every performance.'
Harry was baffled. 'I don't follow.'
'Nothing the Prince of Lies offers to humankind is of the least value,' Valentin said, 'or it wouldn't be offered. Swann didn't know that when he first made his Covenant. But he soon learned. Miracles are useless. Magic is a distraction from the real concerns.
It's rhetoric. Melodrama.'
'So what exactly are the real concerns?'
'You should know better than I,' Valentin replied.
'Fellowship, maybe? Curiosity? Certainly it matters not in the least if water can be made into wine, or Lazarus to live another year.'
Harry saw the wisdom of this, but not how it had brought the magician to Broadway. As it was, he didn't need to ask. Valentin had taken up the story afresh.
His tears had cleared with the telling; some trace of animation had crept back into his features.
'It didn't take Swann long to realise he'd sold his soul for a mess of pottage,' he explained. 'And when he did he was inconsolable. At least he was for a while. Then he began to contrive a revenge.'
'How?'
'By taking Hell's name in vain. By using the magic which it boasted of as a trivial entertainment, degrading the power of the Gulfs by passing off their wonder-
working as mere illusion. It was, you see, an act of heroic perversity. Every time a trick of Swann's was explained away as sleight-of-hand, the Gulfs squirmed.'
48'Why didn't they kill him?' Harry said.
'Oh, they tried. Many times. But he had allies. Agents in their camp who warned him of their plots against him.
He escaped their retribution for years that way.'
'Until now?'
'Until now,' Valentin sighed. 'He was careless, and so was I. Now he's dead, and the Gulfs are itching for him.'
'I see.'
'But we were not entirely unprepared for this event-
uality. He had made his apologies to Heaven; and I dare to hope he's been forgiven his trespasses. Pray that he has. There's more than his salvation at stake tonight.'
'Yours too?'
'All of us who loved him are tainted,' Valentin replied,
'but if we can destroy his physical remains before the Gulfs claim them we may yet avoid the consequences of his Covenant.'
'Why did you wait so long? Why didn't you just cremate him die day he died?'
Their lawyers are not fools. The Covenant specifically proscribes a period of lying-in-state. If we had attempted to ignore that clause his soul would have been forfeited automatically.'
'So when is this period up?'
'Three hours ago, at midnight,' Valentin replied.
'That's why they're so desperate, you see. And so dangerous.'
Another poem came to Byron Jowitt as he ambled back up 8th. Avenue, working his way through a tuna salad sandwich. His Muse was not to be rushed. Poems could take as long as five minutes to be finalised; longer if they involved a double rhyme. He didn't hurry on his journey back to the offices therefore, but wandered in a dreamy sort of mood, turning the lines every which way to make them fit. That way he hoped to arrive back with another finished poem. Two in one night was damn good going.
He had not perfected the final couplet however, by the time he reached the door. Operating on automatic pilot he fumbled in his pocket for the keys D'Amour had loaned him, and let himself in. He was about to close the door again when a woman stepped through the gap, smiling at him. She was a beauty, and Byron, being a poet, was a fool for beauty.
'Please,' she said to him, 'I need your help.'
'What can I do for you?' said Byron through a mouthful of food.
'Do you know a man by the name of D'Amour? Harry D'Amour?'
'Indeed I do. I'm going up to his place right now.'
'Perhaps you could show me the way?' the woman asked him, as Byron closed the door.
'Be my pleasure,' he replied, and led her across the lobby to the bottom of the stairs.
'You know, you're very sweet,' she told him; and Byron melted.
Valentin stood at the window.
'Something wrong?' Harry asked.
'Just a
Harry was baffled. 'I don't follow.'
'Nothing the Prince of Lies offers to humankind is of the least value,' Valentin said, 'or it wouldn't be offered. Swann didn't know that when he first made his Covenant. But he soon learned. Miracles are useless. Magic is a distraction from the real concerns.
It's rhetoric. Melodrama.'
'So what exactly are the real concerns?'
'You should know better than I,' Valentin replied.
'Fellowship, maybe? Curiosity? Certainly it matters not in the least if water can be made into wine, or Lazarus to live another year.'
Harry saw the wisdom of this, but not how it had brought the magician to Broadway. As it was, he didn't need to ask. Valentin had taken up the story afresh.
His tears had cleared with the telling; some trace of animation had crept back into his features.
'It didn't take Swann long to realise he'd sold his soul for a mess of pottage,' he explained. 'And when he did he was inconsolable. At least he was for a while. Then he began to contrive a revenge.'
'How?'
'By taking Hell's name in vain. By using the magic which it boasted of as a trivial entertainment, degrading the power of the Gulfs by passing off their wonder-
working as mere illusion. It was, you see, an act of heroic perversity. Every time a trick of Swann's was explained away as sleight-of-hand, the Gulfs squirmed.'
48'Why didn't they kill him?' Harry said.
'Oh, they tried. Many times. But he had allies. Agents in their camp who warned him of their plots against him.
He escaped their retribution for years that way.'
'Until now?'
'Until now,' Valentin sighed. 'He was careless, and so was I. Now he's dead, and the Gulfs are itching for him.'
'I see.'
'But we were not entirely unprepared for this event-
uality. He had made his apologies to Heaven; and I dare to hope he's been forgiven his trespasses. Pray that he has. There's more than his salvation at stake tonight.'
'Yours too?'
'All of us who loved him are tainted,' Valentin replied,
'but if we can destroy his physical remains before the Gulfs claim them we may yet avoid the consequences of his Covenant.'
'Why did you wait so long? Why didn't you just cremate him die day he died?'
Their lawyers are not fools. The Covenant specifically proscribes a period of lying-in-state. If we had attempted to ignore that clause his soul would have been forfeited automatically.'
'So when is this period up?'
'Three hours ago, at midnight,' Valentin replied.
'That's why they're so desperate, you see. And so dangerous.'
Another poem came to Byron Jowitt as he ambled back up 8th. Avenue, working his way through a tuna salad sandwich. His Muse was not to be rushed. Poems could take as long as five minutes to be finalised; longer if they involved a double rhyme. He didn't hurry on his journey back to the offices therefore, but wandered in a dreamy sort of mood, turning the lines every which way to make them fit. That way he hoped to arrive back with another finished poem. Two in one night was damn good going.
He had not perfected the final couplet however, by the time he reached the door. Operating on automatic pilot he fumbled in his pocket for the keys D'Amour had loaned him, and let himself in. He was about to close the door again when a woman stepped through the gap, smiling at him. She was a beauty, and Byron, being a poet, was a fool for beauty.
'Please,' she said to him, 'I need your help.'
'What can I do for you?' said Byron through a mouthful of food.
'Do you know a man by the name of D'Amour? Harry D'Amour?'
'Indeed I do. I'm going up to his place right now.'
'Perhaps you could show me the way?' the woman asked him, as Byron closed the door.
'Be my pleasure,' he replied, and led her across the lobby to the bottom of the stairs.
'You know, you're very sweet,' she told him; and Byron melted.
Valentin stood at the window.
'Something wrong?' Harry asked.
'Just a
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