Demon Knight

CHAPTER ONE

Hamish Campbell was not looking for trouble that fine spring evening and did not expect any. Toby Longdirk attracted trouble like stables drew flies, but Toby had stayed behind in Florence to organize this year's fighting season. Hamish had come to Siena on a quiet little spying mission. If he were caught, he would be tortured and possibly hanged, so he was certainly not looking for trouble.

Lady Lisa, on the other hand… Trouble was not what she had in mind. Adventure would be a better term. But trouble was what she got.

Extraordinary consequences were to result from their meeting. Although it appeared to be due to the merest chance, it was not fortuitous at all. There were demons involved.

Lisa had opened hostilities before noon. "Mother! It is Carnival! How can you possibly resist the opportunity for a little innocent merrymaking?"

Looking up from her embroidery, the Countess of Ely uttered one of her longer-suffering groans. "Very easily. We have not spent two nights under the same roof in the last month. We have just crossed the ocean in the dead of winter, and the last thing I want to do is go out and participate in a public riot. Have you practiced the virginals today?" Maud seemed tired, but then she always seemed tired now. However skilled, her maids could no longer disguise the grooves in her face, and her once-golden hair was quite obviously dyed, not merely touched-up as it had been until last summer. That was no excuse, because people wore masks at Carnival, and the handsome young men would be looking at Lisa, not her mother.

"It was not the ocean, we were never out of sight of land, we were three nights in a row in the horrible inn in Pisa, and before that we were shut up in that awful Savoyard villa leagues from anywhere for months and months, we have been in Italy almost a week, and I have yet to… um, experience any of the culture."

"Then I suggest you try a few madrigals. I saw some sheets beside the virginals."

"Just to look, I mean. Surely a sedate stroll—"

"No, Lisa! This is a very dangerous place for us, as I have repeatedly warned you, and we must remain indoors until safer arrangements—"

"Danger? Mother, you imagine things. You behave as if the Fiend himself were personally hunting you, and that is crazy! Other people do not—"

"Lisa! You are a foolish, ignorant child! And a very ill-mannered one, to yell at your mother so. I have told you a thousand times…" She was still in full bleat when her daughter slammed the door on her.

The countess was haunted by imaginary terrors. For as long as Lisa could remember, the two of them had never remained more than a few months in any one place. Fleeing by night, as often as not. Traipsing from castle to chateau to hunting lodge to obscure city house, she had spent her entire life being dragged around the free nations of Europe. Burgundy, Swabia, Bavaria, Switzerland, Savoy… on and on. How could she ever make friends? Now Italy! Lush, beautiful, romantic Italy, the wellspring of culture. A land renowned for its art and music and sultry-eyed, handsome young men.

What she needed was a selection of sultry-eyed, handsome young men serenading her with lutes under her balcony, and how were they ever to find her if they did not even know she was here?

Not that the cramped, musty-smelling house possessed a balcony, or a garden full of gardenias either. Whoever their current landlord might be — Lisa had not even heard his name, let alone met him — he had very warped notions of the style in which a countess and her daughter ought to be quartered. The only local servant he had provided was a surly, spotty boy who spoke nothing but Italian. Frieda was doing the cooking, so Bavarian sausage, morning, noon, and night. Ugh! Old Jacques, the coachman, had stayed behind in Savoy, worn out by all the years of traipsing. The countess's household was down to four stupid girls and one spotty boy.

Lisa tried again in the afternoon. And again after dark, when the sounds of music and revelry were heartachingly plain in the streets — not the street outside, which was a smelly dead-end alley, but streets just maddeningly out of sight and reach. She made no progress, except that Mother began complaining of a headache. Halfway through dinner, she threw down her napkin, lurched to her feet, and in martyred tones bade Lisa be certain the house was secure before she went to bed. Then she vanished upstairs to lie down.

Lisa gobbled the rest of her meal, inspected both doors and the downstairs windows, and graciously informed Gina that she and the other servants could go off duty as soon as they had cleared the table. She retired to her room. She had already established that the bars were loose on the upstairs corridor window that looked out on the stable roof. All by herself, without any help at all, she donned her best apricot silk gown, the one with the epaulettes, slashed sleeves, and V-necked décolletage. Fortunately her hair was already pinned up, and she had a fetching satin balzo hat that left a little of it exposed in the front — hair as blonde as hers must be extremely rare in Italy. Adding her light blue cloak and a mask fashioned by cutting two eyeholes in a kerchief, she set off to investigate Carnival.

She had her ring. No harm could come to her while she wore that.

The stable roof part was a little trickier than expected. It ripped the hem of her gown, but May could stitch that up so Mother would not notice. The descent into the alley splattered a lot of disgusting mud on the cloak, but once around the corner, she was into Carnival — torches and music and dancing! Before she knew it, a group of laughing youngsters swallowed her up and swept her away. They pressed wine bottles upon her and whirled her around in dances. They laughed at her protests, jabbering cheerfully in Italian. They took her to a huge semicircular piazza full of crowds larger and louder and more riotous than any she had ever known. She was surrounded by people of her own age, being totally ignored by the older folk present. It was more fun than she had dreamed possible.

Suddenly it was terror, heart-stopping, choking terror. She was lost. She felt ill, but that was partly from too much wine. She had never intended to go farther than the corner. The men who had plucked her from there had vanished into the crowd. She had no idea where she was or where she should be and couldn't even ask anyone for directions. She had never been truly alone in her life before. When Mother discovered her absence, she would have no one to send out as a search party.

Calm! Stay calm! There must be a way out of this situation. All it needed was a little thought. (So why were her teeth rattling?) She still had her ring. No harm could come to her while she wore her ring, but it could not help her find her way home. Even if she knew no Italian, there must be someone around who understood one of the languages she could speak. But she did not know the name of the street she wanted, nor what the house looked like from the front. Fool, fool, fool! Shivering in the cool air, she left the piazza and plunged into the ants' nest of alleys — smelly, deserted, and pitch-black. She had come downhill, so she went uphill, half-running, half-staggering, heart thumping in her throat. Every road looked like every other. Here and there, a public-spirited householder maintained a lantern beside his door, but the gaps between were long and dark.

Hearing a movement behind her, she glanced back, saw nothing, and began to run anyway. There was a lantern ahead, but before she reached it three men emerged out of the shadows, obviously menacing. She turned on the spot, saw three more coming behind her. She screamed. Rough hands grabbed her. She scratched, kicked, and bit down on a set of foultasting fingers. Their owner said, "Bitch!" and backhanded her across the mouth. Very hard. Her head shot back as if it had been knocked right off, and she sagged and fell limply into thick, powerful arms. She tasted blood. She was giddy. She was about to vomit from terror. The ring? What had gone wrong with her ring?

Feet flailing on the greasy cobbles, she was dragged along to the light. Nails clawed away her mask.

"That's her!"

"Sure?"

"Yes! Bring her."

She opened her mouth to scream again, and the cloth of her mask was thrust into it. Two of her captors began running her along the road, back the way she had come, each pulling an arm. She stumbled, lost a shoe, and they held her up, still running. Six men, all masked for Carnival, but not true merrymakers, not drunk. There had to be some mistake! How could it possibly be she they wanted? But they had spoken in English.

A voice shouted: "Stop!"

Another man came running after them, and when he passed under the lantern, its light flashed on a drawn sword. The kidnappers dragged blades out of scabbards. Her left wrist was released as that man jumped into the fray. One against five.

A terrible scream. Four.

"Kill him!" shouted the man holding her, his fingers digging into her arm.

She kicked, squirmed, and beat at him with her free hand. He shook her until she fell to her knees, expecting her shoulder to break. Metal rang and clashed in the night. The newcomer whirled like smoke between the swords, living a charmed life, dancing with death. A howl of pain meant another one down — three left! But the odds were too great. He was retreating before the assault.

Then… it wasn't possible! The stranger lit up with a golden glow of his own, brighter than the lantern, illuminating the shuttered windows and doorways, the staircases and balconies. He blazed like a golden sun, and the kidnappers wailed as they realized that they were fighting gramarye. The one holding her threw her to the ground and began waving his arms and shouting. His companions fled from the man of fire with the molten blade. Was her ring working at last? It hadn't saved her from the punch that still throbbed through her head, puffing out her lip like a melon. She pulled the rag from her mouth and began to rise, hoping she could make a run for it, even with only one shoe…

More gramarye, more conjuration! A thing like an ape or a bear — something huge and pale-furred — loomed up at the rescuer's back, twice his height. His own light reflected in its eyes, on great fangs, on claws like daggers. Sensing it, he glanced back and ducked just in time as it swung a taloned paw at his head. Then he sprinted toward Lisa, sweeping the last two assailants aside with his sword. Roaring, the demon lumbered after him.

Her rescuer jabbered some Italian and grabbed her wrist with a hand that should have been fiery hot but instead felt cool and dry. He turned to face the monster, raising his sword in hopeless defiance.

Flick!

The street, the demon, the attackers, the dark… all gone.

She was standing on a thick rug in a room lit by three or four candles. Her savior was still holding her arm and extending his blood-streaked sword to meet a danger that had now vanished. He no longer glowed. He said, "Ha!" in a satisfied tone and turned to her, lowering his sword. Only a very potent hexer could burn in the dark with cold fire and evade demons and conjure her here to this palatial chamber of gilt furniture, frescoes on the walls, crystal and fine porcelain, thick rugs underfoot, and an enormous bed with its curtains open — and now his dark eyes glittered through the holes in his mask as he inspected his catch.

Lisa fainted into his arms.

CHAPTER TWO

Back in Florence, Toby Longdirk was attending the Marradi Carnival Ball, although he would rather have fought a squadron of landsknechte single-handed. A man who had been reared in a one-room hovel did not belong amid such grandeur. Standing beside Don Ramon in a reception line that wound among statues of bronze and marble across the grand courtyard, a hundred guests, with more still arriving, lined up to meet their host and hostess, he fidgeted and squirmed and kept wondering if he had forgotten to lace up his hose.

Yet his gilt-edged invitation would have fetched a hundred florins at public auction, because Pietro Marradi's hospitality was legendary, and this was the first grand function he had sponsored since the death of his wife. The Magnificent was the richest man in Italy — probably in all Europe since Nevil had devastated most of it — a celebrated patron of the arts and a major poet in his own right. His palace was a treasure chest.

