If at Faust You Don't Succeed

by Roger Zelazny

  There were all those reasons, and there was another one: Faust knew that desiring Helen was one thing but, for him actually to take her would be archetypically unsound. He was Faust, a solo act who stood on his own. He was not to be any man's puppet, no, nor woman's, either.

  He spoke rapidly, before the sight of her fetal loveliness could undermine him. "No, no," he said, "I'll not have her and I'll not be your man."

  Azzie shrugged and smiled. He didn't seem to be entirely surprised at this decision. He must have known what stem stuff Faust was made of, and realizing this, Faust felt a glow of pride in his heart. It's something when even a demon admires your steadfastness!

  "All right," Azzie said. "I'll get rid of her. But it was worth a try." He made a series of hand movements, of a dexterity that Faust had to admire: magicians know each other's skills and excellence by the sinuosity of their hand and finger movements. Azzie's was second to none.

  The light shimmered for a moment around Helen, who had been waiting rather passively through all this.

  But then the shimmering went away. Azzie made passes again. This time there wasn't even a shimmer.

  "Well, isn't that weird?" Azzie said. "Usually that Disappearing Spell works just fine. I'll have to look it up again later, when I have time. Tell you what. Helen's a nice girl and she needs a little vacation from Hades, where she currently resides. How about if she sticks around with you a while, and I'll take her back later?"

  "Don't you worry about her," Azzie said. "She'll come to no harm. And anyway, I could tell that she wasn't right for you."

  "You really think that?" Faust asked.

  "Trust me. A demon knows by the glow in his chest when a love match is doomed to destruction. I'll catch up with you later, we'll have another talk. You're sure I can't tempt you with something?"

  "No, but thanks for trying."

  "Right, then. I must be off."

  "Wait!" Faust said. "Could you supply me with a few ingredients that I need for my Traveling Spell?

  Otherwise Helen and I might be stuck on this mountaintop for quite some time."

  "Good thing you mentioned it," Azzie said. And, opening the pouch that all demons carry with them, but which, because of witchcraft, does not make a bulge in their clothing, Azzie removed a variety of herbs, simples, nostrums, purified metals, recondite poisons and the like, and gave these to Faust.

  "Thank you," Faust said. "With these at my disposal I'll work my own destiny. Your offer was kind, Azzie, but I can take care of this matter of the impostor by myself."

  "Farewell, then!" Azzie cried.

  "Farewell," Faust said.

  They both struck a pose, right arms upraised in the air, palms outward, thumbs folded in—the magician's gesture—then Azzie vanished in a flash and Faust, a moment later, accompanied by Helen, vanished in one also.

  CHAPTER 7

  Marguerite couldn't believe it. She had always heard that magicians were a fickle lot, but this, in the old German expression, really took the apple kuchen. She had gone from a tavern in Cracow to a cell in Constantinople, and she didn't even know what she'd been arrested for. And here she was, abandoned by Faust and probably in a lot of trouble. She paced up and down the cell, then cowered back as she heard the sound of heavy footsteps marching down the passageway. The footsteps stopped, the door to the next cell clanged open.

  Marguerite waited, listening. There was a brief pause. Then the steps started up again. They stopped in front of her cell. She heard the sound of a key rattling in the crude lock. Then the lock turned. She cowered as the door to her cell swung open.

  Then Mack, for such it was, said, "Who are you?"

  "I am Marguerite," the girl said. "And you?"

  "Dr. Johann Faust, at your service."

  Marguerite blinked twice, and it was on her mind to say that he couldn't be Faust because the real Faust had just abandoned her to go off joyriding with a demon. But a moment's reflection convinced her that this line of talk might not be a good idea, since this fellow presumably had rescue in mind, and might not care to be contradicted so vehemently at the very beginning of their relationship. Let him be Faust, or Schmaust, or Gnaust, or whatever he pleased, so long as he got her out of here.

  "What are you doing here?" Mack asked.

  "That's a long story," Marguerite said. "I was with this other fellow, and, well, he sort of went off and left me here. And you?"

