"Absolutely not! Quite to the contrary!"

The old man paused and took that in. "Quite to the contrary, eh?"

"Yes, exactly!"

"Who are you representing?" Dandolo demanded.

"I'm sure you can figure it out," Mack said, deciding to try some Faustian indirection.

Dandolo thought. "I've got it! You must be from Green Beard the Godless! He's the only one who doesn't have a representative here!"

Mack had no idea who Green Beard was, but he decided to play along.

"I won't say yes and I won't say no," he said. "But if I were representing this Green Beard, what might you have to say to him?"

"He'll be interested to hear that. But what specifically?"

"He must begin his attack on the Barbary Coast no later than one week from now. Can you get that message to him in time?"

There are many things I can do," Mack said. "But first I must know why."

"The reasons should be evident. Unless Green Beard, who commands the pirates of the Peloponnesus, neutralizes them, the corsairs of the Barbary Coast are apt to put a crimp in our plans."

"Yes, indeed," Mack said. "Which plans were those, by the way?"

"Our plans to take over Constantinople, of course. We Venetians have stretched our seapower to the utmost in getting this group of Franks hither to Asia. If a pirate attack should come on our Dalmatian dependencies while we are otherwise engaged, I fear we should be hard-pressed."

Mack nodded and smiled, but within he was boiling with excitement. So Dandolo was planning to capture Constantinople! By no stretch of the imagination could that be considered protecting it. It seemed clear that Dandolo had to go, and never would the time be better than right now, while he was alone with the blind old man in his tent, at a time when the camp of the Franks was in a state of excitement. Mack slipped the knife out of his sleeve.

"You understand," Dandolo said, fondling his ruby, "my plans for this fine city are far-reaching indeed, and no man but yourself and your pirate chief will know what I intend."

"It is a great honor," Mack said, trying to decide whether to insert the knife from front or back.

"Constantinople is a city that has seen better days," Dandolo said. "Once great and feared throughout the world, it is now an effete shadow of itself due to the ineffectual rule of its stupid kings. I'll bring that to a stop. No, I shall not reign myself. Command of Venice is enough for me! But I will put my own man on the Byzantine throne, and he will have orders to restore the city to its former majesty and greatness. With Venice and Constantinople allied, all the world will look with wonder at the age of great commerce and learning that will ensue."

Mack hesitated. He had been ready to strike. But Dandolo's words conjured up a vision of a great city restored to its full powers, a city in the forefront of learning and commerce, a place that could be a turning point in the history of the world.

"And what religion would these Greeks follow?" Mack asked.

"Despite my differences with the Pope," Dandolo said, "I am a good Christian. Young Alexius has made me promises of the most solemn sort, that once in power he will return his subjects to the rightful See of Rome. Then the Pope will lift my excommunication, nay, may even see fit to canonize me, for so great a feat of conversion has not been heard of in modern times."

"My lord!" Mack cried. "Your vision is holy and enchanted indeed! Count on me, my lord, to aid you in whatever way I can!"

The old man reached out and caught Mack in a close embrace. Mack could feel the stiff bristles of the old man's face, and the warm salt of his tears as he raised his voice to praise Heaven. Mack was about to say a few words in favor of Heaven, too, because it could do no harm, when suddenly men-at-arms burst into the tent.

"Take me to the action!" Dandolo cried. "I'll fight in this just cause myself! My armor, quick! Faust, give my offer to Green Beard, and we'll talk more later!"

And with that the old man swept out of the tent on the arms of his servitors, taking the holy icon with him, but leaving behind the bag of jewels.

Mack stood in the tented room, with shadows dancing up and down its silken walls, and decided this was going to work out very nicely. He was going to save Constantinople and make a profit at it, just like Henry Dandolo was doing. But just in case anything went wrong… He found a little canvas sack and took a nice selection of the jewels, then hurried out into the night.

The soldiers escorted Faust and Marguerite to a low wooden building constructed of heavy unpainted boards. It was the dungeon, and Faust knew at once that it was one of the portable models suitable for traveling armies. This dungeon was an exceptionally well-appointed one imported from Spain, where the Moors of Andalusia knew how to do these things. Upon entering, the soldiers showed Faust and Marguerite the torture chamber, a miracle of miniaturization and cunning joinery.

"We can't pull apart a whole man, like they can do back in Europe," one of the soldiers told him, "but we can sure rack hell out of his arms or legs, and it gets the same effect as the whole-body model. These finger pincers do the trick as good as the larger models, and are no bigger than what you'd use to crack nuts. Here's our iron maiden, smaller than the one they have in Nuremberg, but with more spikes. The Moors know how to put in more spikes per square inch than anyone else. Our pincers are not full size, but they tear the flesh in a very satisfactory manner."

"You're not putting us to torture!" Faust cried.

"Certainly not," the leader of the soldiers said.

"We're common soldiers. Straightforward killing is good enough for us. Whether they torture you or not is up to the Director of the Dungeons."

As soon as the soldiers left, locking the cell door behind them, Faust crouched down and began drawing a pentagram on the dusty floor, using a twig he had found in a corner. Marguerite sat on the backless stool that was the cell's only furniture and watched him.

Faust intoned a spell, but nothing happened. The trouble was, he hadn't brought along much in the way of magical ingredients, so great had been his hurry to find the impostor. Still, he had to try. He scrubbed out the lines and drew them again in the dust on the floor of the dungeon. Marguerite stood up and began pacing up and down like a caged pantheress.

"I'm not, I'm not," Marguerite said in an exasperated voice. "Are you going to do anything with it?"

"I'm working on it," Faust muttered. He found a pinch of henbane in the bottom of his pouch, added a sprig of mistletoe he had left over from a midwinter ceremony. Shaking out his sleeves, he found some antimony. And there were two pellets of lead in his shoes. What else did he need? Common dirt would have to substitute for graveyard mold. And for mummy powder, he would substitute nose snot.

"That's disgusting," Marguerite said.

"Shut up, it may save your life."

All was in readiness. Faust waved his hands and chanted. A glimmer of rosy light appeared in the middle of the pentagram, a fiery dot at first, then it expanded.

"Oh, you did it!" Marguerite cried. "You're wonderful!"

"Quiet," Faust hissed. Then, turning to the growing light, he said, "O spirit from the darkest deep, I conjure you in the name of Asmodeus, of Beelzebub, of Belial—"

A voice came from the glowing light. It was a young woman's voice, and it said matter-of-factly, "Please stop conjuring. I am not a conjurable spirit."

"You're not?" Faust asked. "Then who or what are you?"

"I am a representative of the Infernal Communication Service. We cannot accept your conjuration in its present form. Please check your spell and if you think you have it wrong, please conjure again. Thank you. Have a nice day." The voice stopped and the rosy light dwindled and disappeared.