More than the grandeur was bothering Toby. Florence was a very beautiful city, but all cities were dangerous for him. In some dark corner of his mind he was conscious of the tutelary in its great sanctuary, only two streets away, and also of many lesser spirits in lesser sanctuaries. They were watching him, ready to strike if the hob escaped from his control for an instant.

The line shuffled forward, ever closer to the Magnificent.

"A moneylender!" the don sneered, not quite quietly enough. "A common draper! One inflicts irreparable injury upon one's honor by gracing his board." Don Ramon de Nuñez y Pardo could trace his excruciatingly elongated pedigree from the Emperor Romulus Augustulus. Toby Longdirk had been fathered by a committee of English fusiliers.

"Lunch is lunch," he said philosophically.

"It will be a miracle if we complete the evening without anyone being hexed, poisoned, or stilettoed."

True enough. And although Don Ramon thoroughly despised the likes of the Magnificent, he was quite willing to enjoy his party. Toby would endure it only because he knew something important was going to happen during the course of the night.

He shivered, for the air was cool, and he felt naked without cloak or jerkin. His multicolored hose clung tight as paint, but his waist-length doublet hung open at the neck to display the embroidery on his shirt. His face was razored smooth as porcelain, his hair hung to his shoulders under a hat like a mixing bowl with a brim. This was fashion. His tastes in clothes — now that he could afford to have taste — was naturally conservative, for no one his size needed to draw attention to himself, and yet this outrageous outfit had cost more money than an honest man earned in a year. Over the tailor's tears, Toby had insisted on subdued greens and grays instead of reds and mauves, but he had lost the rest of the arguments. Hip-length tunics were for the middle-aged and cloaks for the elderly, the tailor had maintained, and messer must not conceal such magnificent thighs, for which most young gallants would cheerfully execute their grandmothers with blunt spades. He had gone on to enthuse about Toby's calves and shoulders until Toby threatened to ram a bolt of Genoese silk down his throat.

Untroubled by any qualms of modesty, Don Ramon was never reluctant to make himself conspicuous, and admittedly his lithe form suited these revealing styles. His coppery hair and thin-horned mustache were set off by brilliant blues and greens, his pearl buttons inset with rubies. The golden plume in his hat was as long as his arm, his exposure of shirt close to indecent. Even so, his garb was not as extreme as that of some of the young men there, whose use of padding was unseemly or even ludicrous.

And the women! Every one of them was loaded with enough silk, satin, velvet, brocade, and damask to build a tent. How could they walk, carrying the weight of those skirts and sleeves? Their necklines were cut so wide and low that it seemed the slightest unwary movement would cause the entire ensemble to collapse around their wearers' ankles. It was a marvel.

"Magnificent!" murmured the don, indulging in some gawking of his own. "That one in mulberry?"

"What I don't understand," Toby whispered, "is how the gowns stay on them at all!"

"Ask not how they stay on, my boy, but how easily they come off!"

Much too easily in many cases, from what Toby had heard, but he did not have to worry about that.

The line shuffled forward. Peering over heads, he studied the Magnificent. For a despot, he was astonishingly unassuming. It was said that Pietro Marradi could wander unnoticed along any street in Florence — he was never fool enough to try it without his bodyguard — and that evening, in the somber tones of half mourning, he was a crow among kingfishers. He had no outstanding physical characteristics at all, except that he wore his forty years well. Officially he was merely a private citizen; in practice he was the government, ruling Florence without office or title, as his father and grandfather had done before him.

How did he do it? Toby watched in bafflement. The manners were flawless — the smile and bow were the same for ambassadors as they were for business friends or political foes — yet Marradi was too aloof to be charismatically charming. He was a celebrated patron of the arts, but no one could control a great city through its poets, painters, and sculptors. Money helped, but there were other rich men in Florence who seemed to have no political power at all. "I am not a duke or a prince," he had told Toby during their secret meeting that morning. "I am not the doge of Venice. I admit I have some influence, but my only tool is rational persuasion." He could have mentioned bribery, rigged elections, nepotism, favoritism, blackmail, coercion, and — once in a while — riot, gramarye, and assassination, but persuasion certainly seemed to be at the heart of it. Tonight he welcomed the Scottish peasant to his Carnival Ball with the same cool courtesy he had just shown to the exiled King of Austria.

"Sir Tobias! Our house is honored by the presence of Scipio reborn." His eyes were russet-brown like his hair and glittered bright as daggers.

Toby's knowledge of the classics was precisely zero, but fortunately he had asked Brother Bartolo to coin some suitable phrases for him to memorize. "It is for the feasting in Valhalla that the warrior fights, Your Magnificence."

Marradi acknowledged the mot with a graceful nod. "But what he wins is glory and the gratitude of the people."

Toby hastily reached into Bartolo's collection again. "I was but the sword that the hand of Liberty wielded."

"May Liberty ever be so well armed, Sir Tobias."

Having won the match two falls out of three, Marradi gracefully passed Toby to the care of his sister, tonight's hostess. Next…

Toby bowed to her, Lucrezia, Duchess of Ferrara. She was resplendent in cloth of gold, although her husband's death was more recent than madonna Marradi's. The gossipmongers declared that mourning would be hypocritical for her, and the only known sin that her critics never attributed to Lucrezia Marradi was hypocrisy. She was tiny, able to walk under Toby's arm in a plumed hat. With a small nose and a slightly receding chin, she had the face of a child, and those same gossips insisted that only gramarye could explain how she retained her youthful complexion and the fiery red-gold hair. She might have been a doll standing there in her superbly crafted gown and enough jewels to gravel a stable yard, honoring the giant with a disarming, coquettish smile. She could see how out of place he felt.

"Tobiaso, you are the handsomest man in the city."

"And you, duchessa, are the biggest liar." Feeling as clumsy as a drunken ox, he bent to kiss the childish fingers. Not all of her was childish. She held her hand where he would have a good view down her cleavage. He could almost see her toes.

"I was hoping you would appear in a lion skin."

Another classical allusion? "I washed it, and it didn't dry in time."

Lucrezia tinkled a laugh that sounded utterly genuine and might be as deadly as her most recent husband's last sip of wine. "I expect to dance with you tonight, comandante!"

"I am yours to command, madonna."

"Of course," said the rosebud lips.

Toby followed the don indoors, fervently wishing he were somewhere else, anywhere else. So many incredibly ravishing women, and he could not even dream…

CHAPTER THREE

The hexer had removed his mask. He was very tall and lithe, with waves of black hair and features just on the bony side of classical. He had placed Lisa carefully on the bed without ripping her clothes off or performing any demonic conjurations. He was doing something at the far side of the room, now coming over to the bed…

When he laid a wet towel on her bruised mouth, her eyes jerked open in surprise. His smile displayed one of the very few perfect sets of teeth she had ever seen.

"Do you really look like that?" she mumbled. How could a nightmare turn into a dream so quickly?

Surprise faded to a worried frown, as if he thought she might be raving. "Do I look like what?" He removed the towel.

"Aren't all hexers old and ugly and—"

He laughed. "I'm not a hexer! Just a soldier."

"A condottiere?"

"A humble man-at-arms. My name's Giacomo, and we…" He paused, surprised. "We're talking English? So call me James. Hamish if you want to be accurate."

First name only? But perhaps he was being tactful, hinting that it was better not to reveal too much. Her heart was pounding strangely.

"Er, I'm Lisa. Hamish? Is that Welsh?"

"Scots!"

"I beg your pardon. I thought all Scotsmen were seven feet tall and had red hair."

"Only the wild ones. I'm the domesticated variety."

His solemn manner bewildered her for a moment, then she laughed. "I am extremely grateful for your assistance, sir! You don't look like a soldier." Any she had seen had been scruffy scoundrels. His clothes were stylish but not showy, like his manners.

He shrugged. "I don't do much fighting. I'm mostly in administration."

She had wanted sultry eyes, she remembered, never guessing that eyes could be as sultry as these. Was he possibly one of the fabled condottiere princes? "You fought like a legend tonight. Against six!" A rapier was a nobleman's weapon. No mere man-at-arms could have wielded one as he had.

He shook his head almost bashfully. "I was in no danger at all. I have a guarddemon, see?" He raised a hand to show a ring with a yellow jewel. "My only worry was that my ring would zap me out of there before I could do anything to help you."

But the fact that it had not implied that he had been holding his own until the monster came. How could a mere man-at-arms explain these sumptuous quarters? He was at least wealthy, if not a noble, and he had behaved with perfect chivalry so far. Except that he had not summoned a chaperone. Would it be proper to ask for one, or rude? If he began making advances… how far did a lady's obligations go in these circumstances?

Probably a long way, she decided nervously. She fingered her swollen lip.

"Are you well enough to walk yet?" he asked. "We ought to leave here before someone comes. I expect they're all out at Carnival, but—"

Oh! "Where are we?"

Again that appealing smile. "I haven't the faintest idea. It must have been safe at the time, or my demon wouldn't have brought us here, but we should leave as soon as possible. It won't defend us against social embarrassment."

"Mine didn't defend me against anything at all!" She scowled at her ring. The stone was only garnet, but Mother had always said the gold setting would be very valuable even without the demon immured in the jewel. It had been less than useless tonight.

Hamish frowned, took her hand, and peered at it closely. "It's very old, isn't it?" He did not release her hand.

"It belonged to my grandmother. Mother gave it to me on my—" what would he believe? " — eighteenth birthday."

"Older than that. The setting looks Carolingian."

"How do you know that if you're not a hexer?"

"Mm? Oh, I read a lot." He grinned briefly, then turned serious again, frighteningly serious. "Are you royal, my lady? Ordinary people don't need guarddemons and certainly can't afford them." His eyes were no longer sultry; they were rapiers.

She had no choice but to trust him. If he meant to take advantage of her, he would have done so before now. "My mother is the Countess of Ely, and no, we're not royal, or rich. Not poor, of course. My father died many years ago. Mother has strange fears. She travels a lot, and never stays in one place more than a few months. She imagines a lot of enemies, that's all. That's why I have the ring. I was always told it would protect me. It must be a fake!"

He lit up the room with his smile again. "Not necessarily. My guarddemon is conjured to move me out of danger, but perhaps yours works by bringing help."

