Harold Shea bit his lip and nodded. Without Quixote, finding Florimel was going to be tougher. Still, he couldn't blame the knight for being upset. "I understand," he told the knight. "And I'm sorry."
"As indeed am I. You are a man of arms and action like myself, Geraldo de Shea, and I have heard you call upon the name of God, and seen God answer." Quixote clasped his gauntleted hands together. "In truth, it is only by your prayer that I am once again myself. You have my thanks."
Shea looked at the ground. "Don't mention it."
The knight nodded. "Nor shall I again. But if you ever leave this vile serpent, I would welcome your arm at my side in any great adventure."
Panza finished packing. "We can go now, your worship," he yelled from his place next to the horses.
Quixote glanced over his shoulder at his squire. Then he looked down the path the way the foursome had come the night before, shading his eyes against the sun. "Very well. It is time. Señor Geraldo, may God be with you and may your fair lady look upon you with favor." Without even waiting for a reply, he strode, clanking, to his horse.
He mounted with a grace Shea found hard to believe. Harold Shea had, at various times in his recent career, worn plate mail. He knew from experience the stuff weighed a ton—there were times when he had wished someone could have winched him onto the back of the horse, rather than making him climb on board. Yet Quixote vaulted, lithe and graceful as you please, into the saddle in defiance of all physical laws—which of course, Shea reflected, was the crux of the matter.
The knight waved a hand. Sancho Panza wheeled his Arab mare about, Quixote spurred Rosinante forward, and knight and squire broke into an easy canter—which made the crash as Quixote hit the invisible wall sound all the more like a dozen trash cans dropped from the top of a ten-story building.
"God!" Quixote bellowed, "I didn't kill him! What more do you demand of me?
God thundered, "ONLY THAT YOU MEET THE TERMS OF YOUR AGREEMENT, SIR KNIGHT"
I really wish God wouldn't keep butting in that way, Shea thought. The disembodied voice made his skin crawl. Wisely, he did not express his opinion out loud.
Quixote stood, admittedly with some difficulty this time, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Which terms?" he demanded. Quixote showed no fear in dealing with God—a fact Harold Shea noted with admiration. Shea was perfectly willing to admit that he was scared silly.
"SEE IF THIS SOUNDS FAMILIAR—HEAR ME, LORD IN HEAVEN,'" God mimicked in a very Quixote-like voice. "I SWEAR I WILL GIVE MY AID AND MY ARM TO ASSIST IN THIS JUST CAUSE FOR THE GLORY OF MY OWN FAIR DULCINEA, THOUGH IT COST ME MY LIFE, MY ESTATES, AND EVEN MY OWN GOOD NAME. NOR WILL I EAT, NOR SLEEP, NOR PARTAKE OF WINE OR SONG OR OTHER BATTLE UNTIL HIS LADY IS RECOVERED UNTO HIM—YOU REMEMBER SAYING ANYTHING OF THAT SORT, QUIXOTE?" God stopped and waited. Quixote said nothing.
"WHEN YOU ASKED ME TO HEAR YOU, I HEARD YOU," God pointed out. "IF YOU'D PREFER, I COULD QUIT LISTENING FROM NOW ON."
"Then you intend, Lord in Heaven, for me to continue to lend my might and my honor to that enchanter?" Quixote pointed melodramatically at Chalmers, who chose that moment to open his eyes. "Even though he is a heretical miscreant and a back-stabbing scoundrel as well?!"
"YOU'RE CATCHING ON," God thundered.
"Who was that?" Chalmers whispered groggily to Shea.
"That was God," Shea said.
Chalmers gave the information an instant's thought. Then he fainted again.
Quixote, meanwhile, did not intend to give in. "It is your command, then, O God, that I must stay my hand for worthier causes—a maiden in distress, or perhaps a downtrodden servant—in favor of this fiend who serves the Evil One?"
"MY WAYS ARE INSCRUTABLE" God snapped. "AND ABOVE THE QUESTIONING OF MORTALS. BESIDES," He added, "A DEAL IS A DEAL."
When God's voice stopped booming around the hills, Sancho Panza remarked to Quixote, quite loudly, "If your worship will just hold him still for me, I'll kill him. I didn't promise God anything."
Shea thought for just an instant, from the expression on Quixote's face, that he was going to take Sancho Panza up on his offer. Hut then the Knight of the Sad Countenance sighed. "As God said, 'A deal is a deal.' I shall meet my obligations as a knight, no matter the unfairness of the burden God has placed on me." He stared long and hard at the unconscious form of Chalmers, and added, softly, "Nevertheless, my good squire, if he turns me into that doddering old man again, you may act as your heart leads you."
The atmosphere during the morning meal would have strained a sloth's composure. Chalmers and Sancho Panza exchanged murderous looks, Quixote was pointedly praying at Chalmers, and Harold Shea felt in incipient ulcer brewing.
The meal took place amid dead silence, broken only by the twin cluckings of the chickens—which served as an unfortunate reminder of all that had gone before. Harold spent the time desperately trying to remember exactly what it was he had promised God He thought it was patently unfair, somehow, that God had a flawless memory, and he did not. Shea also felt it a bit unfair to find that God had not only been listening—but also paying attention. He sincerely hoped that in the heat of battle, he had not gone for a really gaudy oath.
On the other hand, he was not quite ready to up and ask God for the sort of instant replay the Almighty had given Quixote. Shea had a dark suspicion that if he did, he would not like what God would say.
After breakfast, while Reed Chalmers finished stuffing his few belongings into his pack, Shea gave some thought to the problem of transportation. Quixote had not offered them horses—and after the disastrous events of the morning, Shea didn't think he ever would. But Harold hated the idea of tromping on foot over half of Spain through the dust Quixote's and Panza's horses kicked up. Neither Chalmers nor Shea had any local currency—and he doubted that the peasants or the Church of Catholic Spain would look too kindly on men riding magic brooms.
He eyed the two chickens. He certainly did not want to eat them. Perhaps—seeing his magic was working well enough—he could turn them into usable mounts.
Surreptitiously he yanked a few hairs from the tail of Panza's horse. Then he grabbed both chickens—no great feat when their legs were bound—and trotted around the side of the hill and out of sight.
First he had to come up with a spell. Catholic saints ought to meet the requirements for the Law of Heroic Namedropping, he decided. He tried to think of a few who would be appropriate. George was the patron saint of Boy Scouts—and probably, Shea thought, of knights who fought dragons. Not awfully useful, but he was the first saint that came to mind. Shea pondered a bit longer. There was Francis of Assisi. He had something to do with beasts, didn't he? Or was Antony the patron saint of animals? Christopher was travel—or had he been disbarred? Probably not in Quixote's time, Shea finally decided.
Enough saints. He developed his incantation, deciding to incorporate the Laws of Contagion and Similarity into the spell as well as the Namedropping Law, on the theory that every little bit might help. Then he settled the trussed chickens in the dirt and draped a horse hair over the back of each. Around each bird he scratched the outline of a horse in the dirt. He winced as he studied his outlines—it was a pity he had never been better at art. Oh, well. He shrugged and took a deep breath.
He recited: