If at Faust You Don't Succeed

by Roger Zelazny

  Its flickering flame threw wild shadows on the walls of the tent. They looked almost like a man; a fantastic man with black and gray garments, piercing eyes, floating hair; the kind of man you wouldn't want to meet at night. It was strange how close to the real thing was the apparition. Mack reached out and touched. The shadows gave under his fingers and felt for all the world like flesh and bone. Appalled, he shrank back.

  "I didn't think you were real," Mack said.

  "Nor am I, entirely. But then, neither are you. For you are not who you say you are."

  "And your

  "I say not who I am, hut you know who that is."

  The apparition stepped into the light, revealing himself as one whose features Mack had reason to remember, since he had spied on his movements for several days before his accomplice, the Lett, had hit him over the head in the alley in Cracow.

  "You are Dr. Faust!" Mack breathed.

  "And you are a damned impostor!" Faust said in a grating voice.

  For just a fraction of a second Mack quailed before the fury of that accusation. Then he pulled himself together. Those who do wrong have a code, too, just like those who do good, and like them they needs must strive to keep up their self-esteem, even their aplomb, in difficult times as well as good ones.

  Now was an extremely difficult time: It was very embarrassing to be caught in an impersonation, and worse to be face-to-face with the man he was pretending to be. It was the sort of situation that would cause a lesser man to pale and squeak, "Sorry, sir, I didn't know what I was doing, I'll give it up immediately, just please don't have me hung." But Mack had not embarked on this role to give it up lightly. And so he strengthened his spirit, remembering that one who would play Faust on the stage of the world needs a little of the Faustian spirit if he's to get anywhere.

  "We seem to be at cross-purposes here," Mack said. "I doubt not that you are Faust. Yet I am Faust, too, on the authority of no less a person than Mephistopheles." .

  "Mephistopheles was mistaken!"

  "When the great ones make mistakes, those mistakes become law."

  Faust drew himself to his full height, which was rather shorter than Mack's, and said, "Must I listen to this casuistic palaver from one who speaks in my name? By the powers, I'll have vengeance if you don't vacate immediately and leave this game to the player for whom it was intended, namely, me."

  "You think highly of yourself, that much is evident," Mack said. "But as to who was chosen, it seems to, be me. You can argue till kingdom come and you won't change that."

  "Argue? I'll do a lot more than argue! I'll blast you with spells of greatest puissance, and your punishment will be most hideously condign."

  "Will be what?" Mack asked.

  "Condign. It means fitting. I intend to give you a punishment worthy of your transgression."

  "You know a lot of words honest folk never use," Mack said hotly. "Now listen to this, Faust, I defy you utterly. And furthermore, I have the Powers of Darkness behind me all the way. The fact is, I make a better Faust than you!"

  Faust felt rage turn his eyeballs into reddened jelly, and he fought hard for control. He wasn't here to get into a shouting match. He wanted his rightful place in the Millennial contest. And it seemed that threatening Mack—against whom he could do nothing anyway—was a waste of time. "I'm sorry I lost my temper," Faust said. "Let's talk reasonably." "Another time, perhaps," Mack said, for just then the tent flap was drawn back and Wasyl entered. He looked suspiciously at Faust.

  "Who is this?" he asked.

  "An old acquaintance," Mack said. "His name doesn't matter. He was just leaving."

  Wasyl turned to Faust, who noticed that the plump, clerkly young man had a naked dagger in his hand and a nasty expression on his face.

  "Yes," Faust said, "I was just going. Till next time…" He made himself say it. "Faust."

  "Yes, till next time," Mack said.

  Wasyl asked, "Who's the woman outside the tent?"

  "Oh, that's Marguerite," Faust said. "She's with me."

  "See that you take her with you," Wasyl said. "We don't want any stray strumpets crumpling the wicket."

  Faust held his tongue, for he dared not reveal himself without first conferring with Mephistopheles. The great demon would not take it kindly if anyone aborted his contest. Faust stepped outside and started walking. Marguerite, who had been waiting beside the tent flap, caught up with him and said, "So what happened?"

  "Nothing, yet," Faust said.

  "What do you mean, nothing? Didn't you tell him who you are?"