Did he realize what a wonderfully romantic notion that was? "You were the answer to a maiden's prayer tonight, sir."

"Ah, maidens are always telling me that. Come along." He pulled on her hand to help her sit up. She smoothed her gown, which was utterly ruined. Oh, she must look a sight! But he smiled, and she smiled back. She wasn't just dreaming this.

"Madonna, I will escort you safely to your residence. I will also steal some shoes out of that closet for you, if there are any there to fit you — you may have heard how skilled we mercenaries are at looting and pillaging. Otherwise, I am afraid you will have to hop." He headed for the closet. "In which contrada do you live?"

"I don't know."

He stopped and looked around. "You cannot even venture a wild guess?"

She shook her head and felt a huge lump rise in her throat, as if she were about to burst into tears. "We just arrived in Siena last night. I don't know the name of the street, or even what the house looks like. I came out the back. Over a roof."

"That makes things a little difficult!"

He did not believe her, naturally. She herself could not believe that she had been so stupid. She did not approve of people being stupid, especially herself, because she normally wasn't, but tonight she seemed to be blundering into every pothole in sight. "I wanted to take a look at Carnival. I had my ring. I was only going to the corner, wanting to watch the revelers going by. But some young men pulled me into a dance. I can't speak Italian. By the time I escaped from them, I was in the square, and I didn't know which way I'd come."

He did not laugh at her tale of folly. "But, Lisa, the attack on you wasn't just a random assault. Those ruffians knew who you were — I heard them. One of them said something like, 'That's her!' In English."

She nodded. "Yes."

"So it must have been gramarye of some sort, either a summoning or an ambush. The one holding you was a hexer. He invoked that demon. And he had it on a very loose rein — just a couple of words and gestures. That is extremely dangerous! I think you should take your mother's fears more seriously."

"You're saying I've been a terrible fool."

"I'd say your mother was the fool, for not confiding in you. She probably thinks of you as still being a child."

She looked up quickly, then turned away, afraid she was blushing. He was not making that mistake.

"I am very grateful for your help. You'll take me somewhere safe until we can find Mother?"

"Of course. Go and see if there are any shoes you can wear."

If he believed her story, would he be giving her orders like that? Or were the orders a sign that he did believe her story and thought she was stupid? "Very well, my lord. I'll give you some lessons in looting and pillaging."

He grinned hugely, and that made her feel better.

The closet was almost as large as the bedchamber, and its racks and rods and shelves held an impressive collection of gowns and cloaks and accessories, clearly belonging to a large woman. Anyone so rich would not grudge help to a lady in distress. Lisa found a pair of stylish buskins that she could walk in and not walk out of, and added a warm, dark-colored cloak of soft wool that fitted very well and would be much more suitable than her own for the sort of midnight adventuring that must lie in store. She discarded the balzo and exchanged it for a dark floppy hat that concealed her hair. After what must have been the fastest lady's dressing in history, she returned to the bedchamber.

"How do I look?"

Hamish stared at her for a moment in wonder. Then he sighed. "Lovelier than Venus. Beauty like yours drives men out of their wits."

"Thank you, Sir Hamish!" She knew she was blushing. "Brave knight deserves fair lady."

"Demons! I shouldn't have said… Lisa, I am not a knight! I'm not even an honest soldier — I'm a spy."

Her smile died, cold on her lips. "A spy for whom?"

"Not Nevil, I swear. Florence. But the Sienese might even prefer the Fiend to a Florentine. I'm not a nobleman in disguise, if that's what's in your mind. I'm a spy, and if the Sienese catch me, they'll rack me on principle."

The ruffians had spoken English, and so did he, but she had no one else to trust. She held out a hand so he could tuck an arm under it.

"Then I won't let them catch you. You're quite tall enough already."

"I'd like to stay the way I am, I admit. Now, the first problem is to get safely out of here. We'll just walk downstairs as if we owned the place. If a servant sees us, I'll do the talking. If I speak to you, smile as if I'm discussing Carnival."

The candle she was holding trembled and wavered. "And if we meet the owners?"

He shrugged. "I'll think of something." He opened the door with a cheerful grin. "Hold on tight in case I disappear."

CHAPTER FOUR

Toby was out of his depth in recitals of music and poetry, but the jugglers and buffoons made him laugh. He saw many parts of the palace he had not visited before, gazing in wonder at great salons so decorated with frescoes that gods and heroes lurked on the edges of the crowd and cherubim flitted overhead. The air was heady with the scents of perfumed bodies, beeswax, and intrigue.

He knew many of the men already and was introduced to a hundred more, but the problem was never remembering a man's name, it was judging his importance, because the standard term of office in Florence was a mere two months, and titles tended to be meaningless anyway. Undoubtedly at least a quarter of the persons present were in the pay of other states and would be filing reports the following day, so he was much in demand as a potential source of interesting material.

The Veronese ambassador inquired smoothly why the noble condottiere spurned his old friends who had so well rewarded his magnificent services in their righteous struggle against the Venetian dogs.

"Florence pays better," Toby replied, just to watch the man wince. It paid in prestige, not money, but it was prestige he needed now if he were to influence events.

Within the hour, representatives of Ravenna and Naples, both former employers, made similar inquiries and received similar answers. They met frankness so seldom they had trouble dealing with it.

Frankness was barely enough when he was trapped in a shadowy corner by Lucas Abonio, who was a cousin of the Duke of Milan and brother of its collaterale, Ercole Abonio. The brothers could hardly have been more dissimilar, for Ercole was completely admirable, a shrewd and competent old campaigner, respected equally by his own men and his enemies. He had taught the young foreigner many things the previous summer while the Don Ramon Company fought for the duke against Florence — a trivial squabble that had been solved with a few thousand ducats and a few score dead mercenaries. Ercole was a true knight, Lucas a lurker in dark corners, a scavenger of scandal, a sniffer-out of secrets. He oozed along on a trail of intrigue like a slug on slime.

"Have you reconsidered our offer, comandante?"

Toby backed away a pace and collided with a wall. "You honor me beyond words, Your Magnificence. Alas, Don Ramon has already committed to the Florentines."

The spy bared a few yellow teeth. "Not according to my sources. The don's appointment was a temporary replacement for the late and unlamented Captain-General Vespucci. I have it on excellent authority that Florence has not yet met your terms for a new condotta."

"Well, there is never any fighting in the winter."

"Exactly." Abonio lowered his voice and wafted closer on wings of garlic. "We are not interested in that mad don of yours, boy. Let Florence have him. It's you His Grace wants. Forty thousand florins if you bring the Company, twenty thousand if you come alone. For you personally. In addition to whatever we announce in public."

Toby began to shake. This was wealth beyond all the dreams of his boyhood. It was utterly crazy. He knew Milan did not want his abilities, although he was now willing to admit that he had abilities. His name alone had become a trophy, a token of prestige in the unending rivalry between the Italian states.

"Excellency, what good will money do any of us if Nevil triumphs? Pray inform His Grace that I am more deeply honored than I can say. I have given my word to Florence."

That was a point of ethics, irrelevant in a discussion of money, and it made Abonio smile with all the cuddlesome appeal of a rat.

"The duke is a man of his word, messer Longdirk. Only a fool would trust these republicans. They choose their officials by drawing names out of a bag!"

"But Il Volpe's hand puts the names into the bag."

"When they do hold an election, his goons prevent his opponents from voting."

Toby chuckled unsteadily. "Exactly." What was the point of this discussion? No one could possibly run a city the way the laws said Florence was to be run. "What matter whose banners we hold, Excellency? I hope and trust that Florence and Milan will fight shoulder to shoulder against the same foe." He bowed, muttered more regrets, and prepared to leave.

"Lecco Castle?" Abonio growled. "A fiefdom of your own, for after the war, whether you bring your Company or not. The duke's daughter to wife, the fair madonna Isabetta. My brother wishes to retire from fighting soon, and His Grace will appoint you collaterale in his place. I have all these trifles to give you, in writing, with his seal on them."

Demons! Sweat! This was more serious. The collaterale was minister for war, probably the most senior state employee after the duke himself, and that was a huge step up for a mercenary. A castle had no appeal for Toby — what on earth would he do with a castle? — but if the Milanese started waving castles in front of the don, he would accept at once, and that would scramble Toby's plans completely. It was one more reason why the condotta must be agreed tonight.

"Excellency, my only ambition is to try and stop the Fiend from doing to Italy what he has done to the rest of Europe. I am convinced that Florence needs me far more than Milan does, for His Grace is a superb warrior in his own right and has your noble brother to serve him. Wealth and honors do not interest me." Stunning Abonio with that heretical haymaker, Toby hurried away from the torment of temptation.

At the banquet, every course was paraded in on golden trenchers by liveried flunkies — capon, veal, thrushes, pheasant, trout. Toby was seated well below the salt, down among minor merchants and their wives, but that bothered him not at all, for two years ago he would have been lucky to be allowed to beg for scraps at the kitchen door. His companions were thrilled to learn who he was, demanding to hear all about the Battle of Trent. He insisted that it was not a topic to be discussed in the presence of ladies. He was not at all sure that they were true ladies, though — hands caressed him under the table and toes nudged.

"Will the Fiend's armies return?"

"Certainly, and this time he will come in person."

Some of the women prepared to swoon. "Can you save us, comandante?"

"Italy can save itself, if it will just unite and support its fighting men."

Then it was the men who turned pale, because he was talking about taxes.

The dancing began around midnight. He enjoyed dancing. For his size he was agile and could twirl and pirouette and gavotte with the best of them. It was the proposals for encores that upset him. One or two of his partners straight-out suggested they run upstairs together and find a bed as soon as the music stopped, but most just dropped hints like millstones. He lost count at eight, and the three he wasn't sure of were probably being too subtle for him. Were there no faithful wives in Florence? Worse, his abstinence was soon noted, and beautiful young men began being charming to him. His glares made them melt back into the crowd very hurriedly.

Eventually, at long last, something meaningful did happen. He was accosted at the buffet table by a soft hand on his arm and an oily voice in his ear.

"My dear condottiere! Why on earth are you languishing out here among the riffraff? An honored guest like yourself should be with the real people."