  Mack had come to the prison cell in pursuit of Henry Dandolo, hoping to get from him the icon of St.

  Basil, because this, it seemed to him, was very much what he needed to bring this situation to a successful conclusion. When he reached the first cell he saw that Dandolo, along with blind old Isaac, had left. He was about to leave himself, when some presentiment made him look into the next cell. It was strange: it was not his usual way, to look into cells. But this time it had seemed quite urgent that he do so. And so he had done it. But how to tell all this to Marguerite?

  "Mine's a long story, too," he told her. "Do you want to get out of here?"

  "Does a pig like to wallow?" Marguerite said, using an old expression which was common in the part of Germany where she had been a goosegirl.

  "Come, then," Mack said. "Stick with me. I have to find somebody."

  They left the dungeon and went out into the camp. It was a scene of confusion and riot. A thousand torches flared, illuminating people scurrying back and forth. Trumpets were blasting, and most people were moving in the direction of the city walls. It seemed that an attack was in progress.

  Mack and Marguerite made their way through the crowd, walking in the direction most of the people were going. Everybody was hurrying toward the walls of Constantinople, and it seemed there was fighting going on there. Bloodied men were being helped back from the fray, many of them stuck with Byzantine arrows, which could be distinguished from others by the red and green hexagonal patterns painted on their shafts, and by their feathers, which were of Muscovy duck rather than English goose.

  Other soldiers pushed past them to get into the fight. There were signs of struggle on the high battlements.

  But below, with a sudden clang, the great gates that guarded Constantinople swung open, unbolted by Frankish sympathizers within the city. The mounted Crusaders, seeing this, quickly formed up and galloped toward the open gates in an armored wedge. There were Greek soldiers barring the entrance, and there were Northmen, too, who had been enlisted to fight in the city's armies. They tried vainly to stem the tide. But the maddened Crusaders slammed into them, battle-axes and maces swept through the air in short, sharp arcs, and there were cruel sounds as, with terrible effect, they landed on bodies. A

  group of Greek women atop the wall had brought up a huge cauldron of boiling oil. They tipped it over now, and it came down in a sizzling gold en cascade. Frankish soldiers caught in the flood screamed as the hot oil poured over their armor and came through the neck and arm openings, to broil them inside like so many lobsters. Then a flight of arrows swept the women away, and the Frankish host was charging again, shouting their battle cries and advancing into the city with irresistible force. A small group of Turkish mercenaries were now the only ones left guarding the inner keep. Their arrows flew hard and fast, darkening the sky, making conversation difficult with the ominous hiss of their passage. Rank after rank of Crusaders were thrown down, rolling away from horses that bristled like porcupines as the Turkish arrow storm struck home. Then the tide of maddened Franks reached the ranks of the Turks, who, small of stature and lightly armored, could not stand up to the big, hairy, unshaven European men in their heavy mail. There was a great lopping of limbs and beating in of heads, and the blood-maddened Franks burst through the Turkish lines into the city streets.

  Mack ran up, ducking under the sword, and, clutching Dandolo's arm, said, "Henry, it's me, Faust! Let me guide you!"

  "Ah, the messenger from Green Beard!" Dandolo said. "Yes, fine, just point me in the direction of the enemy and give me a push."

 
; "I'll do that," Mack said, and turned Henry around so that he faced the city walk. As he did so, he deftly removed Dandolo's silken sling, from which he had seen, peeking, the icon of St. Basil.

  "Best of luck, sir!" he called out, and Henry Dandolo waved his sword and went charging into the battle, a precursor of Don Quixote if there ever was one.

  Mack turned to Marguerite. "All right, let's get out of here!"

  Mack, with Marguerite in tow, now turned away from the city walls and made his way back into the camp. He was in search of a place of safety. One thing he knew for sure was, he had fulfilled his first test.

  He had made a choice, had saved the icon of St. Basil.

  Already it was late. Darkness suddenly fell. The night had turned quite chilly. A cold wind was blowing.