  "Of course."

  "Then why don't you simply take over?"

  Faust stopped and looked at her. "It's not so simple. I need to talk to Mephistopheles first, and I haven't found him yet."

  He turned to walk again, and found three soldiers in steel caps bearing pikes standing and looking at him.

  "Hey, you!" said one of the soldiers.

  "Me?" Faust said.

  "There's nobody else here except her, and I'm not talking to her."

  "What are you doing here?" the soldier asked.

  "None of your business," Faust said. "What makes it your concern?"

  "We've been told to keep an eye open for fellows like you, skulking around the tents without anything to do. You'd better come with us."

  Faust saw that he had spoken without thinking. Hasty grandiloquence was a fault of the Faustian character that Mack didn't seem to share. He would have to watch that. For now, he would talk nicely.

  "Gentlemen, I can explain everything."

  "Tell it to the captain of the guard," the soldier said. "Now come along quietly or we'll let you feel the end of a pike."

  And with that they led Faust and Marguerite away.

  CHAPTER 4

  So what's new?" Mack asked, as soon as Faust and Marguerite had departed.

  "Great news, lord," Wasyl said. "The doge Henry Dandolo himself wishes to see you immediately."

  "Ah, indeed?" Mack said. "Do you know what he wants?"

  "He didn't confide in me," Wasyl said. "But I have my suspicions."

  "Share them with me, good servant, while I wash my face and comb my hair." He proceeded to do those things, and to wish that Mephistopheles and the witches had remembered to supply him with a change of linen. "What is Henry Dandolo like?"

  "He is a fearsome old man," Wasyl said. "As doge of Venice, he is commander of one of the most powerful and well-disciplined fighting forces in all Christendom. We Crusaders are dependent on the Venetians for our transport and general stores, and they do not fail to remind us of it. Dandolo himself is blind and somewhat frail of body, being now in his nineties. He's at an age when most noblemen would be content to lie at ease in their country estates and have servants bring them sweetened gruel. Not Henry Dandolo! He has ridden all the way from Europe, and was seen in the battle lines at Szabo, where he demanded the Crusaders reduce that proud Hungarian city if they wished to secure Venice's cooperation in this Crusade. And so they did, but with much grumbling, because what began as a holy enterprise has been perverted into just another Venetian commercial venture. Or so some people say. I myself have no opinion on the matter until I hear your own."

  "Wise of you," Mack said, running his fingers through his hair.

  "Your opportunities in this meeting," Wasyl said, "are manifold."

  "An alliance of your interests with those of Venice could bring you wealth undreamed-of. And of course there is the other alternative."

  "What's this?" asked Mack. For Wasyl had taken out his dagger, tested its point on the ball of his thumb, and put the weapon down gently on the table.

  "That, my lord, is an instrument of good Toledo steel that you might find useful if your interests are not aligned with those of Venice."

  Mack also tested the dagger's point on the ball of his thumb, for that was the customary thing you did with weapons in those times. He slipped the weapon into his sleeve, commenting, "This may come in useful if I need to make a point
." Wasyl smiled obligingly.

  Wasyl had commandeered two soldiers with torches. They went ahead and lit the way for Mack. Wasyl offered to go along, but Mack, realizing it was time he got down to business, declined the offer. It was prudent to work alone at this point, because he couldn't tell when Wasyl might realize that his interests didn't coincide with Mack's at all.

  And so he started out. As he walked, he noticed that there was considerable commotion in the camp.

  Groups of soldiers were running here and there, and mailed horsemen rode past at a gallop. Many campfires were lit, and there was an atmosphere as of some great enterprise.

  The doge's tent was a grand pavilion made of a white silken cloth through which lamplight gleamed. The doge himself was seated on a little chair before a table. There was a tray before him, and on that tray was a quantity of precious gems, unset. Henry Dandolo was fingering them. He was a huge man, still imposing despite his great age. Now he seemed almost lost in his stiff, brocaded clothing. There was a small velvet cap on his head with the hawk's feather of Venice set in it at a jaunty angle. His narrow face was unshaven, gray stubble catching silver glints from the firelight. He had a thin, sunken mouth tightly held, and his eye sockets showed the cloudy blue-gray of cataractic sightlessness. He didn't look up as the servant announced the presence of Lord Faust, newly arrived from the west.