Toby turned to look down at the greasy smile of roly-poly Antonio Origo and was very tempted to ask him who had let him in, because he had understood that Origo was non grata in Florentine society. He was the third or fourth richest man in the city and in theory also the chief magistrate, the podestà, but the wildly independent Florentines shunned him to show how they despised the Khan's nominee. His wife was reputed to have gone mad from grief, and he wielded no power whatsoever. That he had been included among the guests tonight was obviously a very significant development. It tended to confirm the rumors being whispered around of a special emissary from the Khan having landed at Naples.

"You honor me, sovrano. I just came to loot the tableware."

The podestà guffawed at this brilliant humor, little knowing how close to the truth it was. The hob loved pretty things, and in the days before Toby learned to control it, it would have been running amok in such surroundings, filling his pockets with gold and jewels.

Origo eased him away from the table. "Follow me," he whispered, and waddled off into the mob.

Wondering whether he was going to be hexed, poisoned, or stilettoed, Toby duly followed. The elegantly shaped tresses dangling below his guide's biretta included more than the usual number of nits. That must be symbolic of something.

CHAPTER FIVE

They had left the house safely and unseen, Lisa shuffling awkwardly over the cobbles in her stolen buskins, with her hand resting on Hamish's arm, he strolling blithely, as if he had not a care in the world.

"Nice neighborhood," he remarked. He cocked an ear to the distant sounds of Carnival. "Let's go this way until I recognize somewhere."

Every one of the narrow, winding canyons looked the same to her, but she was not going to let him see how terrified she was. She forced her voice to be brave and steady. "Describe, sir, your normal procedure for rescuing damsels in distress — those who don't know where they live, I mean."

He flashed her a grin — undeceived but approving her effort.

"Normally I escort them to the Palazzo Publico and deliver them to the signory, but there are good reasons not to do so in your case."

"Because they don't know where I live either?"

"There's that. And whoever is after you may be watching there or may be in league with the signory. Also — there's the rack. After all these years of looking up to Toby, I don't want to start looking down on him. Selfish of me, I admit, but there it is."

"I don't want to put you in danger!"

"I put myself in. My decision. Don't feel guilty about it." He paused at the first corner to listen to the distant sounds of Carnival. "We go this way, I think. Instruct me, my lady. I am at your disposal, but I regret that I must leave Siena before dawn."

"Have you friends here who might assist me?"

He sighed. "Agents, not friends. It's my gold they love, not me, and none of them could be trusted with anyone as beautiful as you. I can have them try to locate your mother, but that will take a day or two."

"I understand." But Mother spent her life being not-found. Must not think about that!

"I think it would be better if you held this." He pulled a cloth from his pouch and offered it to her.

"But that's… why?" It was the kerchief she had used as a mask.

He shrugged self-consciously. "It might be useful. Something I read in a book once." Puzzled, she accepted it, but before she could query him further, he said, "Ah! Now I know where we are. That's the Galluza Palace. They're very respected citizens. The dowager's a woman of considerable influence in Siena. I'm sure she will not spurn a maiden in distress."

"You know her?"

They were passing under a lantern; he gave her a puzzled frown. "Lisa, I've told you. I'm only a man-at-arms."

"So you expect me to sit on the steps until morning and then get past servants who speak only Italian and drag a bad-tempered old harridan out of bed to hear a mad tale of gramarye and spies? And if the authorities may be in league with whoever's after me, then that may be the worst possible thing to do."

He sighed. "You synopsize the situation succinctly."

They walked on. Sounds of Carnival became clearer. Drunks were heading home, staggering all over the road, some still singing raucously. No one troubled the efficient-looking swordsman at her side.

"Take me to the sanctuary, then. I shall appeal to the tutelary."

"A very good idea. It's that way, on the hill west of the Piazza del Campo."

"You won't escort me?"

"I loosed a demon tonight, monna. I am in the service of Florence. The spirit will not be friends with me at all. At the very least it will confiscate my ring. It may help you, though."

But not necessarily. Many tutelaries refused to aid strangers. He was warning her politely that her plan was all fish feathers.

"If you're only a man-at-arms," she said angrily, "how can you possibly afford a guarddemon? And don't tell me you looted or pillaged it, because it wouldn't be worth having if you did."

He laughed and took her hand in his to squeeze. "I confess! I lied. It isn't mine. Our company hexer loaned it to me for this escapade, and when I return to Florence I must give it back. Truly, I am nothing more than a soldier."

She had never let a man hold her hand before, but these were exceptional circumstances. It was a strangely comforting sensation. "Then I offer you employment. Mother will certainly reward you handsomely for the help you have given me. We need some male retainers. Whatever you're being paid, I'll double it. I promise you a reward of…" She was not familiar with Italian money. Nor any money, really. "Enough to buy a first-class horse."

Hamish coughed harshly, as if he had swallowed a fly. "Excuse me. A really first-class horse? One of the two-hundred-ducat chargers the don buys? That is a very generous offer. However… you must have heard of Longdirk?"

"The great general who defeated the Fiend's army last year?"

"He'd laugh if he heard you call him that. He is a great man, though. I work for Longdirk. I'm his chancellor."

Well, he had to work for someone. Condottieri could be anything from princes to brigands, and Sir Tobias Longdirk was at least famous. Or he was now, for no one had heard of him before the Battle of Trent. There was a gruesome story about a burning forest.

"What does a chancellor do?"

"Spies, among other things."

"Spies for whom? Who does Longdirk work for?"

"Whoever will help him fight the Fiend, but Florence needs him more than the others do. You see," Hamish said earnestly, "there's five big states in Italy — Milan, Venice, Rome, and Naples. And Florence. None of the rest count for much. Florence is the smallest of the five, and militarily it's far weaker than the others. It distrusts soldiers. It has never, ever, appointed a native-born captain-general, so hiring a non-Italian like Toby fits their tradition."

"Florence is planning to make war on Siena?"

"Oh, no. The cities must combine again. When Nevil sent Schweitzer last year, some of them cobbled together an alliance — which was largely Longdirk's doing, incidentally. They all knew him and trusted him, so they voted him in as comandante. He talked the Swiss into joining. Then he walloped Schweitzer, but this year Nevil's certain to come himself. Time is running… Sorry. I'm lecturing."

"Go on, please," she said automatically. "It's very interesting."

"No it isn't. I have this bad habit. Don't encourage me, or I'll harangue you all night on everything from acarology to zymurgy. Let's solve your problem first."

"I definitely want to hear about zymurgy later. How much does this Longdirk man pay you?"

"Four ducats a month when he has it. We're a few months in arrears at the moment."

"Oh. Well, my offer of the horse still stands. Two hundred ducats. And eight ducats a month. And I'll make up your arrears, too."

"Including my board and arms and horses? No!" he said before she could answer. "I'm joking." Now he seemed to know exactly where he was going, heading uphill, moving along the smelly alleys as fast as she could keep up. "I'm more than just one of Longdirk's men. He has an incredible knack of inspiring loyalty, but I can honestly claim to be his best friend. We were boys together. He was my hero, and he took me with him when he left Scotland. Nevil's been hunting us ever since, although it's Toby he wants. You can't buy me."

She knew what he wanted her to say. He was not going to suggest it himself, but he had left her no option.

"How far is it to Florence?"

"About fourteen English leagues. Say two days with the roads the way they are just now. We won't push the horses unless we have to."

"I'm a very good… 'We'?"

"Me and Carlo and Rinaldo. They're waiting at an inn outside the walls. There's no curfew tonight. We'll have no trouble at the gates."

We again! But he knew that she knew that she had no choice. Her heart was pounding as if she had a tertian fever.

"Master Campbell, I am very grateful for what you have done for me already, but I do wish you would make up your mind. If you are only a soldier of fortune, then name your price, and I will meet it. If you are a gentleman, then I must appeal to your chivalry. Which is it to be?"

He winced. "My lady, you don't want either. Most mercenaries would take your money and betray you. Most gentlemen would… be even worse. Don Ramon, for example — never mind. Please just accept me as a friend. I will gladly set my men to work on locating your mother, and I will be honored to escort you to Florence and give you shelter there until they do. I will accept no payment or reward except a few of those wonderful smiles of yours, because they are beyond price."

The rush of relief made her knees weak, but it also told her that she had made the right decision. Poor Mother would be frantic. And when she did find out what had happened to her wayward daughter — if she ever did — she would be utterly appalled. Riding off with a common mercenary to another city, another country? But what else was she to do?

"By all means let us be friends! You must call me Mistress Lisa, and I will call you Sir Hamish, for I think you really are a gentleman, a true gentleman. I have always found a man's manners to be a more reliable guide to his true quality than his lands or the number of portraits above his banquet table." She had also learned, over the years of a very lonely childhood, that solid men of humble status — grooms and servants — were often much more pleasant company and much more respectful to a young lady than certain gentlemen. Mother would regard that belief as rankest heresy, but Mother had never been backed into a corner by a snotty many-handed adolescent who thought he had the hereditary right to do anything to anyone. "I am very grateful and will smile like a stuffed cockatrice all the way to Florence if it pleases you."

"Oh, Lisa, I'm sorry, really sorry. I shouldn't have mocked you. You know the danger you're in, and you're behaving very bravely. Pay me if you want. I am in need of money. I shouldn't put on airs and pretend I'm not. I have a hole in my boot and can't afford to get it mended."

"I insulted you."

"No, no. I was presumptuous. But whether I'm your paid bodyguard or just a friend in need, I give you my word that no harm will befall you. I promise Longdirk won't use you."

"Use me?"

"Politically, I mean."

"I don't understand. How could he use me politically?"

"Oh, nothing," Hamish muttered. "Forget I said that. I read too many books, that's all."

CHAPTER SIX

Toby followed pudgy podestà Origo past unobtrusive guards to an unassuming door and into a warren of dimly lit smaller rooms where another sort of party was under way. In spite of his ability to look over heads, he had trouble making out who was present in the gloom, but they were all men, all standing, all discoursing in whispers.

"You know the noble Guilo, of course?" Origo vanished into the crowd with the air of someone who has just scraped something unpleasant off his boot.

Toby did know Guilo, a weedy, slightly pop-eyed young man, a very minor member of the clan. They bowed, flattering each other as "comandante" and "magnifico," respectively. "Your Magnificence" was a servile way of addressing a man who lacked any official title, but it was understood in Florence that the Magnificent was one man in particular. He would be around here somewhere. And Toby had long since given up trying to convince the Florentines that his title of comandante in capo had been a field appointment, good only for the day of battle.

