THE RENAISSANCE PLEASURE AFFAIRE

G M

"Proud man! Drest in a little brief authority."

"Why do I let you talk me into these things?"

"It was an order," Illya Kuryakin curtly retorted. "Why don't other teams get these kooky assignments? Why is it always us?" was the long-suffering sigh elicited by Napoleon Solo.

"Horatio requested the meet be here."

"Horatio! What a name."

"You should talk about names," came Kuryakin's sarcastic retort. This earned him a dagger-eyed glare from his partner. Satisfied he had scored a point on the imaginary scoreboard of their quip volley game, he continued. "This is from the man who gets information from the part-time exotic dancer known as Blue Midnight?"

Refusing to be baited by the snide comments, Solo stopped on the dirt path just in front of the entrance to the Renaissance Pleasure Faire. It was a hot, breeze less, stuffy day in the dry canyon in the foothills of Agora California. The blue May sky was cloudless and the sun mercilessly cooked the visitors of this small corner of the world that had regressed back to the middle ages for the day.

Solo loosed his tie and unbuttoned his collar. Most of the people who thronged past were dressed in period costumes. Many were elaborate recreations of the Elizabethan styles. Most of the clothes looked dreadfully hot and uncomfortable yet he seemed the only one adversely affected by the heat. It was amazing what some people would do for the sake of a hobby!

"Well, let's get this over with. Where do we meet Horatio?"

Illya Kuryakin gestured toward the entrance. "When we get the program, it will tell us where Hamlet is being performed. Horatio will meet us backstage."

"Of course," was the wry reply. "Lead on, McDuff," Solo offered, gesturing for his friend to be the first one into the Faire -- not to mention the one to pay the admission.

Just inside the gate the two UNCLE agents stopped to peruse the map of the Faire grounds. Pathways were given appropriate names such as Drury Lane and Threadneedle Street. Kuryakin stabbed the map at a point on the far side of the grounds.

"Drury Lane Theater. Hamlet will be at two o' --"

"Behold!" a booming voice interrupted from behind them.

Both agents tensed and slipped their hands inside their jackets instinctively seizing their pistols.

"Alas, foreigners have come to our fair shores!"

The agents turned. Pointing at them with an accusing finger was a massive, bearded man in full Elizabethan costume. They exchanged nervous glances, straightened, hands still touching the pistols.

"I think he means us," Kuryakin dryly whispered.

"Methinks they are pretty strangers," a woman in costume laughed and winked at Napoleon.

The suave Solo grimaced. It was disconcerting when a woman – a gaudy wench -- so overtly -- baldly -- flirted with him.

The large man closely studied the Russian's blond mop. "Aye, strange," he laughed boisterously.

"Spies!" one man shouted.

"Are we that obvious?" Illya commented, nonplussed.

"Well, I didn't think --"

"Spies from Spain," another man suggested.

A crowd had gathered and a number of amused spectators watched the uncomfortable agents.

"I don't believe this," Solo sighed, realizing their business suits had marked them for easy targets of jest. "Let's get out of here," he urged impatiently.

"What, blast our way out?" Kuryakin said under his breath. "Not very good for public relations, Napoleon."

"We'll show our cards."

"Perfect for our SECRET, INCOGNITO mission," was Illya's sarcastic retort.

The huge man was circling them. "As sheriff of this fair shire, I order these spies sent to gaol."

The UNCLE agents again exchanged glances. "Just how important is Horatio?" Solo wondered.

"Would you like to explain to Waverly that we didn't complete the mission because we were run out of town by the sheriff of the fair?"

Solo shook his head. Against his better judgement he submitted to the farce. The Elizabethan escorted North America's two top agents through the crowd sheriff. The dungeon was really a wooden shack labeled GAOL. The agents were told that random visitors in normal street wear who didn't seem to fit in with the theme would be stopped. To enter into the festivities they would be offered free costumes. Solo quickly declined and started out the door, but his passage was blocked by the huge sheriff. The man loudly insisted they accept. Solo cockily eyed the big man; twice his size and weight, he felt he could take the man. He snidely refused to cooperate.