  "Come in, take a seat, my dear Faust," Henry Dandolo said, his voice booming and vibrant, speaking a correct but accented German. "The servants have set out the wine, have they not? Take a glass, my good sir, and make yourself at home in my humble quarters. Do you like these baubles?" He gestured at the tray of jewels.

  "I have seen their like from time to time," Mack said, bending over the tray. "But never finer. These have a brilliant luster and appear to be exceptional specimens."

  The ruby is especially fine, is it not?" Dandolo asked, lifting a gem the size of a pigeon's egg in his thick white fingers and turning it this way and that. "It was sent me by the Nabob of Taprobane. And this emerald"—his fingers went to it unerringly—"hath a remarkable fire for its size, think you not?"

  "Indeed I do," said Mack. "But I marvel, sir, that sightless as you are, you can yet perceive these qualities and make such distinctions. Or have you developed an eyesight in your fingertips?"

  Dandolo laughed, a harsh bass cackle ending in a dry cough. "Eyes in my fingertips! What a fancy! Yet betimes I believe it to be so, for my hands so love to touch fine gems that they have developed their own appreciation of them. Fine cloth, too, is a favorite of mine, as it is of any true Venetian, and I can tell you more about the tightness of warp and woof than a Flanders weaver. Yet these are but an old man's fancies. I have something more valuable than that." "Indeed, sir?" Mack said.

  "Take a look at this." The old man reached behind him and his fingers found and opened the lid of a large wooden chest. Reaching in, he took out the gorgeously painted wooden picture that had nestled in the crushed velvet. "Do you know what this is?" Dandolo demanded. "Indeed I do not," Mack said. "It is the icon of the holy St. Basil. Its possession is said infallibly to ensure the continuing safety and prosperity of the city of Constantinople. Do you know why I show you this?"

  "I can't imagine, my lord."

  "Because I want you to take a message to your master. Are you listening carefully?"

  "I am," Mack said, his mind filled with conjectures.

  "Tell the Holy Father in Rome that I spit on him and his mean-minded excommunication. As long as this icon is in my possession, I have no need for his blessings."

  "You want me to tell him that?" Mack asked.

  "Word for word."

  "So I shall, if it is ever my fortune to meet the Holy Father."

  "Do not toy with me," Dandolo said. "Although you disguise it, I know you are his representative."

  "I most respectfully beg to differ," Mack said. "I don't come from the Pope. I represent different interests."

  "You're really not from the Pope?'

  The old man's blind gaze was so fierce that even if Mack had been the Pope's emissary he would have denied it.

  "Absolutely not! Quite to the contrary!"

  The old man paused and took that in. "Quite to the contrary, eh?"

  "Yes, exactly!"

  "Who are you representing?" Dandolo demanded.

  "I'm sure you can figure it out," Mack said, deciding to try some Faustian indirection.

  Dandolo thought. "I've got it! You must be from Green Beard the Godless! He's the only one who doesn't have a representative here!"

  Mack had no idea who Green Beard was, but he decided to play along.

  "I won't say yes and I won't say no," he said. "But if I were representing this Green Beard, what might you have to say to him?"

  "He'll be interested to hear that. But what specifically?"

  "He must begin his attack on the Barbary Coast no later than one week from now. Can you get that message to him in time?"

  There are many things I can do," Mack said. "But first I must know why."

  "The reasons should be evident. Unless Green Beard, who commands the pirates of the Peloponnesus, neutralizes them, the corsairs of the Barbary Coast are apt to put a crimp in our plans."

  "Yes, indeed," Mack said. "Which plans were those, by the way?"

  "Our plans to take over Constantinople, of course. We Venetians have stretched our seapower to the utmost in getting this group of Franks hither to Asia. If a pirate attack should come on our Dalmatian dependencies while we are otherwise engaged, I fear we should be hard-pressed."