Obviously Cousin Guilo had been designated sheepdog, to make sure the mercenary spoke with all the right people and none of the wrong. When they arrived at a group, the whispers would stop abruptly. Fulsome greetings would lead into the standard questions: Would the Fiend invade Italy? How soon? Could he be stopped? How much was it going to cost? Toby gave standard answers: yes, this spring, yes, plenty. Then he would be led away, and the muttering would start up again at his back.

They came at last to a brighter room, where a single glance identified enough of the top politicos of the city to show that this was the center of the web. A massive, florid-faced burgher in the center was pontificating in a wine-slurred roar. He was the current chairman of the dieci della guerra, the council for war, messer Jacopo Benozzo, and the kindest word the don ever used about him was "buffoon." According to the unsupported word of Master Hamish Campbell, his nose was much in demand in winter for roasting chestnuts. Marradi himself stood at the edge of the group — silent, unobtrusive, observing.

The moment of truth was approaching.

Until that day, Toby had left the negotiating to the don, who was much better at it. Unlike Toby, he could tell lies with a straight face, because he believed whatever he wanted to believe. Truth was anything he needed it to be. He despised money in any form, considered fighting for money shameful, and thus genuinely hated to agree to anything, especially with merchants like Benozzo or even Marradi, who were lower than the dirt under his horse. He drove them crazy. Why not? — he was crazy himself, oblivious to reality. Yet he was creepily perceptive at divining what Toby wanted to do and ordering him to do it. When they had first met, he had been leading an army that existed only in his muddled mind — noble knights, infantry, bands, guns, everything. Toby had made his dream come true, putting him at the head of the finest mercenary company in all Italy.

But that morning Pietro Marradi had summoned messer Longdirk to Florence, taken him into a very small private office, and shut the door. Alone, the two of them had negotiated the condotta that had been under discussion for months. Now all that remained was to ram it through the proper channels.

Introductions, bows, the usual stately minuet of banalities… War slid gently into the discussion. So did Antonio Origo. In fourteen years the Khanate had done nothing to oppose Nevil's rebellion, but the presence of the podestà in the inner circle suggested that this might be about to change.

"Yes, the Fiend can be beaten," Toby said for the hundredth time that night. "But only if Italy will unite. The cities must agree upon a comandante and give him the forces he will need. Time is running out. If Florence does not soon replace the late and sadly missed Captain-General Vespucci and start building a sizable army of its own, then it will not only be pitifully vulnerable, it will have no seat at the allies' table."

There! How did that feel? Marradi had told him to pull no punches, and punching was one thing Toby Longdirk did very well indeed.

"Indeed?" Pietro murmured. The listeners shuffled themselves quickly to include him in the group. "This news disturbs me." It could hardly surprise him, for nothing in Florence was concluded until he had approved every detail. "What is delaying the negotiations, messer Benozzo?"

The fat man wrinkled his grotesque nose in disgust. "The Spaniard. The man is a maniac!"

"He has very high ideals," Toby murmured sadly.

"And very few wits. However, we have made some progress."

Marradi waited for more. The buffoon began to bluster.

"We are making progress! We have agreed on the limits of the captain-general's authority over our provisionati, the proportion of his men's wages to be withheld as tax, the amounts of those wages to be issued in cloth and in grain, the form of muster rolls that will be presented and the frequency of our inspections, regulation of prices for victuals and the markets…" And so on, all meaningless details that were more or less standard in any condotta. He subsided like a punctured wineskin and at last fell silent.

"So much?" marveled the Magnificent. "Then there can be little left to decide. Cannot the rest be cleared up tomorrow so that we may seal the condotta and swear in our new captain-general? Say by noon?"

Toby watched in admiring silence. As he had risen in the world, he had come to appreciate power, and no one wielded it with greater skill than Il Volpe. There was power and power, of course. Toby knew push power, because he had had some of that all his life. The ability to force men when you had an army at your back was much like forcing with two large fists and a lot of muscle. But to make the army follow you, you need pull power, and that was quite different. He had learned in Spain that he possessed it, but he still did not quite understand how it worked. He had grown into it, he thought, and it seemed to feed on its own success. The Magnificent had it in bushels. His pull power was invisible, yet every man in the room could see it. Like a willow, it seemed frail and harmless, but it suffered nothing to grow too close to it. It worked inside men's minds to put chains on their limbs.

Power was the opportunity to make mistakes.

Benozzo squirmed. "If the Spaniard will see reason."

"I shall do my best to persuade him," Toby promised solemnly.

Marradi allowed himself a smile, which quickly spread to most of the onlookers. "Then I see no problem. Are there still knots in the wool, messer?"

"Cost, Your Magnificence. The size of the forces to be raised."

"Mm? And what does Sir Tobias think?" Marradi looked to Toby with no hint that the two of them had spent the entire morning haggling over this.

"Everything you can possibly afford, Your Magnificence! At least twenty thousand men." He felt a swell of protest rising around him. "With any less, Florence will have no hope and certainly no voice at the table — not when Venice is raising forty and Milan at least seventy. Only a supreme effort by all the states combined can stop the Fiend. We'll need a miracle to hold him at the Alps as we did last year."

"You expect us to let you march off and leave the city undefended?" bleated one of the younger men.

Toby looked down on him in exasperation, remembering days when Don Ramon had returned from the negotiations in near-homicidal frenzy. "If every city thinks like that, then the Fiend will swallow you one at a time! If Florence will not send its army north, why should Naples?" He wanted to add, "You idiot!" but managed not to.

Benozzo was looking pleased. "The don was talking of five thousand lances."

"I doubt that we can find that many now. They are all sworn elsewhere."

"A moment, signori," Pietro murmured. "Pardon the ignorance of a civilian. How many men in a lance, comandante?"

Now what game was he playing? That morning he had displayed an iron-fisted grasp of military matters down to the finest details.

"Usually six, Your Magnificence. Originally, of course, it was three — the knight himself, his sergeant to hold his spare horse, and a page. The coming of firearms has brought heavier armor and a far greater toll of horses, so now the knight requires more spare mounts, and hence more attendants to care for them."

"I see. But only one man in six is actually a fighter?"

"That is correct, although nowadays they may dismount, and then two men handle the lance."

"How about infantry?"

"Very much the same, about one in five or one in six."

"How many men in the Longdirk Company itself?" Either Marradi was using Toby as a ventriloquist's dummy to educate the men who would have to approve the condotta and vote the taxes to pay for it, or else he wanted Toby to demonstrate that he was more than an oversize thug capable of swinging a battle-ax. Either way, it was lecture time.

"Three thousand, but the most we can put in the field is about five hundred — five hundred helmets, we say. This seems a shameful limitation, but any condottiere will confirm it. Of the five hundred, about half are cavalry and half foot. Our infantry companies include pikemen, crossbowmen, and arquebusiers. The don leads our heavy cavalry in person, and we also have four squadrons of light cavalry armed with crossbows. Either may dismount and fight on foot when conditions require."

Marradi nodded solemnly, as if all this were new and wonderful. "I can understand a mounted knight requiring five attendants, but surely a common man-at-arms can sharpen his own pike?"

"He will be in considerable trouble with Marshal Diaz if he does not, Your Magnificence! But he requires the support of shield men, ammunition carriers, munitioners, fletchers, carters, pioneers, buglers, cooks, pay clerks, barber-surgeons, gunners, stonemasons, provisioners, and armorers. He travels to battle on horseback, so he needs farriers, saddlers—"

"Stonemasons?" one of the younger men demanded.

"To cut the cannonballs. We have six light cannons. In good weather on flat terrain they require only ten carts and twenty pairs of oxen apiece, but to take them across the Apennines, say, would require far more. To move the entire Company…"

Toby could go on indefinitely. He had just begun describing the casa, with the paymaster, quartermaster, hexer, chancellors, and other essential staff when an almost imperceptible nod from Marradi told him he had made his point. If any man present had thought that Florence was hiring a disorganized rabble of hoodlums, he should know better now.

"And how many men will Nevil bring?"

"At least a hundred thousand." A more realistic estimate would just frighten them out of their wits. "Schweitzer had about forty at Trent."

"Not fighting strength?"

"No, total. About seven thousand helmets. I expect Nevil to bring three times that many." At least.

"And how many can Italy raise?" asked a fat-faced man.

"Enough to defeat him," Toby said patiently, "if it can bring them all to bear at the right place and the right time. If not, he will pluck the goose one feather at a time."

"But Florence can only bear so much of the burden," Benozzo protested. "Naples and Venice are much richer and—"

Toby's scowl stopped him. "Will you risk letting the Fiend's horde loose in your streets for the sake of a year's higher taxes? Nevil's men are mindless puppets, suicidal, driven by demons. You cannot match them one for one. The Fiend himself is an incarnate demon and rejoices in causing destruction and suffering.

"What is the least amount you will accept?" Pietro asked quietly. The maneuvering was over; the battle was about to commence.

"Sixty thousand florins a month. Gold florins."

They did not gasp. They had known the news was going to be bad. They were not smiling.

"For twenty thousand men," Toby said. "If I can find them. The best companies are already signing with other states — Alfredo's with Venice, the Black Lances with Milan, and today word of Jules Desjardins with Naples. These are bands I hoped to enlist. Soon there will be nothing but dregs left."

Il Volpe studied him carefully, seemingly ignoring the audience. "At three gold florins a man? Eighteen florins a month for every helmet?" That was many times the pay of a skilled artisan. The brilliant red-brown eyes challenged Toby to back down, as they had that morning.

As he had that morning, he stood his ground. "For a six-month contract with a six-month option. That does not include the upkeep of your own provisionati, but I require that they be under my command. I cannot undertake the defense of Florence on any lesser terms."

Less than three years ago he had been a penniless outlaw. Now he was bullying the richest city in the world.

Benozzo's snort would have roused a herd of mares. "Captain-General Vespucci, may his spirit find—"

"Was not hired to fight this war. Costs of arms and supplies, of fodder and armor, have risen enormously. Warhorses are trading for three hundred ducats."

Mention of prices caused the company to explode:

"The wool trade has collapsed!"