Kuryakin took his partner aside and whispered, "We don't want to make a scene, Napoleon."

"You think I'm going to walk around in public in tights and -- and -- pantaloons?" was the vain agent's outraged incredulous reply.

"THRUSH could be here ahead of us, Napoleon," Kuryakin warned in a reasonable tone. "We could blend right in if we were in costume."

Solo shook his head in adamant, absolute denial. "Not me!"

Illya nodded toward the sheriff. "Going through him will cause a lot of trouble. It might even get us evicted."

Solo scowled. "Gladly."

"And you'll be sure to include all of this in your report to Waverly when we return without the microfilm?"

In only seconds Solo's thoughts coursed the rocky, unpleasant possibilities if they did not complete this important assignment to Waverly's satisfaction. Personally, Solo had already accrued two reprimands and one very long lecture for this month. He really didn't want to push Waverly any further. The flirting young lady quietly assured him his clothes would be returned after pictures were taken of them. Against his better judgment -- and good will -- he reluctantly agreed to play along with the charade. After all, it couldn't be more painful than other forms of torture he had endured in his career. Just more embarrassing.

"If you laugh, I promise I will break into your apartment one night and shave your head while you sleep."

"Why would I laugh, Napoleon?" Illya Kuryakin placidly asked. Despite his best efforts, a snort almost escaped him. Receiving a dangerous glare from his partner he quickly bit his lip closed. When he felt in control enough to speak again he said, "You look -- "

"Don't!" Napoleon snapped sourly, holding up a warning hand to forestall any nasty comments.

"Now stand still and smile," the flirting girl in the costume pleaded good-naturedly. "This will be a memorable token of today."

"Really," Solo returned caustically.

The sentence for being caught as spies was to be photographed in costume and have your picture snapped. The picture would be posted on the GAOL wall. Then their regular clothes would be returned. At the end of the day the offenders could pick up the picture -- a souvenir for playing along with the Faire staff.

"I'm sure I'll never forget."

"It's not like you to refuse a lady, Napoleon," Kuryakin nagged, savoring the opportunity to so effectively tease his partner. Solo was a man he considered overly concerned with fashion.

"I wouldn't talk if I were you, Blackbeard," Solo replied with amusement. He tugged at the loose, flouncily sleeved shirt his companion wore. Somehow the blond had gotten the better deal. The Russian had been given a pirate outfit complete with a real sword. He grudgingly admitted it fit the Russian's personality -- Illya was a bit of a rogue.

On the other hand, he DID NOT appreciate the pantaloons and tights he had received. He did not think the Sir Francis Drake routine fit him at all. Worse, several ladies had already whistled at him! If this ever got back to New York he was ruined.

The pictures were snapped, after which Solo offered all the cash he possessed to buy the photos. They were on the way back to the dressing room when Kuryakin suddenly grabbed Solo's arm.

"Horatio! There!"

He gestured out the door to a man in a brown Elizabethan peasant costume. Several paces behind Horatio was a man in the dress of a Spanish guard.

"Isn't that Harry? "

"Daysart, yes," Kuryakin agreed.

"I still owe him for that nasty --"

Kuryakin's hand tightened on his partner's arm. "THRUSH must have a contract out on Horatio! We've got to get to him first," he said in a rush. "Come on," he urged and hurried out the door.

"Wait, our clothes!" Solo shouted, but his partner was already rushing into the midst of the festival crowd. "Illya!" he cursed in irritation. If he lost his partner now, he might never find him again in this mass of bodies. And just in case the hit man Daysart turned nasty, Napoleon's duty was to watch his partner's back.

