"We are situated just now on the south side of the Alps." Globus pointed in a southerly direction. "It's a straight march down that way and along the river to Venice."

"All I have to do is lead the men there?" Oliver asked.

"That's it."

"Then let us go join the men!" Oliver cried exultantly.

Chapter 5.

Oliver reached the purple tent that had been reserved for him. Inside, sitting on a campstool and filing his nails with a little silver file, was none other than Azzie.

"Hi, Chief!" Oliver cried.

"Welcome to your command, Field-Marshal," Azzie said. "Is everything to your liking?"

"It's wonderful," Oliver said. "You've gotten me a wonderful bunch of soldiers. I had a look at some of them as I came up here. Real toughs, aren't they? Anybody trying to stand against me is going to be very sorry. Is there anyone I have to fight, by the way?"

"Of course. On your march south, which I expect you to begin immediately after we finish this briefing, you will encounter the Berserkers of the Death's Head Brigade."

"They sound tough. Do you really think I should start out fighting guys who are tough?"

"They're not tough at all. I gave them that name because it sounds good to the press. Actually they're a bunch of disenfranchised local peasants, farmers from the district who have been put off their land for nonpayment of the exorbitant taxes. They are armed only with axes and scythes, have no armor, no bows and arrows, not even proper lances. Also there are only a couple of hundred of them against your ten thousand. Not only are these men poorly prepared, they are also guaranteed to betray their comrades and flee at the first clash of arms."

"That sounds okay," Oliver said. "And then what?"

"Then you'll march into Venice. We'll have the press prepared."

"The press? Surely I haven't done anything to warrant torture!"

"You don't understand," Azzie said. " 'Press' is our name for the various persons who make things known to other people: painters, poets, scriveners, that sort of thing."

"I don't know anything about that," Oliver said.

"You'd better learn if you expect to become famous for your victories. How will you become legendary unless the writers write about you?"

"I guess I thought it just happened," Oliver said.

"Not at all. I've hired the finest poets and writers of the age, headed by the Divine Aretino, to sing your praises. t.i.tian will do a huge propaganda poster of whatever victory we ask him to portray. And I'll hire a composer to write a masque in memory of the victory, whatever it is going to be."

Azzie rose and walked to the entrance of the tent. A few fat drops of rain were falling, and big black clouds had come up from behind the Alps. "Looks like a bit of weather making up," he said. "It'll blow over soon, no doubt, and you can get your men on the road to Venice. Don't worry about how to address them, or in what language. Just tell Globus and he'll make sure everyone understands."

"Good. I was worried about that," said Oliver, who hadn't thought about it at all but wanted to sound alert.

"Good luck," Azzie said. "I suppose I'll see you in Venice by and by."

PART EIGHT.

Chapter 1.

Darkness held sway over Europe, and nowhere more than in the little inn where Azzie - despite small journeys of reconnaissance and aid-was still busily recruiting people for his play.

"What news, Aretino?" Azzie asked.

"Why, sir, Venice already buzzes with rumors that something strange and unprecedented is going on. No one knows what, but there is talk. Venetians are not privy to the secrets of the Supernaturals, though we certainly ought to be, so special are we among the peoples of the world. Citizens meet day and night in San Marco's Square to discuss the latest marvel glimpsed in the sky. But you did not send for me, sir, to discuss gossip."

"I've called you here, my dear Pietro, so that you might meet some of my contestants at firsthand, the better to a.s.sist them as they go about their work for me. It's a pity you missed Sir Oliver. He's a right fine model of a knight, and I think he'll do us proud."

"I caught a glimpse of him as I was riding up," Aretino said without much enthusiasm. "It's a rather unusual way to cast a play, taking the first applicant and giving him the role w.i.l.l.y-nilly. But no doubt he'll do. Who's next?"

"We wait and see," Azzie said. "If I am not mistaken, those are footfalls upon the stairs."

"They are indeed," Aretino said, "and by their sound I

judge them to belong to a person of no particular quality in terms of station in life."

"How can you say so? I'd love to know your secret of distant perceptions."

Aretino smiled sagely. "You'll note that the boots make a sc.r.a.ping sound, even when heard through the material of a door and from the distance of half a corridor. That, sir, is the unmistakable sound of untanned leather. Since the sound is high-pitched, one must ascertain that the boots are stiff, and that the one rubbing against the other is like two pieces of metal rubbing together. No man of quality would wear such material, so it must belong to a poor man."

"Five ducats if you're right," Azzie said. The sound of the boots stopped just outside the door. There was a knock. "Come in," said the redheaded demon.

The door opened and a man entered slowly, looking both ways as if unsure of his reception. He 'was a tall yellow-headed fellow wearing a ragged shirt of homespun and boots of cowhide that looked as if they had been annealed to his legs.

"I'll pay you later," Azzie said to Aretino. To the stranger he said, "I do not know you, sir. Are you part of our pilgrimage, or did you come upon us in the dark?"

"In a corporeal sense, I'm one of the group," the stranger replied, "yet in a spiritual sense I am not one of the party."

"The fellow hath a pretty wit," Azzie said. "What is your name, fellow, and your station in life?"

"They call me Morton Kornglow," the man said. "My regular occupation is grooming horses, but I was impressed into the job of valet to Sir Oliver, since I live in his ancestral village and have always been handy with a currycomb. Thus I may fairly claim that I am one of you as far as the physical body is concerned, but a company is generally thought of as composed of like-minded members, and one does not include the dogs and cats who may stray along with them, nor the servants, who are no more than the animals, though perhaps a little more valuable. I must ask you at once, sir, does my lowly station in life bar me from partic.i.p.ating in this event? Is your contest open only to n.o.bles, or may a common man with dirt under his fingernails volunteer?"

"In the Spiritual World," Azzie said, "the distinctions men make between each other are meaningless. We think of you all as souls for the taking, wearing a temporary body and soon to give it up. But enough of that. Would you be one of our seekers of the candlesticks, Kornglow?"

"I would indeed, sir demon," Kornglow said. "For though I am but a commoner, there is that which I desire. I would go to a bit of trouble to procure it."

"Name your desire," Azzie said.

"Before you joined our company we took a side trip to visit the estates of Rodrigo Sforza. The gentles ate at high table, whereas common folk like myself sat in the kitchen. Through its open door we could view all of the proceedings, and there it was that I laid eyes upon Cressilda Sforza, wife of Lord Sforza himself. Sir, she is the loveliest of women, with hair of cornsilk yellow lying smooth upon a cheek of damask blush that would put shame to the angels. She hath a tiny waist, sir, and above it doth swell -"

"That'll be enough," Azzie said. "Spare us the rest of your rustic pleasantries and tell me what you want of the lady."

"Why, that she should marry me, of course," Kornglow said.

Aretino gave a great laugh and m.u.f.fled it forthwith as a cough. Even Azzie had to smile, so ill-matched was the loutish and out-at-elbow Kornglow with any pretty n.o.blewoman.

"Well, sir," Azzie said, "you are not afraid to shoot high in your courting!"