"The price of silk…"

"Taxes are already higher than…"

One large man managed to shout down the others. "A three-month condotta? The crisis will surely be over by then!"

Absurd! Toby folded his arms. "The men have to arm themselves, mount themselves, travel here from winter quarters. On a shorter contract the price goes up. No. Those terms, or I offer my sword elsewhere." Pull no punches!

Marradi spoke into the deadly silence. "This is your last word, comandante?"

"It is, Your Magnificence." The night had become even more unreal.

The despot looked thoughtfully around the group, one man at a time, and did not seem pleased. He pursed his lips.

"How much is Milan offering you now, messer Longdirk?"

The onlookers bristled in alarm. Toby should have known that no one kept secrets from Marradi in his own palace. A truthful answer would not be believed.

"Enough to buy the don if he hears of it, Your Magnificence."

"You would go with him?"

"Undoubtedly."

"I see. You leave us little choice. Paolo? Giovanni?" One by one, Marradi queried the onlookers. One by one they pouted, squirmed, then nodded. "So we are agreed?" He turned to Toby and offered a hand. "You have your condotta, messer."

Toby released a long breath and bent to kiss those delicate fingers. As he straightened, Benozzo made his snorting noise again.

"But you will not allow us to hail you as captain-general?"

"That title must go to the don, Your Magnificence."

"He is a raving madman!"

"And he would chop me in cutlets if I dared belittle his status in the Company. He is your condottiere, Your Honors. I am his high constable, no more. We share the duties — he takes the glory, and I do all the work."

One advantage of a total inability to lie was that one was believed when telling the truth. The audience looked puzzled, but not disbelieving. If anyone could understand how a man might wield power in the background while using another for a figurehead, it ought to be these Florentines.

"You were elected capo at Trent," Benozzo complained.

"The don graciously allowed me to accept the title. He prefers to fight as close to the enemy as possible, and he knew so large an army could not be led from the front line." That was true. It was also true that the other commanders would sooner have blown themselves out of cannons than ever elect Don Ramon to anything.

"We all realize," podestà Origo said with a smile that would have left an oily shimmer on the Mediterranean, "that you needed the Spaniard's name and reputation when you founded the Company. But why do you bother to hide behind him now?"

Toby needed a moment to work out the logic again and make sure he had not misunderstood the first time. Then he needed more time to calm himself lest an explosion of anger waken the hob. Finally he said, "It is true that I have refused offers of continued employment from Verona and Naples and others. When they paid me, I served them as well as I knew how, giving them full value. That was business. But I do not throw friends away when my need for them is past, Your Excellency!" He had not totally masked his disgust, for Origo flinched.

Il Volpe contrived a thin smile without showing his teeth. "Yet the citizens would be happier if the famous Longdirk were their official protector."

"My regrets, Your Magnificence." Toby set his jaw to indicate extreme stubbornness. That was something else he was very good at. It required no deception at all.

Pietro sighed tolerantly. "The baton to the don, then. We shall issue two silver helmets, though."

"You do me great honor, but again I respectfully decline. I am an easy enough target without that." Now the onlookers' bewilderment was becoming affront and suspicion. These men spent their lives chasing trappings of grandeur, and most of them would sell their own mothers for much less than what he was refusing. He was insulting them and their values. "Signori, in my native land we believe it is unlucky to count chickens still in the shell. Offer me prizes after the victory, not before the enemy is even in sight." Besides, he was a foreign-born stripling — how would seasoned Italian troops feel if they saw him in a silver helmet? He was also a lowborn bastard, although the bastardy part did not seem to matter in Italy.

"You will swear the oath?" Benozzo demanded truculently.

"I will gladly swear allegiance to the noble republic of Florence." He wondered if the oath-taking ceremony would be held in the sanctuary. His participation there would only be possible if the tutelary agreed that the hob was not a demon. If it decided otherwise, it might blast him to ashes. Worse, it might try to exorcise the hob and destroy his mind in the attempt.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The congratulations Guilo babbled as he herded the comandante to the door went unheard. Toby's mind was soaring far beyond the seventh sphere of heaven. In reality, if not in name, he was now Captain-General of Florence and held the fate of the city in his hands but no one could save Florence if Italy fell so he was in effect undertaking to save the whole peninsula but Nevil would never rest until he controlled all Europe so Toby was really undertaking—

Whoa! One lifetime at a time!

He would have to repeat the miracle of Trent. It was fortunate that Benozzo and his fellow commissioners did not realize how much of an incredible fluke Trent had been. The assembled captains-general and collaterali had elected the big foreigner comandante that day only because they thought the cause was hopeless, and he would be an ideal scapegoat. The cause had been hopeless until he had tricked Schweitzer into drawing up his forces on the downwind side of a pine forest and then been ruthless enough to exploit that mistake. Nevil would never fall into such a trap. Guilo closed the door with himself on one side of it and Toby on the other. The lock clicked. Nevil would—

The lock had clicked!

Surprise snatched Toby back from dreams and sent his hand groping for a nonexistent sword. He was alone in a long gallery, its heavy darkness salted with a very few candle flames gleaming like stars. One wall bore a parade of gilt-framed portraits, but the bronze and marble statues set between them provided a dozen shadowy hiding places. Heavy velvet drapes opposite meant bright windows by day but might conceal regiments of killers at night. He reached behind him to test whether the door had been locked and then decided not to — he could do nothing about it if it was, and it didn't matter if it wasn't. Certainly Guilo would be standing guard outside, whether the purpose was assassination or merely assignation.

Toby strode over to the nearest candelabra, a head-high tangle of bronze sea serpents, and lifted it as if to inspect the portraits. It weighed quite enough to smash skulls with if need be. There he waited, thinking back to what Guilo had said — something about another meeting, someone wanting to meet with him? And a smile. Not a murderer's leer, more of a silly smirk. No matter, the kid might not be in on the real plot.

Silence, except for faint sounds of an orchestra beyond the far door. The longer he was kept waiting, the less likely that there was an innocent explanation. How many would there be, what weapons would they use? Against bow or gun his size was more handicap than help; against blades, up to two or even three, he would have a reasonable chance with the sea serpents. Poisoned blades would be another matter. Then a flash of movement, a flicker of golden cloth just beyond a great hunk of contorted marble…

"You are keeping me waiting."

Lucrezia!

"I'm admiring your ancestors, duchessa. Which one was this? Why did he look like that? Did he have gout, or was he a lawyer?" The Marradi family could afford to marry well now — it was amazing how the highborn would swallow their pride and disgorge a daughter in return for a few sacks of gold — but it had sprung from humble roots. The don would dismiss this entire collection with a sneering remark about pedlars and fish merchants.

"Don't be tiresome, Tobiaso. You had just as many ancestors as we did, and you have just as little idea of what they really looked like. Now come here." She was artfully posed on a padded silk couch between two towering marble giants.

He strolled toward her, keeping the corners of his eyes peeled but fairly confident now that he faced nothing worse than grievous social embarrassment. "I do know what mine looked like. They looked like English soldiers. They were probably in uniform at the time."

"You expect to shock me, Tobiaso? When a man catches my eye I inquire into his history."

Shock her? Shock Lucrezia Marradi? According to Hamish, who was never wrong when he was being serious, she had two daughters older than Toby, had several times escaped conviction for hexing only because witnesses or magistrates had conveniently died, and had come home to Florence because her sixteen-year-old son had banished her from Ferrara for poisoning his father. She was a beautiful and fascinating woman. The gleam in her eyes could flatter a man to madness.

He set down the candelabra and grinned vacuously. "Wonderful party, madonna!"

"You are not drunk!"

She was, though. He was sorry to see that. It would make matters more difficult.

"Just intoxicated by your beauty."

She jumped up, a child doll staring imperiously at him. "Sit!"

He perched his bulk on the edge of the couch. She remained standing, and their eyes were level. Why did she have to hurt herself like this? He was twice her size and half her age.

Any man who felt sorry for Lucrezia Marradi was out of his mind.

Smiling coyly, she patted his cheek. "You never get drunk, you never sleep with women, and tonight you refused two of the most beautiful boys in Florence."

"You forgot the sheep."

"I'll send for one if you ask nicely. Why don't you want a silver helmet?"

Gramarye? Possibly. More likely she had eavesdropped on his rehearsal with her brother that morning. Didn't matter. "It would annoy the don. I have enough troubles without that."

"And the Milanese earldom?"

"Promises are cheap."

She moved forward to stand between his knees. Her perfume closed around him like velvet. "You are a strange and fascinating man, Tobiaso. You hide your success. Usually when peasants rise to higher station they scream their glory from the rooftops."

"Or their wives do. I was outlawed at eighteen, monna. I learned not to draw attention to myself." He was sweating. There were enough jewels in her hair alone to finance a summer's campaigning, and the promises in her eyes were brighter yet. This was dangerous, deadly. Briefly he thought of being like other men, and his head swam with longing. Yes, he had the hob under control now, most of the time, but certain things he must avoid: demons, terror, rage — and passion. Already he could feel it stirring as his heart began to beat faster. Only once had he ever tried to make love to a woman, and the hob had gone berserk. Jeanne had died; half the hamlet had perished in fire and chaos. Never again would he dare succumb to desire.

"If my abstinence were from choice, duchessa, you would have melted it a long time ago."

Her pretty lip curled in mockery. "Are you admitting to a tragic battle wound, Tobiaso?"

Why must she pick on him? Although the life expectancy of her lovers was scandalously low, there were scores of men in the Marradi Palace tonight who would fight duels for a chance to bed Lucrezia. She was pathetic as well as deadly.

"Only a broken heart. Let us part as friends, madonna."

"Look!"

She gestured at the nearest statue, an oversize, overmuscled male brandishing a club and wearing only a lion skin that concealed nothing of importance. Doubtless this was a very clever use of a hunk of marble, but to an uncultured backwoods yokel it was obscene. He scowled at it.

"I could not locate a lion skin, Tobias," Lucrezia said throatily. "But I have a leopard skin waiting upstairs. You will pose for me."

"I am honored, but I don't want to spoil your fantasies."

"You will surpass them. You will be a superb Hercules."

"Is that his name? He's a bit paunchy, isn't he?" Toby flowed to his feet, clasping her shoulders and lifting her aside so he would not bowl her over. That was a mistake. She weighed nothing. His fingers registered the warmth of her skin, and he saw his strength excited her. Her eyes were bright, her lips moist and expectant. There was gramarye in her allure, making the hob stir under his calm like a shark in a still pool.

