Inigo knew precisely where the beginning was. They had gotten the job in Florin City itself, the Thieves Quarter. Vizzini had made the arrangements alone, as he always did. He had met with their employer, had accepted the job, had planned it, all in the Thieves Quarter. So the Thieves Quarter was clearly the place to go.
Only, Inigo hated it there. Everybody was so dangerous, big, mean and muscular, and so what if he was the greatest fencer in the world, who’d know it to look at him? He looked like a skinny Spanish guy it might be fun to rob. You couldn’t walk around with a sign saying, “Be careful, this is the greatest fencer since the death of the Wizard of Corsica. Do not burgle.”
Besides, and here Inigo felt deep pain, he wasn’t that great a fencer, not any more, he couldn’t be, hadn’t he just been beaten? Once, true, he had been a titan, but now, now—
What happens here that you aren’t going to read is this six-page soliloquy from Inigo in which Morgenstern, through Inigo, reflects on the anguish of fleeting glory. The reason for the soliloquy here is that Morgenstern’s previous book had gotten bombed by the critics and also hadn’t sold beans. (Aside—did you know that Robert Browning’s first book of poems didn’t sell one copy? True. Even his mother didn’t buy it at her local bookstore. Have you ever heard anything more humiliating? How would you like to have been Browning and it’s your first book and you have these secret hopes that now, now, you’ll be somebody, Established, Important. And you give it a week before you ask the publisher how things are going, because you don’t want to seem pushy or anything. And then maybe you drop by, and it was probably all very English and understated in those days, and you’re Browning and you chitchat around a bit, before you drop the biggie: ‘Oh, by the way, any notions yet on how my poems might be doing?’ And then his editor, who has been dreading this moment, probably says, ‘Well, you know how it is with poetry these days; nothing’s taking off like it used to, requires a bit of time for the word to get around. ‘And then finally, somebody had to say it. ‘None, Bob. Sorry, Bob, no, we haven’t yet had one authenticated sale. We thought for a bit that Hatchards had a potential buyer down by Piccadilly, but it didn’t quite work out. Sorry, Bob; of course we’ll keep you posted in the event of a break-through.’ End of Aside.)
Anyway, Inigo finishes his speech to the Cliffs and spends the next few hours finding a fisherman who sails him back to Florin City.
The Thieves Quarter was worse than he remembered. Always, before, Fezzik had been with him, and they made rhymes, and Fezzik was enough to keep any thief away.
Inigo moved panicked up the dark streets, desperately afraid. Why this giant fear? What was he afraid of?
He sat on a filthy stoop and pondered. Around him there were cries in the night and, from the alehouses, vulgar laughter. He was afraid, he realized then, because as he sat there, gripping the six-fingered sword for confidence, he was suddenly back to what he had been before Vizzini had found him.
A failure.
A man without point, with no attachment to tomorrow. Inigo had not touched brandy in years. Now he felt his fingers fumbling for money. Now he heard his footsteps running toward the nearest alehouse. Now he saw his money on the counter. Now he felt the brandy bottle in his hands.
Back to the stoop he ran. He opened the bottle. He smelled the rough brandy. He took a sip. He coughed. He took a swallow. He coughed again. He gulped it down and coughed and gulped some more and half began a smile.
His fears were starting to leave him.
After all, why should he have ever been afraid? He was Inigo Montoya (the bottle was half gone now), son of the great Domingo Montoya, so what was there in the world worth fearing? (Now all the brandy was gone.) How dare fear approach a wizard such as Inigo Montoya? Well, never again. (Into the second bottle.) Never never never never again.