  Mack nodded and smiled, but within he was boiling with excitement. So Dandolo was planning to capture Constantinople! By no stretch of the imagination could that be considered protecting it. It seemed clear that Dandolo had to go, and never would the time be better than right now, while he was alone with the blind old man in his tent, at a time when the camp of the Franks was in a state of excitement. Mack slipped the knife out of his sleeve.

  "You understand," Dandolo said, fondling his ruby, "my plans for this fine city are far-reaching indeed, and no man but yourself and your pirate chief will know what I intend."

  "It is a great honor," Mack said, trying to decide whether to insert the knife from front or back.

  "Constantinople is a city that has seen better days," Dandolo said. "Once great and feared throughout the world, it is now an effete shadow of itself due to the ineffectual rule of its stupid kings. I'll bring that to a stop. No, I shall not reign myself. Command of Venice is enough for me! But I will put my own man on the Byzantine throne, and he will have orders to restore the city to its former majesty and greatness. With Venice and Constantinople allied, all the world will look with wonder at the age of great commerce and learning that will ensue."

  Mack hesitated. He had been ready to strike. But Dandolo's words conjured up a vision of a great city restored to its full powers, a city in the forefront of learning and commerce, a place that could be a turning point in the history of the world.

  "And what religion would these Greeks follow?" Mack asked.

  "Despite my differences with the Pope," Dandolo said, "I am a good Christian. Young Alexius has made me promises of the most solemn sort, that once in power he will return his subjects to the rightful See of Rome. Then the Pope will lift my excommunication, nay, may even see fit to canonize me, for so great a feat of conversion has not been heard of in modern times."

  "My lord!" Mack cried. "Your vision is holy and enchanted indeed! Count on me, my lord, to aid you in whatever way I can!"

  The old man reached out and caught Mack in a close embrace. Mack could feel the stiff bristles of the old man's face, and the warm salt of his tears as he raised his voice to praise Heaven. Mack was about to say a few words in favor of Heaven, too, because it could do no harm, when suddenly men-at-arms burst into the tent.

  "Take me to the action!" Dandolo cried. "I'll fight in this just cause myself! My armor, quick! Faust, give my offer to Green Beard,
and we'll talk more later!"

  And with that the old man swept out of the tent on the arms of his servitors, taking the holy icon with him, but leaving behind the bag of jewels.

  Mack stood in the tented room, with shadows dancing up and down its silken walls, and decided this was going to work out very nicely. He was going to save Constantinople and make a profit at it, just like Henry Dandolo was doing. But just in case anything went wrong… He found a little canvas sack and took a nice selection of the jewels, then hurried out into the night.

  CHAPTER 5

  The soldiers escorted Faust and Marguerite to a low wooden building constructed of heavy unpainted boards. It was the dungeon, and Faust knew at once that it was one of the portable models suitable for traveling armies. This dungeon was an exceptionally well-appointed one imported from Spain, where the Moors of Andalusia knew how to do these things. Upon entering, the soldiers showed Faust and Marguerite the torture chamber, a miracle of miniaturization and cunning joinery.

  "We can't pull apart a whole man, like they can do back in Europe," one of the soldiers told him, "but we can sure rack hell out of his arms or legs, and it gets the same effect as the whole-body model. These finger pincers do the trick as good as the larger models, and are no bigger than what you'd use to crack nuts. Here's our iron maiden, smaller than the one they have in Nuremberg, but with more spikes. The Moors know how to put in more spikes per square inch than anyone else. Our pincers are not full size, but they tear the flesh in a very satisfactory manner."

  "You're not putting us to torture!" Faust cried.

  "Certainly not," the leader of the soldiers said.

  "We're common soldiers. Straightforward killing is good enough for us. Whether they torture you or not is up to the Director of the Dungeons."

  As soon as the soldiers left, locking the cell door behind them, Faust crouched down and began drawing a pentagram on the dusty floor, using a twig he had found in a corner. Marguerite sat on the backless stool that was the cell's only furniture and watched him.

  Faust intoned a spell, but nothing happened. The trouble was, he hadn't brought along much in the way of magical ingredients, so great had been his hurry to find the impostor. Still, he had to try. He scrubbed out the lines and drew them again in the dust on the floor of the dungeon. Marguerite stood up and began pacing up and down like a caged pantheress.