  Rain was falling. Shivering, shaking, Mack and Marguerite slogged across the muddy battlefield.

  "Where are we going?" Marguerite asked.

  "There's somebody I have to meet," Mack said, wondering where in hell Mephistopheles was.

  "Did he say where?"

  "He said he'd find me."

  "Then why are we running like this?"

  "We're getting away from the battle. You could get killed out there!"

  "Hey there, you! Stop a moment!" a voice cried as Mack and Marguerite came up. "Haven't got a bit of dry firewood on you, have you?"

  "No, no," Mack said. "Sorry, but we don't have any. Excuse us, fellows, we have to go."

  The soldiers crowded around them. Marguerite felt something lumpy press against her side. She was about to slap somebody's face when she realized that Mack was trying to get her to take a small sack he had taken from Henry Dandolo. She concealed it on her person as the soldiers grabbed Mack.

  They searched him roughly, and then turned to her. Marguerite, fearing rude hands on her person, dumbly handed over the sack.

  "Aha!" one of them cried in a triumphant voice, taking out the icon of St. Basil. "What have we here?"

  "Careful with that," Mack said, "that's a special holy icon."

  "What does it do?" the soldier asked.

  "It works miracles," Mack said.

  "Works miracles, does it? Let's see if it'll start this fire. That would be a miracle!" He struck flint and steel. Sparks flew. One of them caught in the varnish on the icon's painted face. The icon sprang immediately into flames.

  The soldiers bent down over it, trying to get the burning icon under the other logs. Mack took the opportunity to get away, followed by Marguerite.

  They reached the edge of a little woods that bordered the battlefield. Loud lamentations could be heard from the direction of the city, now that the hiss of arrows had ended. The Crusaders were running wild.

  Already a pall of smoke hung in the clear moonlit air. It looked like it was going to be Troy all over again.

  Mack looked away. A flash of lightning revealed a tall, sinister figure standing not ten feet from him, wrapped in a crimson cloak, picturesquely posed at the margin of the woods.

  "Mephistopheles!" Mack cried. "Am I glad to see you!" He hurried up to him. "Did you see what I did? I took the icon option."

  "Yes, I saw," Mephistopheles said. "Frankly, I'm not impressed."

  "You're not? But it seemed the best choice. When I heard of Henry Dandolo speak about his plans for the future of Constantinople, I knew that I shouldn't kill him. As for Alexius, I never did get close enough to him to kidnap him even if I'd wanted to."

  "Fool!" Mephistopheles said. "Henry Dandolo was deceiving you. His hatred of Constantinople is implacable."

  "How in hell was I supposed to know that?" Mack asked.

  "Read his lips," Mephistopheles said. "If you had killed him, a better emperor might have been found, who could have saved the city from the terrible sacking and burning that the Crusaders are giving it even now." "I did the best I could," Mack said sullenly.

  "I don't really mean to scold you," Mephistopheles said. "As I said, it's not you yourself being judged, it's mankind as exemplified by you. You made just the sort of silly choice a human would make. To try to save an illusion rather than perform a practicality!" "Well, I'll do better at it next time," Mack said. "I won't try to save any more illusions, I can tell you that.

  What's next?"

  "Your second adventure awaits you," Mephistopheles said. "Are you ready?"

  "I could use a bath and a night's sleep."

  "You will be able to get those things at your next stop. You are going to the court of Kublai Khan."

  "What am I going there for?"

  "I will explain when we get there. Prepare yourself." "Wait!" Mack cried, for Marguerite was tugging at his sleeve. "Can I take her along?"

  Mephistopheles looked at Marguerite, seemed about to refuse, then shrugged. "Oh, I suppose so. Hold hands, close your eyes, and the thing will be done." Mack and Marguerite did as they were told. Marguerite also held her breath, because she hated the dizzying sensation of being conjured to another place and time.

  Mephistopheles made hand gestures, there was the familiar flash of fire and curl of smoke. And they were gone.