"Most beautiful madonna, Florence paid me an infinite compliment tonight by making me her defender, but what you suggest is more flattering still. Were it possible, I should never hesitate. There is no one else, believe me, nor could any woman come before you. Yet it cannot be. My heart breaks. I thank you, but I must bid you good night." He bowed and walked quickly toward the far end of the gallery and the sounds of the orchestra, hoping she had left the key in the lock.

"Stop!" More than the command itself, her tone made him turn. She was holding one hand close to her mouth, and spears of light flashed off the jewels of her rings. If she had a demon immured in one of those, then a few words would serve to unleash it. "You think you can spurn me like that, boy? You great barbarian lout! You are about to suffer. You will grovel naked at my feet, howling for release, for pain, for anything I choose to—"

"No!" Toby shouted. "You must not use gramarye on me, duchessa!" His fragile control over the hob would shatter if it sensed the presence of demons. Any gramarye would provoke it. "No, no, I beg you! You endanger the whole palace!"

Unconvinced, Lucrezia began whispering an incantation.

Anything might have happened then, had not Hercules hurled himself to the floor beside her with an earsplitting crash that jarred the whole building. Fragments of marble and mosaic tiles flew like hail; gravel rattled and boulders rolled. Lucrezia recoiled with a startled yell. The orchestra outside wailed into silence. For a frozen instant duchess and mercenary stared at each other in mutual dismay. A hundred people would come flooding into the gallery to investigate.

Lucrezia rapped out a command and vanished faster than a soap bubble.

So she was a hexer! That did not mean she had deliberately pulled over the statue, though. In among those rings she was wearing, she must have at least one guarddemon. It had recognized the hob in him, foreseen the danger when Lucrezia tried to use gramarye on him, and provided a diversion.

Whoever heard of a demon capable of that kind of subtle thinking?

A distant clamor of voices reminded him of his peril. He dived for the door, unlocked it, and stepped back behind it just before it flew open and a jabbering crowd of guests and servants poured through. In the pervading gloom, he was able to tag on the end as if he had entered with them. A matching throng rushed in from the far end, and everyone gathered over the remains, clamoring in astonishment. A statue falls over in an empty room? — what an extraordinary omen!

CHAPTER EIGHT

As dawn gilded chimneys under a buttermilk sky, Toby strode out to the stable yard, relieved that the party was over and he was free to go. The air was cool and sweet, and even the potent tang of horses was welcome after the cloying palace scents. The buzz in his head came only from lack of sleep, for he had drunk much less than most of the guests. He was carrying the unconscious and partially clad don slung over his shoulder.

The waiting men-at-arms of the escort jeered like seagulls at this evidence of an aristocrat's inability to stay the course, although they expected a man to whore and drink himself senseless on every possible opportunity, because that was what they did themselves whenever they could afford to. Then they began taunting Toby for being able to leave on his own feet, as if this evidenced lack of manhood. He laughed aloud, enjoying their vulgar banter far more than the cynical backstabbing of the gentry he had just left.

The men of the Don Ramon Company were a diverse lot, whose roots spanned the Continent from Portugal to Poland. Some had been born in marble halls and others, like him, in the ditches of poverty. They all shared courage, pride in their own endurance, and a fierce independence that would tolerate neither weaklings in their ranks nor incompetent officers. Among the rights they claimed was that of electing the don's honor guard, and thus to serve in it was a mark of approval greatly prized. There, in the morning chill, illiterate pike-wielding thugs stood elbow to elbow with knights who led entourages of their own. Toby belonged with the thugs, of course.

He heaved the unconscious don aboard the coach as he had once heaved sacks of meal for the miller back in Tyndrum, then glanced around. A man must not arrive at a ball covered in mud and reeking of horse, but that did not mean he had to go home in the same dreadful engine of torture in which he had arrived. He thumped a handy shoulder.

"Facino, I grant you the privilege of holding the condottiere's hand on the journey. Make sure he doesn't choke. I'll see your horse gets back safely."

As a staunch Italian republican, Facino was unimpressed by the Spaniard's impeccable pedigree, and he erupted in lurid protestations that being bounced around in a box with an unconscious drunk was above and beyond the call of duty. His comrades barked more cannonades of laughter.

"I'll give you a medal!" Toby hoisted him bodily into the coach, although he was no lightweight, then closed the door on him. The onlookers laughed louder still, and now even the knights among them were joining in.

Facino's head came out of the window. "A gold one!"

"He didn't tell you where he's going to hang it, Facino!"

"It's the horse that deserves the medal!"

And so on. Chuckling, Toby turned to adjust the stirrup leathers on Facino's mount. He was forestalled—

"Allow me this honor, comandante!" The big man with the buttery smile was Baldassare Barrafranca, former lord of Rimini. His career as a condottiere was a catalogue of dismal mediocrity, but he was a capable enough fighter when aimed in the right direction and told when to start. He led his own post of five lances. He was not a man Toby Longdirk would turn his back on in a dark alley.

At which thought, Toby glanced around and caught the eye of the Chevalier D'Anjou. For a fleeting moment he saw slavering jaws, yellow fangs, and slitted wolfish eyes, as if some demonic nightmare was about to leap on him. He blinked, and the illusion had gone — lack of sleep could play strange tricks on a man. The veteran knight was scarred and weatherbeaten, with a gray-streaked beard and head habitually canted to favor his right eye, but he was no demon. On the other hand, he could not be described as likable. Toby could not recall ever seeing the crabby old blackguard smile before.

"That is as long as they will go, comandante," Barrafranca said, oozing back with a half bow.

"Thank you." Toby put a boot in the stirrup and swung up onto the mare. He nodded to the Chevalier. "Lead the men out, if you please, squadriere."

There was a perceptible pause before the yellow teeth showed again. "It is my honor, comandante. Guard, mount up!"

The seigneur disliked taking orders from the Scottish bastard. Toby watched the old scoundrel scramble onto his great destrier with help from his squire. Camp tales described him as the last survivor of the French royal house, rightful monarch of several countries. Unlike Barrafranca, he had no cause to blame his misfortunes on Toby — which did not mean he couldn't or wouldn't. He might have been dangerous if he had not knocked all his brains out years ago.

The procession clattered off along the Via Larga in proper order — six men in pairs, the coach, and a dozen more men behind. Toby was absurdly conspicuous in his party silks, but the others all wore leathers, helmets, and breastplates emblazoned with the don's arms of three papillons argent upon gules.

Conversation was impossible in the cramped streets, with carts and pedestrians to be avoided and the clatter of hooves echoing between drab stone walls. He was leaving Florence with what he had come for — three florins a man, twenty thousand men, six months minimum. Three hundred and sixty thousand ducats! What would the good folk back in Strath Fillan say to wee Toby Strangerson earning that kind of money? He would get to keep none of it and the lowly men expected to die for it would see little more. Florence paid a portion in food and fodder, and withheld taxes on all of it. One fifth went to Josep Brusi in Barcelona as return on his investment, another fifth to the don, although he must pay for the artillery out of that. Each man had to provide his own weapons and mounts, or have his pay docked to cover their cost. Toby's share was officially one twentieth, but he always took the last twentieth, which was rarely there to take, because cities were notoriously lax about paying their mercenaries. And there were always unforeseen costs.

His chances of living to enjoy a soldo of it were remote anyway. If he had any sense at all, he would catch a ship to Africa and never come back. Longdirk versus the Fiend — why pursue a feud so hopeless? He often wondered about that. He seemed to be too stupid to do anything except fight on.

The company rattled through the Porta Pinti and set off along the Fiesole road, through countryside wakening to spring and a fine day. Escaping thoughts of all the work waiting for him in camp, he spurred forward to join Leonello and Agostino, and listen to their discussion of the relative merits of fat women and thin women, a subject about which he knew absolutely nothing and could never hope to.

CHAPTER NINE

D'Anjou rode at the head of the line on Oriflamme, who was still his favorite, although the old warhorse was long past his days of glory. So was his master, for that matter. A night dozing on a bale of straw in an overcrowded stable had turned his backbone into a red-hot iron bar. He ought to ask the company hexer to straighten out the kinks for him. The present one was impressively expert and did not demand outrageous fees, but it was a point of honor for an old campaigner not to make such a request until the fighting season opened. He would suffer longer in the name of honor.

Uninvited, another horse settled into place alongside Oriflamme. The Chevalier scowled unwelcome at its rider.

"There were interesting rumors going around last night," the newcomer remarked in heavily accented French. He was Baldassare Barrafranca — a stupid, boorish man of nondescript lineage. He had left the stable for a while during the bodyguard's nightlong vigil and gone off to worm his way into the palace kitchens — making a play for some of the female domestics, no doubt.

"There are always rumors," D'Anjou snapped. "If they reported that the noble High Constable Longdirk shits nothing but nuggets of pure gold, then I must inform you that this is absolute holy truth. He also pisses pure vintage Bordeaux."

Barrafranca chuckled coarsely. "I have better vintage here. Finest Chianti — Monseigneur?" He offered a wineskin.

"You will withdraw that word." D'Anjou did not raise his voice, but his tone conveyed mortal threat. He had shed blood often enough over matters of honor. In his present station titles were mockery, and he steadfastly refused to acknowledge any hereditary rank. Knighthood he had earned, so he would remain merely "Chevalier" until the Fiend was overthrown and he could return to claim his birthright.

"Of course, messer!" the Italian said hurriedly. "I have no wish to offend."

"Then I accept your apology and also your wine." The rotten stuff would rinse the early-morning sourness from his mouth. D'Anjou reached for the wineskin, but the move twisted his back, making him bite back a gasp of agony. He was not an old man by tally of years, but the human frame was never meant to be packed into a steel shell, lifted seven or so feet off the ground, accelerated to full gallop, and then struck off again by a wooden beam moving equally fast in the opposite direction. Two or three such impacts could be forgotten, but the effects were cumulative. There had also been crossbow bolts and arquebus balls. Now he had to cock his head sideways to see clearly, and his hand would no longer grip a lance as it should be gripped. To stop and give up, though, was unthinkable.