"Keep our things safe please," he requested of the camera girl. In a quick afterthought he gave her a brief kiss on the cheek and dashed out. It would take too much time to return to the dressing rooms for communicators, pistols, or special devices. They probably wouldn't need them anyway, he reasoned hopefully as he wound his way through the crush of people in pursuit of his partner.

"The Flagon with the Dragon."

Pursuing a suspect through a crowd under any circumstances was tricky, but this was ridiculous! The dirt pathways were clogged with people and strolling vendors.

Kuryakin raced, dodged and jostled well ahead of his partner as they ran through the crowds. He almost was within reach of Daysart and Horatio when he collided with a ponderously slow Guild procession, then nearly tripped over several Public Drunks in the middle of an intersection.

While Illya had to blaze the trail and batter obstacles aside, Solo was left to deal with his partner's angry victims. The senior UNCLE agent deftly apologized to outraged attendees and was almost home-free until one of the female Public Drunks pinched the handsome agent. As quickly as possible he extricated himself from her embrace and caught up with his partner. The quarries had disappeared, blocked by the black-robed, skull-masked figures of a death parade. The two agents stood in the street and caught their breath.

Almost subconsciously Solo registered the furtive shape at the corner of his eye. Daysart was emerging from a fortuneteller's tent. For a second they brushed eye contact, then Daysart spun around and ran up the lane.

Solo vaulted off in pursuit. "The tent," he shouted to his partner.

The assassin led the senior UNCLE agent on a wild, treacherous course through the tightly packed crowds. Solo gave little thought to the choking heat and dust as he hustled to keep within sight of Daysart. If only he had his UNCLE Special. One sleep dart would drop Daysart in his tracks.

The agent followed his prey a stall of hanging tapestries and Oriental rugs. He felt his shirt snag heard the tear of material. He skidded to a stop and spun around before his mind registered that he had come within inches of death.

Daysart crouched, a lethal blade in his hand. He took another swipe at the UNCLE agent, again missing by only inches. Napoleon backed away, waiting for an opening to take the knife from the assassin. Daysart was a professional -- a challenge even for an unarmed, albeit talented and clever UNCLE agent. Daysart temporarily gained the upper hand and pushed Solo into a huge cabinet.

Glass and wood splintered around them. Napoleon felt the painful slice of glass in his back, but his concentration was focused on survival. He pushed all his strength into a counter lunge and managed to throw Daysart across the room. Quick on his feet, the assassin pulled a huge broadsword from the wall display and took a swing at the agent.

Napoleon rolled and ducked under another glass case and came to his feet at another sword display. Daysart sliced the air with his broad blade but the sword was stopped by the saber Napoleon hands.

Like two mediaeval tournament players the combatants wheeled their deadly weapons in an intense, dangerous war. Sweat, blood and dirt covered them both as they raged through shops and crowds as spectators were entertained by what they thought was just another show at the Faire.

Both hands on the saber's hilt, Napoleon drove his opponent toward the back of the stable wall. Suddenly he felt the pressure of a bullet pass so close to his head his ears popped. Almost simultaneously he heard the quiet singing of the bullet that had whizzed by. He ducked and swung around. A man in the crowd was aiming a Luger directly at him. There was nothing he could do. He would never be able to try his throwing sword trick -- he would never have the time. Within a second he would be shot -- killed! The fleeting, ironic realization that he would have won the sword fight (if he had not been unfairly routed by gunplay) added a sour note to what he believed would be his last thoughts.

III

"Surely you joust!"

The gunman folded abruptly to the ground. Standing in the gunman's place was Illya Kuryakin, the end of his pirate sword buried in the man's back. After the initial surprise had passed, Solo fell back against the wall. He wearily saluted Illya with his saber.

"You let Daysart get away!" Illya chided dryly as he joined his partner.

Solo glanced around and noticed Daysart had indeed slipped away in the confusion. He sighed heavily. This was definitely not his day.

"That's all you have to say?"

Napoleon snapped back testily.

"No," Illya replied dryly. "Your impression of Basil Rathbone is terrible."

