Roger Zelazny - Bring Me the Head of Prince Charming

"Is that the destined outcome of your planned charade?" Belial asked.

"No, it is not, lord," Azzie said. "I crave your indulgence not to force me to reveal the conclusion of my scheme too soon, for much of the pleasure in its making lies in following a creative intuition without knowing too firmly in advance its outcome."

There may have been difficulties about Azzie's plan, but the time to select an entry was at hand, and nothing better had come along. The assembled Lord Demons nodded. "I think we have something here," Belial said. "What do you think, my colleagues?"

The others humphed and griffed but finally gave their assent.

"Go forth, then," Belial said to Azzie, "and do what you have promised. You are our entry, our chosen one. Go, and produce horror and evil in our name."

"Thank you," Azzie said, genuinely moved. "But I'll need money to do this. Body parts such as I want don't come cheap. And there is the matter of the other things I'll need-two castles, one for each protagonist, and a mansion for myself from which to operate. Also the wages of a servant, and quite a few other things."

The lords issued him a black credit card with his name embossed in fiery letters above an inverted pentagram, insert-able anyplace dark and sinister. "With this," Belial said, "you will have instant and unlimited credit with Supply. You can call them up anytime and anywhere, so long as you find some­place foul in which to insert the card. But that should be no difficulty, the world being what it is. It is also good for control of meteorological phenomena."

"But you must supply your own hero and heroine," Azazel told him. "And, of course, the directing of the action is all your responsibility."

"Accepted," Azzie said. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

If someone had been watching, from a high window in the steeply pitched narrow old house above the main square in the village of Hagenbeck, he might have seen a man arriving in the public coach from Troyes. This man was tall and attractive. He was neither young nor old. His face was not displeasing, and had about it a sternness that marked its owner as a person of some consequence. He wore clothing of good English cloth, and his shoes had fine brass buckles. He got off at Hagenbeck, went directly into the inn, and asked for rooms. When the owner, Herr Gluck, wondered about the new arrival's ability to pay, Azzie (for such it was) produced a purse in which rested innumerable pieces of Spanish gold cast in doubloons.

"Very fine, indeed, sir," the innkeeper said, cringing to show his appreciation. "We have our finest apartment open. Usually it is occupied, but everyone is gone to the great fair in Champagne."

"Then it is mine," said Azzie.

It was very fine, the main room having a large bower window. There was even a little bathroom in which to clean up, not that demons make much use of such things.

At first Azzie lay down on the big bed with its feather down coverlet and its fine plump pillows. It seemed to him that his career was finally beginning. He was amazed at how quickly he had moved, from a lowly servitor in North Discomfort 405 to the impresario of a fine new game for the Millennial cele­brations. He lay on the bed and pondered his good fortune for a time, then bestirred himself, anxious to get his scheme started.

The first thing he needed was a servitor. He decided to consult the landlord about this requirement.

"Of course you must have a servitor," the fat landlord said. "I was amazed that such a fine gentleman as yourself didn't come equipped with servants and a considerable traveling chest. Since you have money, that shouldn't be hard to put to rights."

"I need a special sort of servant," Azzie said. "One who may be called upon to do deeds of a most unusual nature."

"Might I inquire," the landlord asked, "just what nature your excellency is speaking about?"

Azzie looked keenly at the landlord. He was fat and com­placent looking, but there was a sinister cast to his features. This man was no stranger to evil deeds. He was a man who would stop at nothing, and who knew a sort of glee at the thought of evil deeds, finding in them the excitement his normal life lacked.

"Landlord," Azzie said, "the deeds I will require may not be entirely within the ken of the king's law."

"Yes, sir," the landlord said.

"I have prepared here," Azzie said, "a little list of the requirements I need in a servitor. I wish you could tack this up somewhere. ..."

He handed a sheet of parchment to the landlord. The landlord took it, moved it back and forth to get into reading range.

It read: "Servitor needed, a man not squeamish, accus­tomed to blood and gore, honest and reliable, up for anything."

He read it several times, then said, "A man like this might be found, if not in our village of Hagenbeck, then in nearby Augsburg. But I shall be pleased to nail this on our front wall, along with the listings for hay and oats, and we shall see what comes of it."

"Do that," Azzie said. "And send me up a flagon of your best wine, in case the wait becomes onerous."

The landlord louted low and took his departure. Within minutes he sent up the servant girl, a poor creature with de­formed face and halting gait, carrying not only the flagon of wine, but also some small cakes which the cook had baked just that day. Azzie rewarded her with a silver penny, for which she was pathetically grateful. He then sat himself down and feasted. Demons do not really require food, of course, but when they take human form they also take on human desires. This appetite for food was one of them. Azzie dined well, and af­terward sent for the blackbird pie he could smell baking in the inn's well-founded kitchen.

It was not long before the first applicant knocked at his door. He was a tall young man, thin as a weed, and with wild light blond hair that floated around his head in a sort of nimbus. His clothing was presentable, although much patched. He held himself well, and bowed low when Azzieopened the chamber door.

"Sire," the stranger said, "I read your notice belowstairs, and I have come quickly to present myself to you. I am Augustus Hye, and I am a poet by trade."

"Indeed?" said Azzie. "This is a somewhat unusual post for a poet."

"Not at all, sire," Hye said. "Poets must perforce deal with the most extreme of human emotions. Blood and gore would suit me fine, since they would prove good subjects for my poems, in which I will consider the vanity of life and the inevitability of death."

Azzie was not entirely satisfied with what he heard. The poet didn't seem really suited for the task. But Azzie decided to give him a trial.

"Do you know the local graveyards?" Azzieasked.

"Of course, my lord. Graveyards are a favorite place for poets who crave contemplation to bring to their minds great and dolorous deeds."

"Then hie you to such a place this evening, when the moon is down, and bring me a nicely aged human skull, with or without hair, it makes no difference. And if you can bring me some ladies' fingers, all the better."

"Ladies' fingers, sire? You are referring to the confection of that name?"

"Not at all," said Azzie. "I am referring to the actual and literal objects."

Hye looked uncomfortable. "Such items are hard to come by."

"I know that," Azzie said. "If they were easy, I would go forth and get them myself. Now go and see what you can do."

Hye left, not happily. Already his hopes were fading. Like all poets he was more used to talking about blood and gore than actually getting his hands into it. But still, he decided to attempt the task because Lord Azzie, as he called himself, was evidently a wealthy man and might be counted upon to give out much largess.

Azzie's next caller was an old woman. She was tall and lean, dressed entirely in black. She had small eyes and a long nose; her lips were thin and bloodless.