Part 11 (1/2)

”Keep trying awhile longer,” Michael said. ”A working knowledge of painting is useful in helping to evaluate the many masterworks Heaven has in its superlative collections. Have you encountered your friend Azzie again?”

”Indeed I have, sir. Just a little while ago I saw him coming out of the house of Pietro Aretino, the well-known scurrilous poet and ribald playwright.”

”Did you indeed? What do you think it was all about? Simple fan wors.h.i.+p?”

”That's what I'd like to believe,” Babriel said. ”However, a certain appearance of upset in my friend's behavior when I mentioned Aretino's name has led me to wonder if it might not be otherwise. But I hate to accuse anyone of possible double-dealing, sir, and least of all one who is my friend, despite being a demon.”

”Your scruples do you credit,” Michael said. ”Though we would expect no less of one who is after all a full- fledged angel. But consider. Azzie, as a servitor of Bad, would not be doing his job if he were not up to some subterfuge conducive to the advancement of Evil in the world. So to accuse him of harboring wrongdoing is simply to give him his due. Of course he's up to no good! The question is, what is he doing?”

”As to that, I have not the slightest idea.”

”Yet I think we need to find out. Azzie is no longer an insignificant personage. Twice has he served the Powers of Darkness in great affairs. There was the case of Prince Charming to begin with, and then the matter of Faust, the outcome of which is still under adjudication in the courts of Ananke. I understand Azzie now stands high in the councils of unrighteousness. It seems obvious that he is a prune player in those games that spring up from time to time to bedevil mankind and set the feet of humans on the path to d.a.m.nation.”

”My friend is as important as all that?” Babriel said, round-eyed with amazement.

”So it would seem these days,” Michael said. ”At the least, it seems wise to investigate what his interest is in the wily and too-clever-by-half Aretino.”

”I think you're right, sir,” Babriel said.

”And you, my lad, are the very angel to do it.”

”Me? Oh, surely not, sir! You know how lacking I am in guile, your archangels.h.i.+p. If I attempted by duplicitous conversation to ascertain his purposes, Azzie would see through me in an instant.”

”I know that,” Michael said. ”Your ingenuousness is legendary among us. But it can't be helped. You are in the perfect position to do a bit of spying, since you are here in Venice already. It should be easy enough for you to make the acquaintance of this Aretino. Go to him as one who has long admired his work, and speak to him, look around his house, see what you see. Even buy him lunch to draw him out further. We'll put down the cost to Heavenly Investigations.”

”You really think it'll be morally okay if I spy on my friend?” Babriel inquired.

”It stands to reason that it is,” Michael said. ”One cannot betray an enemy, only a friend. Without betrayal there'd be no revelation.”

Babriel nodded and agreed at once to do what Michael asked. Only later did he realize Michael had never given him a direct answer. By then it was too late to worry about it, though. While betraying a friend may or may not be a moral wrong, going against the order of an archangel is decidedly inadvisable.

Chapter 2.

The next day, on the stroke of twelve, Babriel knocked at Aretino's door.

There was no response at first, although he could hear a variety of sounds from within. They seemed to be the strangest mixture of musical instruments and human voices, many of them raised in laughter. He knocked again. This time a servant opened it, a very proper-looking man save that his wig was askew. He looked as if he had been trying to do too many things at the same time.

”I wish to speak with Aretino,” Babriel said.

”Oh, dear, everything is in such a state of upset,” the servant said. ”Wouldn't another time do?”

”No, it must be now,” Babriel said with unaccustomed firmness, stiffened by the thought that he'd soon have to report his progress - or lack of it-to Michael.

The servant stepped back, admitting Babriel. He led the angel to a drawing room, and said, ”Kindly wait here. I'll ask if the master can see you.”

Babriel teetered back and forth on his heels, a trick he'd learned long ago to help pa.s.s the time. He looked about the room and saw a ma.n.u.script on a little drawing table nearby. He had seen only the words ”Father Adam” when there was a bustle of noise and a group of people came in. Babriel sprang back guiltily.

They were musicians, but they had discarded their for-mal coats and jackets and were walking at ease in their s.h.i.+rtsleeves, playing their instruments. It wasn't any church air they were striking up, but rather a lively dance melody.