Solo made a sour face. "Critic. What about Horatio?" "He won't be making the afternoon performance," Illya returned. His attention was diverted by a commotion in the crowd. "The real forces of law and order are arriving. "Let's explain -- "

Illya grabbed his partner and pushed Solo through a thick knot of people, effectively eluding any pursuit. "We don't have time," he explained urgently. "Horatio told me he put the microfilm in a flagon."

"What?"

The blond agent was defensive. "Don't ask for details."

"A flagon? But --"

"There wasn't time for more details."

"Where are we supposed to look?"

"We have to find the flagon with the dragon," Illya answered with a soberly straight face.

Solo scowled. "Very funny. I saw the movie, too, you know . . ." his voice trailed into a disheartened groan. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Believe me, Napoleon, I would not joke about this," he assured honestly as he turned away.

"Illya," he called as the Russian tugged him along.

"Yes, Napoleon?"

"I'll get you for this," he promised darkly.

The Russian clearly felt unthreatened. "Really, Napoleon," was muttered Kuryakin's easy response as they threaded through the crowds. The UNCLE agents stopped at every silver works and jewelers stall. There were a variety of flagons, goblets and chalices available. Nearly every conceivable design adorned the drinking vessels, everything except a dragon. At on shop Kuryakin suddenly slapped Solo's arm.

"Ouch!"

"There!" he pointed to a high shelf behind the counter. A set of various place settings was inlaid with dragons. One large flagon at the end had a dragon styled as a handle. Illya asked to examine the flagon. Both agents studied the piece, probing, pushing examining and prodding the dragon et all, but found nothing.

"Illya," Napoleon breathed threateningly. "It's got to be here!" the Russian insisted, flustered at the dead end. Illya asked the proprietor if this was Horatio's flagon. The man regretfully answered that the requested flagon had just been sold to another friend of Horatio's. The buyer fit the description of Daysart. "If we hurry . . . " Kuryakin trailed off as his hopefulness faded. "The map."

A quick perusal of the map showed no short cuts back to the entrance/exit of the Faire. "It would take us a good ten minutes just to jog around -- this arena," Solo said, darting his eyes to his partner, knowing both had just seen the answer and grasped its importance.

"Through the arena," they both said together and dashed off at a run. They hopped a short fence and raced through the stables where they spotted Daysart only a few paces in front of them Daysart also spotted the agents. He clutched a bag tightly to his chest, like a football player making for the end zone, and raced off the street and into the arena.

"Here we go again," Solo sighed as he and Illya followed their quarry into the arena. Daysart mounted a horse tethered to a fence. As he took the reins the flagon slipped from his grasp. More interested in saving his life than his Holy Grail he spun the horse around and rode off at a gallop. Muttering dark threats against the man who had caused him so much torment for one day Solo chased the assassin to the edge of the arena. Tired, angry and vengeful, he was not about to let the scum Daysart get away! A horse and rider, dressed in the regalia of the period entered the stableyard. Without explanation Solo pulled the man from the horse and leaped up into the saddle. He spun the animal around and galloped into the tournament arena. "Hi-yo, Solo," Illya quietly said to himself as he recovered the flagon. He grinned as he hurried to follow the chase into the jousting arena.

"Well, it IS called a PLEASURE Faire, isn't it?

The crowd in the stands cheered for this new entertainment. Laughter rippled through the spectators, who thought the ungainly, inexperienced combatants were providing a comedic act. Solo's well-trained horse quickly lined himself up along the roped-off jousting track. "Why not?" Napoleon rhetorically asked himself. 'I've tried everything else.' He pulled a lance from the stand. At the end of the track Daysart had already started his run. Solo kicked his horse and rider and steed bounded into the fray.

From the edge of the ring Kuryakin watched with anxiety. 'Crazy American,' he accused, though with a trace of grudging respect.

