to show off minor variations in the ancient dances and sing new accompaniments to old songs, for the dwarves like their arts traditional. Dwarves didn't much like new things, because they figured they wouldn't last. They liked to revamp old things, adding a word here or a step there. Rognir had been pr
acticing with some members of his klutch for several months on a variation on the tarantella. (A klutch of dwarves is a friendship group of between five and seventeen individuals. For dwarves, the klutch takes the place of family, and ensures that everyone takes a turn buying the drinks.) Rognir had planned to meet the rest of his klutch under Montpellier. He had been hurrying along, late as usual, when suddenly Azzie had come stamping through the tunnel and had spotted him.

  "Hello!" Azzie had said. "I know you, don't I?"

  "We met once before," Rognir said, recognizing the demon. "You were going to invest my treasure.

  Where is my treasure, by the way?"

  "Out earning money for you," Azzie said. "Don't worry about it, you've already gotten the profit, remember?" He put an arm around Rognir's shoulder in what passed for a friendly manner. "You aren't doing anything right now, are you?"

  "I've got an appointment," Rognir had said.

  "It can wait," Azzie said. "I need you to clean up after this Witches' Sabbat. It won't take you long."

  "Why don't you do it yourself?"

  "I've been appointed overseer, not laborer," Azzie said. "Come on now, be a good fellow."

  Rognir was going to refuse, but it is difficult to refuse a demon in a race-to-race confrontation. Demons are far more fearsome than dwarves, who aren't fearsome at all, though they can scowl terribly.

  "What about my pay?" Rognir said.

  Azzie said, "Your payment in the usual form of bags of coined silver has been deposited to your account in the Hellgate Savings & Loan."

  "But that's way down in Hell!" Rognir said. "We dwarves never go there!"

  "You'll have to go there this time, if you want to get paid."

  "When we do go there, they give us the runaround and ask for identification. They don't seem to realize that dwarves don't have driving licenses."

  "Quit bellyaching," Azzie said in the bullying, threatening tone that was natural for him.

  "And nobody gave us wine, or dinner," Rognir said in a whining voice.

  "Buy your own! That's what currency is for!"

  Rognir scurried away, and, assembling his fellow dwarves, all of whom were complaining to each other about the working conditions and the lack of wine, uncovered the burrow by which they had come to this place. Dwarves always traveled underground, cutting new tunnels when old ones didn't exist. It was a lot of work and sometimes it hardly seemed worth their trouble, since there were highways and byways on the surface of the world connecting everything to everything else. But dwarves are traditionalists, the old ways are best, and at least underground you know where you are. They disappeared into their hole and the last one to go set in place the grassy cover. Now the meadow had its usual mundane and somewhat bedraggled appearance and Azzie could leave as well.

  Yet the fox-faced demon hesitated, still thinking about the two Fausts. What was going on? It seemed that Mephistopheles, on behalf of the Millennial Planning Committee, and with Michael's approval, had given Faust an itinerary of places where he was to influence human destiny at moments vital to the world's future history. Faust had accepted. Presumably he and Mephistopheles were going to the starting line now, so to speak, to begin the contest. But the person who would be doing all this wasn't Faust at all. He was an impostor, and Mephistopheles didn't seem to know anything about it. Curious.

  Azzie was in an irritated mood. Although he had a reputation as a good-natured demon, recent events had soured his usually sunny nature. Being passed over for setting up the current Millennial contest hadn't done his disposition any good. It still irked him to think that the Lords of Darkness had picked Mephistopheles, a silly devil if there ever was one, to do what Azzie had done so well before. And Mephistopheles was already parading around with the wrong man!

  What results would this imposture have on the contest? Whose side would benefit from getting the real Faust out of the game? And, most important of all, who was behind all this? For the more Azzie thought about it, the more it seemed certain that someone had to be planning this. Conspiracy theories are one of the foremost intellectual achievements of Hell, and Azzie was an orthodox believer in that respect, though on other matters he had his differences from received opinion.

  Yes, somebody was planning something… deep! And he could find out what it was and use it to advance his own cause!

  As soon as he realized this, Azzie's foul mood fell away and he became positively cheerful. Because if there is one thing that makes a demon feel good, it is exposing a conspiracy plot and proving himself smarter than anyone else.

  Azzie welcomed the opportunity. He had been underemployed of late. Since he'd been expecting to be chosen to set up the contest he hadn't set up anything else for himself in the way of interesting work. This would do nicely. And he had a pretty shrewd idea where to begin.

  Casting a last look at the site of the Witches' Sabbat, and finding it up to standard, he rose into the air, spinning like a fiery whirligig, and then streaked off like a rocket, casting brilliant red and white spots. Let a mortal try that for an exit!

  CHAPTER 13

  His flight (conducted more soberly once he was in the aether) took him to the familiar regions of South Hell, where the Office of Infernal Records was located. These records were not open to the general hellish population, but Azzie knew a way by which he might get a look at them.

  Avoiding the great gray Records Building with its ranks of damned souls tapping at computers, condemned to an eternity of mind-boggling boredom, but allowed an occasional cigarette break, since Dark is prepared to be lenient as long as you want to indulge in something harmful, he went to the little rustic tavern behind Records and slightly to its right. From here he telephoned Winifred Feyye, a pretty little imp of his acquaintance, who was a floor manager in the Protocols Division.

  "Azzie! It's been ages since I've heard from you!"

  "You know how it is, baby. If you really want to do bad in this universe, it's a full-time job."

  Now they sat in a comfortable booth in the corner and the tavern keeper served drinks, a stinger for Winnie, a devil's stirrup cup for Azzie. In that relaxing atmosphere they chatted for a while about mutual acquaintances: old Foxworthy, who was now an iron maiden repairman in the Eternal Torture Division; Miss Muggles, who was still working as a private secretary for Asmodeus; young Silver Foxxe, who was now a junior caterer for the do-bad service that supplied Dinners for the Damned. A bright fire leaped and cavorted in the fireplace, and a blind gleeman in a corner, singing the tale of Troy to the pluckings of a harp, added a note both classical and romantic.

  "Oh, Azzie," Winnie said, several drinks later, "this has been such fun! I really have to go back to work now. I wish we could do this more often!"

  "Me too," Azzie said. "Who knows, maybe it'll become possible? Winnie, there's a little favor you could do for me, if you wouldn't mind. I'm doing an article for the Satanic Times on Protocols and Agreements between Dark and Light. There's a new one that hasn't been released to general circulation yet. It has to do with the current Millennial contest."

  "I know just the one you mean," Winnie said. "I filed it away only two days ago."

  "I'd much appreciate a look at it."

  Winnie rose to go. She was small even for an imp, and her hair, cut in a stylish pixie cut, framed her heart-shaped face and accentuated her big, dark eyes.

  "I'll bring it here on my next break."

  "Winnie, you're a love. Hurry back!"

  The pretty little imp departed in a swirl of short skirt and a flash of thigh. Azzie sat and waited in the tavern as the slow hours passed. From time to time a worker from the Office of Infernal Affairs would come in for a quick one. The lighting here was perfectly even: both day and night it was the color of a rainy winter afternoon. A few drops of rain fell from time to time, speckling the tavern's leaded windowpanes. Azzie found a two-week-old copy of the Infernal Internal Times, house organ of the Office of Infernal Affairs. He read without much interest about raffles, a pic
nic, and the new Infernal Affairs annex. And he sipped at a succession of cafes diaboliques, laced with cocaine, which is not only legal in Hell, but is required in the sacrament to dissolution that the law requires Infernal Office workers to observe daily. And after a while, Winnie came scurrying back, her miniskirt deliciously high on her strong little thighs.

  "I've got it! But I have to bring it back soon." She handed him a thick manila envelope.

  "I'll just need a moment," Azzie said. He took out the roll of parchments, and, with Winnie holding down their ends, looked through them. Quickly he found the agreement between Faust and Mephistopheles.

  The basic terms were laid out with a fussy exactitude that paradoxically seemed to invite quibbling. It began, "Be it herein agreed that Johann Faust, of various cities of Earth but recently believed to be in Cracow…" And it spelled out the terms: "The aforesaid Faust, whether of himself or such that claims his name, shall perseverantly go forth…"

  Azzie skipped down to where the contest rules were set forth: This Faust (which Faust? there was the ambiguity again!) will present himself for five situations, which are further set forth in the codicil. In each of these he will be given a choice of actions and, with no further coaching, will decide for himself what course to take. The judging of these events will be solely in the hands of Ananke, who will consider them from the viewpoint of Good and Bad, Light and Dark, or any other paired contraries as may express to the weighing of this contest. And it is furthermore stipulated that this Faust will act in this contest of his own free will as that term is commonly understood…"

  Azzie put down the parchments and asked Winnie, "Who drafted this? Surely not the Archangel Michael?"

  "That's exactly who," Winnie said.

  "I didn't think he was capable of such quibbling. There are ambiguities here that would delight the professors at the Institute of Advanced Prevarication."