Part 41 (1/2)

”Please, sir,” said Quentin, ”I've learned all my lines to say for this ceremony. Puss and I thought them up together, and we both learned them.”

”That's very nice, children,” Azzie said.

”Won't we get a chance to say them?” Quentin asked.

”You can tell your lines to me later, when I've gotten you safe away from Venice.”

”But sir, that won't be the same thing. We learned them for the ceremony.”

Azzie grimaced. ”There isn't going to be any ceremony.”

”Did one of us do something bad?” Quentin asked.

”No, it's nothing like that,” Azzie said.

”Was it a bad play, then?”

”No!” Azzie cried. ”It was not a bad play! It was a fine play! All of you were acting just like yourselves, and that's the best acting job possible.”

”If it wasn't a bad play,” Quentin said, ”and we didn't do anything wrong, ”why can't we finish it?”

Azzie opened his mouth to speak, but he hesitated. He was remembering himself as a young demon, contemptuous of all authority, willing to pursue his sin and his virtue, his pride and his will, to wherever they would lead him. Well, he had changed a lot since that day. Now a mere woman commanded him, and he obeyed. It was true that Ananke wasn't quite the same as a woman - she was more like a vague but compelling divine principle with b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She had always loomed above everything, compelling but remote. But here she was, breaking the precedent that had been set since the beginning of time not to interfere. And who did she pick to be the bearer of her broken precedent? Azzie Elbub.

”My dear child,” Azzie said, ”to go on with this ceremony could mean the death of us all.”

”I guess we all have to die someday, sir,” Quentin said. Azzie stared at him, because the lad had the effrontery of a demon and the sangfroid of a saint. Could Azzie do any less?

”All right, kid,” he said. ”You've talked me into it. Everybody! Pick up your candlesticks and take your places on the stage that has been set up in front of the bar!”

”You're going through with it!” Aretino cried joyfully. ”I am very thankful, sir. For what ending would I have had otherwise for the play I intend to write from this material?”

”You've got something to write about now,” Azzie said. ”Is the orchestra in the pit?”

They were, still cheerful because Aretino had paid them triple their usual wage to hang around waiting for Azzie, and because the city was so flooded that there were no other musical performances planned.

The orchestra struck up a tune. Azzie waved his hand. The ceremony began.

Chapter 4.

The ceremony was all pomp and circ.u.mstance such as demons and Renaissance people loved. Unfortunately there was no visible audience; this had to be a private affair. But it was all very impressive, there in the otherwise deserted inn, with the rain hammering overhead.

The pilgrims marched through the room, all dressed in their holiday best. They bore their candlesticks, which they retrieved from Aretino. They marched down the aisle and mounted to the stage. Azzie, master of ceremonies now, introduced each one, and made a short complimentary speech about him or her.

Eerie things began happening. There was a strange popping of curtains. The wind took on an uncanny moan. A pungent, unearthly smell suffused the s.p.a.ce. Most prominent was a wind that sounded like a tormented soul trying to get in.

”I've never heard the wind sound like that,” Aretino said.

”It's not the wind,” Azzie said.