"You face a problem common to all men. There is never enough evidence to know whether to kill or not.

Yet sometimes it must be done, both from the point of view of Light as well as that of Dark."

"I'll be judged harshly if I make a mistake." "No one will judge you but Ananke, Necessity, the judge of us all. Choose you must. That is the role of a Faust."

"Well, if you say so. Who am I supposed to kill again?"

"Henry Dandolo, the doge of Venice. And only if you decide that that's the best action under the circumstances."

"And the other guy? Alex something?"

"Alexius, Pretender to the throne of Constantinople."

"And the third choice again?"

"To rescue the sacred relic of St. Basil, protector of Constantinople. Really, Faust, you must pull yourself together. You are well known for your tenacious memory." "It works better when I don't have a hangover," Mack said. "Now would you just mind telling me what a Frankish army is doing at Constantinople?"

Mephistopheles raised an interrogative eyebrow. "I thought an educated man like yourself would know all about this mighty event which took place only a few hundred years ago. I am surprised by your ignorance—though I also know this perhaps is but your bit of a joke. It is the Fourth Crusade, of course.

But you must discover the situation for yourself, and take your best action."

"Well, I'll try," Mack said.

"You must do more than that," Mephistopheles said. "We have contracted with you to perform certain actions. If you fail to perform them in the time allotted, you will ruin our contest, and win for yourself something rather unpleasant."

"And what would that be?" Mack asked.

"Pain unspeakable in an everlasting pit in the bottomless places of horror where you wilt be killed unspeakably and then brought back to life to be killed again, and again, and again, until we can think up something worse for you. You have twenty-four hours in which to perform your deed. Adieu."

And with that Mephistopheles took to the air and soon vanished into the sky's sunny vastnesses.

Mack stayed for a while in the cove, turning things over in his mind, until at last, deciding he had better get on with it, he began walking. He soon found himself on a vast plain that stretched, yellow and green, as far as the eye could see. A half mile ahead of him were the steep walls of Constantinople. These walls were higher and more massive than any he had seen in Europe. Sentries in brass cuirasses, with horsetail plumes on their bright helmets, marched along the battlements. Below, and a half mile back from the walls, there were hundreds of tents spread around the plain, and a multitude of camp-fires, and great crowds of armed men. There were also many wagons camped a little apart, in a place of their own, with women and children around them. As he came closer, Mack could see that forges had been set up, and smiths were even now hammering out arrowpoints and lance heads. There were other wagons from which provisions were being unloaded, and there were pavilions with brightly colored banners flying from lances set before them. These seemed to be the abodes of the leaders of this great expedition. Mack saw that this place was a veritable traveling city, a place that could pack up and move at any time. He realized that this city must have been moving almost daily since the host had left Frankland.

"What news bring you of the council?" one of them called out.

"What news I bring is not for your ears," Mack said, deciding to take a high hand lest he be undone at the very beginning.

"But is Boniface of Montferrat still at the meeting? That alone would be a sign of progress."

"I can tell you this much," Mack said. "Conditions haven't changed much in the last few hours."

"Then there's still hope of recovering honor out of this thieves' nest," another of the men-at-arms muttered.

Mack walked on. At last he came to a place that looked familiar. It was a wagon with a broad canopy to one side of it, and under that canopy there were chairs and tables, and there were hogsheads piled high, and men were sitting at the tables and drinking and eating. It was a tavern on wheels.

Grateful that he had found a place at last where he could feel at home, Mack entered and found himself a seat.

The tavern keeper appeared, and, taking in the finery in which Mack had been clothed at the Witches'

Kitchen, louted low and said, "What might I bring you, my lord?"

"Your best wine," Mack said, realizing at once that his credit might be very good in this place.

The tavern keeper drew a piggin of wine and returned with it. "I have not seen you before, sir. Might it be that you have only recently joined our great company?"

"It might indeed be," Mack said. "Is that a roast of venison I smell on the back rack?"

"It is. My lord hath a discerning nose. I'll bring you a gobbet of it forthwith. Prithee, sir, what can you tell us of any tidings you bring from your famous master?"

"What master is that?" Mack said, for the fellow's indirection left him grasping for the meaning, if any.

"I simply assumed, sir, that so great a lord as yourself did no doubt serve a greater; for it is written that all things serve another in this world, whether villein to master, ox to farmer, lord to God, and so on through the heavenly ranks where the rule is the same."

"Your loquacity is exceeded only by your perspicacity," Mack said, the wine having bucked him up considerably.

"I am Johann Faust."

"And you have journeyed far to reach us?"

"Aye, passing far," Mack said.

"And tell me, sir, whom do you serve?"

The loungers in the tavern craned forward to catch the answer. But Mack merely smiled and said, "That is not for me to say at this time."

"Couldn't you give us a hint, though?" For a small crowd, indeed, a half multitude, had gathered around while the tavern keeper and Mack were holding their colloquy.

The landlord squinted one eye and said, "I'll bet you're an agent of the Council of Venice, which seeks to instruct and restrain the vainglorious Henry Dandolo, doge of Venice."

Mack shrugged.

"No," cried another, "he's no man of the Venetians, for note you not that look of proud piety on his face and how his hands seek his sleeves as if he were wearing a monk's habit? I'll bet he's a churchman in disguise, come from Innocent the Third, our Pope who organized this holy Crusade and now finds himself thwarted by the machinations of the diabolical Henry Dandolo."

They all stared at Mack, who said, "I wouldn't say yes and I wouldn't say no."

A third man, a soldier, declared, "It is apparent from his firm bearing and laconic replies that he is a soldier. No doubt he represents Philip of Swabia, a fighting man of few words, albeit many deeds that cry to Heaven for avenging. And I'll bet he brings an offer concerning who is to be ruler of Constantinople once the present incumbent, the inconvenient and stubborn Alexius the Third, has been reduced to a blind beggar scuffling for scraps in the dustbins of his once haughty city."

Mack gave no hint as to his political leanings. There was much conversation about whom Mack was representing, for there seemed no doubt that he was there on behalf of someone. The tavern keeper would accept no pay for his food and drink, asking instead that Mack remember him when the council met to regulate the use of strong drink among the Crusaders. And when Mack made to leave, a short, plump, well-dressed young man in clerk's gray introduced himself as Wasyl of Ghent and asked permission to assist Mack in getting quarters, since he had neglected to do so hitherto.

And so they walked together to the bright yellow double tent with the pennons flying in front of it, for this was headquarters of the Quartermaster Corps. There were loungers at the flap, but Wasyl cleared them out of the way with his announcement, "Make way for Johann Faust, a visitor from Frankland, and one who has not as yet announced his party and affiliation."