After Westfall and the others had departed, Azzie stayed on awhile at the tavern. He wasn't sure what to do next. Azzie considered following Ylith and again trying his seductive wiles, but he realized it would not be a good move. He decided instead to travel on to the Continent, as he had originally intended. He was thinking of staging a play of his own. A play that would run counter to these morality plays with their insipid messages. An immorality play!
Chapter 3
The idea of staging an immorality play had seized and inflamed Azzie's imagination. He wanted to do great things, as he had in the past, first in the matter of Prince Charming and then again in the affair of Johann Faust. Now he wanted to strike again, to amaze the world, both spiritual and material.
He knew it was no small task; he knew he had some strenuous work ahead of him. But he also knew of the man who could help him create such a play: Pietro Aretino, one day to be eminent among Europe's Renaissance playwrights and poets. If Aretino could be convinced…
He made up his mind sometime after midnight. Yes, he would do it! Azzie walked through the town of York and out onto the fields. It was a splendid night, with a great spangling of stars shining from their fixed sphere. All good God-fearing folk had gone to bed hours ago. Seeing there was no one about, God-fearing or not, he stripped off his satin coat with the double row of buttons and opened his crimson waistcoat. He was splendidly muscled; supernatural creatures are able, by paying a modest fee, to keep their bodies in shape magically, utilizing the Hellish service that advertises "Sound body, evil mind."
Stripped, he unfastened the linen binder that pulled his batlike demon's wings flat to his body in order to conceal them during his journeys among mankind. How good it felt to stretch his wings again! He used the linen binder to tie up his clothing to his back, taking care that his change was securely placed. He had lost money this way before through careless stowage. And then, with three running steps, he was aloft.
He slid forward in time as he went, enjoying its astringent smell. Soon he was over the English Channel, headed in a southeasterly direction. A brisk little following breeze pushed him along to the French coast in record time.
Morning found him above Switzerland, and he pumped for more altitude as the Alps came into sight.
Next came the familiar Great St. Bernard Pass; soon after that he was flying over northern Italy. The air was noticeably warmer, even at Azzie's altitude.
Italy! Azzie loved it here. Italy was his favorite country, and the Renaissance, at which he had just arrived, his favorite time. He considered himself a sort of Renaissance demon. He flew over vineyards and tilled fields, little hills and sparkling rivers.
Azzie turned toward the east and, adjusting the set of his wings for the heavier air rising off the land, flew until land and sea seemed to interpenetrate in a great marsh that stretched green and gray below him and combined at last with the Adriatic. And here he came to the outskirts of Venice.
The final yellow rays of the setting sun illuminated the noble old city, glinting off the waters of the canals.
In the oncoming gloom of evening he could just make out the gondolas, each with a lantern suspended from a pole in its rear, making their way back and forth over the Grand Canal.
Chapter 4
Back in York, old Meg the servant was cleaning up the inn when Peter Westfall arrived for his morning pail of ale.
"Master Peter," Meg said, "did you lose something last night? I found this where you gentlemen were sitting."
She handed him a little bag made of either deerskin or a very fine chamois. There was something inside.
"Oh, yes," Westfall said. He fumbled in his purse and found a farthing. "Here, have a pail of beer for your trouble."
Westfall pulled out a chair and sat down. He untied the silver cord that knotted the throat of the bag, eased in two fingers, and carefully withdrew the smooth yellow stone he found inside. Engraved on it was a sign that could be recognized as the Hebrew letter, aleph.
Westfall knew it had to be a talisman or charm — an object of power. This was the sort of thing that a master magician would possess. With it, various conjuring powers would be his; he could call one or more spirits out of the deep, depending on how the talisman was tuned. Westfall had always wanted a talisman, for without it, his magic had always been quite ineffectual. He suspected that it had been dropped by the spooky young fellow he had talked with after the Noah play the previous night.
That gave him momentary pause. He stopped and thought. This, after all, was not his talisman. The owner would be likely to return for something so unusual and valuable. If he did, Westfall would of course return it immediately.
He started to put the talisman back into its soft case, then stopped. It could do no harm if he played with it until its owner returned. Surely that would be unobjectionable.
Westfall was all alone in his upper chamber. He turned to the talisman. "All right, let's get to work," he said. "I don't know which magical incantations to use, but if you're a genuine charmed object, a mere indication should be enough. Fetch me a spirit here to do my bidding and be quick about it."
Before his eyes the little stone talisman seemed to heave and sigh. The black sign on its side changed color, first becoming golden, then deepest red. It began to vibrate as if it had a small but powerful demon inside. A sort of high-pitched hum emanated from it.
The light in the chamber dimmed as if the talisman were stealing power from the sun. A whorl of dust rose from the floor and began to rotate in a counterclockwise direction. There were deep sounds apparently coming from the air, like unto the bellowing of impossibly large cattle. A cloud of green smoke filled the room, setting Westfall to coughing. While he caught his breath he watched the smoke dispel, revealing a young woman with lustrous black hair and an expression of pert beauty. She was wearing a long full skirt with many pleats, and a red silk blouse with dragons embroidered on it in thread of gold.
She had on little high-heeled shoes, and a variety of tasteful jewelry. Right now she was very angry indeed.
"What is the meaning of this?" Ylith demanded. For it was Ylith whom the talisman had captured, probably because Azzie's last thoughts had been of her. The talisman must have picked up the impression.
"Why, I conjured you," Westfall said. "You are a spirit, and you must do my bidding. Right?" he added hopefully.
"Wrong," Ylith said. "I am an angel or a witch, not a mere spirit, and I am not bound to your talisman. I suggest that you recalibrate and try again."
"Oh, sorry," Westfall said, but as he spoke Ylith disappeared. Westfall said to the talisman, "Do be more careful this time. Fetch me the spirit you're supposed to. Do it!"
The talisman quivered as if it felt bad about being reprimanded. A musical note came from it, and then another. The light in the chamber dimmed again, then returned to full brilliance. There was a puff of smoke, and from it stepped a man wearing a complicated suit of dark satin and a conical hat. From his shoulders flowed a navy blue satin cloak embroidered all over with magical signs in gold thread. The man had a mustache and beard, and he looked entirely out of sorts.
"I am Peter Westfall," Westfall said. "I have conjured you by the power of this talisman." Westfall held it up.
The bearded gentleman said, "You conjured me? What are you talking about? Let me see that!" He looked closely at the talisman. "Originally Egyptian, but familiar somehow. Unless I miss my guess this is one of the original series with which King Solomon bound a larger collection of spirits back quite some time ago. I thought all of these had been retired. Where did you get this?"