  MARCO POLO

  CHAPTER 1

  When Mack opened his eyes, he found he was on a busy street corner in what looked like a very large city. Mephistopheles and Marguerite were standing on either side of him. Mephistopheles was looking as dapper as always. He had a fresh red rosebud in the buttonhole of his dark lounge suit. His black shoes glittered with a new shine. And Marguerite was pretty as a picture. She'd found the time to repair her makeup since leaving Constantinople, and to change into a flowered gown with low-cut bodice.

  Mack looked around, and saw at once that this city had many large and noble buildings of a peculiar design that had to be Chinese. This impression was further reinforced by the inhabitants, who, wearing silks and furs, and with their hands in their long sleeves, hurried back and forth holding high-pitched conversations. The air was crisp and cold and smelled of charcoal and five-spice powder. The sky overhead was a cold northern blue. Men in fur hats with flat orange faces passed by. These, Mack was pretty sure, were Mongols. There seemed to be a lot of them around, all armed to the teeth. They walked past Mack and the others as if they were not there.

  "They can't see us," Mephistopheles said. "I have put us under a temporary Invisibility Spell. It's cheaper than hiring a conference room."

  "If you say so," Mack said. "Now, what am I supposed to do here?"

  "There in front of you," Mephistopheles said, "down at the end of the street, is the great palace of Kublai Khan. Within that palace live the great Khan, his nobles, relatives, concubines, and hangers-on. Also in that palace is Marco Polo."

  "The famous Venetian explorer?" Mack asked.

  "None other. His uncle and father would normally be there with him, but they've gone on a trading trip to Trebizond."

  "Where's Trebizond?" Mack asked.

  "Never mind. You don't need to know that. What you need to know is what you're supposed to do here."

  "Yes, right," Mack said. "Better fill me in."

  "The situation is like this. Marco is planning to leave Peking and return to Venice. Kublai Khan has reluctantly agreed to let him go because Marco is the only one who can provide safe escort for the Princess Irene, whom he has betrothed to one of his lords in Persia. There are plots 'gainst Marco's life, however. Some of the Mongol lords resent the favors Kublai has bestowed on him. There are people who want to kill him. One of your choices is to prevent Marco Polo from being killed before he leaves Peking."

  "Now, wait a minute," Mack said. "He did leave Peking, didn't he?"

  "Yes, but that was in the past. This is happening now. So it all must be done over again. And it could go a different way. Because even though it's happening over again, this is also the first time."

  "But if it did go a different way," Mack said, "wouldn't that play hell with events in our own time?"

  "You needn't worry about that," Mephistopheles said. "Think of it as a game w
ithin a game. You are brought here and given a moment in time. You will have three choices of what to do with that moment.

  From your choices, we will see how you will affect the future, whether for good or for ill."

  "No, it makes no sense at all," Mack said. "Why should I have to help Marco? He has already won out against any plot there might have been against him."

  "You don't seem to understand," Mephistopheles said. "When we send you here, it's as if the story is happening for the first time. No outcomes are fixed. For that matter, who knows how many times the Marco Polo story has been replayed? The history of Earth is like the old morality plays one sees over and over again, but the outcomes are not fixed. It's like the commedia dell'arte. The basic cast assembles every evening, the situation is begun, but sometimes, quite unexpectedly, the outcome is different."

  Marco Polo story has been replayed? The history of Earth is like the old morality plays one sees over and over again, but the outcomes are not fixed. It's like the commedia dell'arte. The basic cast assembles every evening, the situation is begun, but sometimes, quite unexpectedly, the outcome is different."

  "

  "How could you know what the main course of history is if you're immersed in its stream? And yet, although it is all deadly serious, it is all a game. At least, to us it is a game. But to you it had better stay serious or you'll suffer for it."

  "What are my other choices?" Mack asked.

  "There is the matter of the Princess Irene. She is from a far country and Kublai Khan has betrothed her to a lord of Persia. Yet if she were to marry someone else, that would change the course of history, too.