Napoleon was a cowboy/swashbuckler at heart. A jousting match seemed a typical way for Solo to end this affair. Unfortunately it was also a good way for Solo to get himself killed. Horses and riders pounded toward each other at a numbing speed when Solo fleetingly realized what a foolish thing he was doing. A guy could get hurt! Too late to stop, he raised the heavy lance and leveled it at his opponent. It was not as easy as it looked to ride as he balanced the long, ungainly weapon.

The distance between them was almost nonresistant when he realized his foe had removed the blunt covering at the end of the lance. The shaft pointed at him was sharp and deadly! Too late to stop, swerve, or block, Napoleon ducked. The horsemen passed each other, Daysart's lance ripping through a sleeve and across the back of Solo's shirt.

The blow nearly knocked him to the ground and he clutched at the saddlehorn with one hand while clinging to his lance with the other. By the time he reached the end of the track, he had struggled back into the saddle. "This is ridiculous," he told the horse as he leaned over, about to dismount. When he saw Daysart racing down on him again, the agent returned to the saddle and swung the bay to face the opponent. He spurred the horse forward and they leaped onto the track again. Once more the two combatants charged toward each other.

To Illya, it looked like a collision with death for his partner. It was just like Solo to try this kind of hair-brained scheme of heroics. Unable to stand back and do nothing, Kuryakin 'borrowed' a horse and raced out to intercept the jousters. Hoping he had the hang of the sport Solo leaned low, close to the horse's neck to make himself a difficult target. His foe was almost on top of him when Napoleon aimed his weapon to hit the other lance. Both weapons crashed and splintered. Daysart had maintained a tight grip on the weapon and had toppled off from the force of the blow. Solo had anticipated the force of the clash and had kept a loose and relaxed grip. Still, the splintering lance had reverberated back, stinging his hand and arm with a numbing punch. Daysart was slowed off the back of his mount. Solo reined his horse to a halt and dismounted. He turned around, prepared to do battle if necessary. The assassin had lost his fight and was prone in the dirt, spent and worn. Kuryakin rushed over, sword in hand, to join his partner. The Chief Enforcement Agent had no need for assistance. The foe was vanquished. The incredulous blond agent turned to his partner.

"You always love dramatics."

Solo's smile was smug. "You're just jealous, comrade." "No, amazed," Illya corrected dryly. He held up the vessel in his hand. "We already had the microfilm, Napoleon. These overt heroics were unnecessary."

A crowd of curious spectators had collected and circled around the agents. The Faire Princess and her court, lovely young ladies with garlands in their hair, broke through to the center of the action. The Princess made a great fuss over the Champion of the Joust. She took the laurel crown from her golden hair and placed it on Napoleon's head, then rewarded him with a victory kiss.

"Heroics are never unnecessary, my friend," the gloating agent whispered to his partner. Kuryakin shook his head in disgust. "Typical. I do all the work and you get the credit!" "Well, all's well that ends well," Napoleon offered philosophically, taking the opportunity to flirt.

The Princess doted over Solo's bravery, wounds, skill, etc. The agent encouraged the attention until he caught sight of the Faire Sheriff approaching them.

"Listen, Illya, you won't mind taking care of the details, would you?"

"Napoleon -- " the Russian threatened, but his partner was already slipping away on the arm of the Princess.

"Where are you going?"

Solo raised his eyebrows up and down in a suggestive expression.

"Napoleon!"

The senior agent nodded toward the young lady. "Well, it IS called a PLEASURE Faire, isn't it?" he asked with a winning smile.

Kuryakin shook his head in condemnation, but his reproach had no effect on his partner, who quickly disappeared from sight. Kuryakin turned his attention to The chubby Sheriff was perilously close. Illya tucked the flagon under his arm and took two of the young woman by the hands.

"Would you ladies please show me the way to the entrance? I have some important pictures to collect," he explained. A slow smile spread across his face. For this affair it seemed he would have the last laugh.

THE END