He drank and wiped his mouth. Italian horse piss! He thought longingly of the wines of his youth, the subtle, delicate progeny of vineyards his father had lovingly planted at various chateaux. Gone, alas! But what would his father have said to a son of his serving as common bodyguard to mercenary rabble, spending the night in a stinking stable while the trash he was forced to serve hobnobbed in the luxury of a palace? That he was not worthy of decent wines?

"Tell me the rumors then," he said.

"Well, first, our noble condottiere is to be Captain-General of Florence."

D'Anjou spat at the weeds. "Did one ever doubt it? One does not grudge the Spanish boy his success." Or not very much. The child put on absurd airs, but give him a lance and a horse and he was magnificent, worthy of comparison with legendary knights like Du Guesclin, De Coucy, or Lancelot himself. More to the point, Don Ramon had a pedigree as long as D'Anjou's own, a genuinely noble lineage, even if his family had fallen on hard times in the last few centuries. "He is a man of courage."

"This is most true. And a man of breeding."

Ha! Baldassare Barrafranca talking about breeding? It was to laugh. He claimed to be marquis of some tin-pot town in the Romagna, but his grandfather had stolen the title at sword point, and he himself had lost it through his own incompetence as a condottiere — incompetence revealed, amusingly enough, by the cur Longdirk. Dog eat dog.

It was nice to know that history could throw up a scrap of justice once in a while. D'Anjou had seen little of it in his life. As a child he had been Louis, but all his male relatives had borne that name among others — uncles, cousins, even his brothers and both his sons — and theirs had been a very large family, spread across Europe. Its head had been an Uncle Louis who sometimes wore a golden hat and sat on a fancy chair in Paris — a most excellent man, cursed by ill fortune. When the King of England succumbed to a mysterious and extremely fatal accident and was succeeded by the juvenile and extremely inexperienced Prince Nevil, King Louis had launched a war against him, which was the correct and time-honored thing to do in the circumstances. It was gravest misfortune that the stripling turned out to be the greatest military genius since Genghis. Louis had lost the war, his throne, his land, and eventually his skin, which Nevil had removed personally to have tanned and made into a jerkin.

The procession was climbing the hill to Fiesole now, winding back and forth. Without risking protest from his back, D'Anjou could inspect the procession and see that all was well. A gap was opening in front of the coach. He slowed his pace a little.

"The don knows how war should be fought," Barrafranca mumbled. He was drunk — but evidently not too drunk, because he added quickly, "But not as you do, of course, messer."

"This is true."

Back in 1511, D'Anjou had girded on armor as so many others had done, kissed his wife and sons good-bye, promised to be home in a month, and ridden off at the head of his knights in support of his liege. He had never seen his estates or his family again. He had never stopped fighting. When France had fallen, he had offered his lance to the King of Burgundy, who was then the Khan's suzerain. When Burgundy fell, Lorraine. After Lorraine, Alsace. He had lost count of the battles, the wounds, the horses killed under him, defeat after defeat after defeat. One by one his knights had died. Without fee or booty or ransoms, the losses could not be made up, and his state had dwindled. He had fought on, motivated only by hatred and a craving for revenge, until at last his troop was down to three lances and he was a mere condottiere, not even fighting against the Fiend, but taking wages to contend with other soldiers of fortune in the hope that one day he could return to the struggle that had consumed his life.

He was the last Louis of them all. Nevil had set out to exterminate the ruling houses of Europe and succeeded admirably. The women who fell into his clutches suffered the same ghastly fate as their brothers, fathers, or husbands. King Pedro of Castile still ruled, but only as the Fiend's vassal. The princes of Kiev and Warsaw survived, as did the Duke of Savoy and some others here and there — those that Nevil had not gotten to yet — but D'Anjou was the last of his house. The cousins, uncles, brothers, sons, wives, sisters, aunts, and daughters had all fallen in battle or been tortured to death to entertain Nevil's court. If the titles they had borne were ever to mean anything again, he would own them all. He was rightful King of France, but he must also be king, prince, duke, count, and everything else more times over than any man in history. Yet he had spent the night in a stable while that Scottish serf fornicated between silken sheets in a palace.

"The don I do not mind," Barrafranca grumbled, still brooding. "That overgrown young blackguard, Longdirk — I cannot understand why the don tolerates his meddling. I am certain they will not make him comandante again."

"Of course not! One cannot conceive of repeating such folly. The captains-general elected him last time because they thought he was young enough to be controlled. Look what happened — an atrocity unthinkable! What honor is there in such a victory? It was pure luck that the wind did not change and blow the fire in our direction."

Had D'Anjou known, two years ago in Genoa, that the true leader of the Don Ramon Company was a baseborn outlaw with no formal military training or experience whatsoever, he would have offered his sword elsewhere though he would have starved for it. Starvation had been close at his heels in those days.

"Sir Tobias!" he snarled, more to himself than his companion. "Granted he can straighten horseshoes with his bare hands, what does that prove? There was a time when knighthood meant something. Now any roughhousing brawler is given spurs."

"He has always fought the way a demon would!" Barrafranca agreed. "He is crazy! He uses treachery, tactics no honorable man would—" Belch! " — countenance!"

One could turn one's head and smile at the olive trees. D'Anjou took another swig of the wine. "Right from the start. One saw it oneself. His very first condotta was with Verona. Venetian gold had bought Tyrolean allies, and the Veronese were so desperate for men that they hired this new, untried Don Ramon Company to guard the northern borders." The Tyroleans, of course, had already signed a condotta with the Marquis Baldassare Barrafranca, but it would be too unkind to mention that. "The Tyroleans sent a force south along the shores of Lake Garda, a force far outnumbering the men Longdirk had. It was hopeless! Yet this maniac took it upon himself to give battle, far exceeding his instructions. And his tactics—"

"I am aware—"

"His tactics, I say, were total madness, against all the rules, suicidal. He not only dismounted the cavalry — a mistake becoming distressingly popular these days — but he left the horses and baggage unguarded so he could throw every man into an assault. Cooks, grooms, teamsters, farriers, and similar trash, he armed them all! He had led this untrained, inexperienced rabble on a long march in pitch-darkness, can you believe? It made us weep, we who knew how it should be done. Had the enemy even suspected, there would have been a most terrible massacre, and that would have been the end of the upstart right then. But no. He has demons' own luck. He pounced on the Tyrolean camp in the middle of a moonless night, with no warning. Shameful! It was sheer butchery, hundreds of men murdered in their sleep. Thousands more fled or surrendered, leaving all their arms to the victors. By the terms of the condotta, the loot was his, of course."

"Of course," Barrafranca growled. He had been one of the prisoners.

"Oh, it worked," D'Anjou admitted. "Tyrol changed sides, and Verona was ecstatic. The Veronese paid up without complaint, although the condotta had lasted less than a month. They wanted to renew it indefinitely, but no, the arrogant barbarian went off in search of richer employers. But it was on the field of Garda that the don knighted him. I saw it. Sir Tobias! Sir Turd!

"It is not easy for men of honor to serve under such a man," he added waspishly. How could Barrafranca endure it? The rout at Lake Garda that had made Longdirk's name had blackened his forever. Rather than ransom him, his city had deposed him. "The foreigner upset all the rules by which your condottieri had been operating for so long. I expect one day someone will seek retribution — stick a knife in his ribs, perchance."

"Revenge, messer, is a dish best tasted cold."

"Even a cold dish must lose its flavor if it sits around too long." D'Anjou wondered if the men were listening, but very few of them understood French. They were almost at the camp now. He would shed this obnoxious Italian upstart and take a little rest to ease his back. "What was it you wished to discuss, messer?"

"Mm?" The Italian drank and belched again. "Apparently the podestà has received a letter from Naples. An emissary of the Khan has landed there."

The Chevalier straightened suddenly in his saddle and suppressed a gasp of pain. "You jest!"

"No, messer." Barrafranca sounded amused by his companion's shocked reaction. "After so many years, our esteemed overlord has at last noticed that something is amiss in his realm!"

"Did he send an army? I mean, is he sending one?" Tartars were horsemen. If the Golden Horde was going to oppose Nevil and try to recover the lands he had stolen, then it would have to come from the east, by land. But perhaps this was a sign that it was coming! "What good can one emissary do?"

"Spirits know, Chevalier. They said he brings special powers."

"A darughachi?" It had been many years since D'Anjou had even thought about the Khanate, that rotted relic of an empire whose claim to rule Europe the Fiend had exposed as utter pigswill. "He has perhaps authority to appoint another suzerain?"

Barrafranca snorted. "Very useful! The Fiend has slaughtered the last four, so—"

"Last five." Three of those five had been relatives of D'Anjou's. Two of them Nevil had taken alive, poor devils. "It will have to be an Italian, because there is no one else left, and a suzerain has always been a red rag to the Fiend. Nothing will make his invasion of Italy more certain."

"His invasion is already certain, yes? And if this daru… emissary… does appoint a suzerain, whom will he appoint? In the past the Khan always chose a powerful ruler, yes? But they are all dead now."

Ah! Interesting problem! In Italy — and there was very little else of Europe that Nevil had not conquered — the great powers were the five cities, but Rome was a hierocracy, while Venice and Florence were plutocracies claiming to be democracies. Fredrico of Naples was unthinkable. "The Duke of Milan? This is a choice not to be thought of!"

The Italian laughed. "He can do better than that, Chevalier. A man who knows war as it should be fought, a man who has fought against the Fiend as long as any, a man whose ancestors ruled France when the Khan's were herding goats?"

Again a jerk of surprise sent a stab of pain up D'Anjou's spine, but he barely noticed it. Indeed! Was he not the logical choice? "What are you suggesting?"

"That the emissary ought to be advised of the possibility. A good horseman should be able to reach Naples in a few days, sì?"

"I shall consider your advice, messer. I thank you for it." He could almost regret mocking the man, for the proposal had possibilities.

"My pleasure, Chevalier. And when it happens you will give me Longdirk's head in a basket, sì?"

D'Anjou chuckled. "I will give it to someone. You may have to wait in line."

"I will settle for his tripes," Barrafranca growled.

CHAPTER TEN

The camp in the Fiesole highlands was a minor city of leather and linen spilled down a now-muddy slope, a galaxy of many-colored tents, shaped like cones or sheds or loaves. Many of these were very grand pavilions, striped and gleaming in the morning sun, proof of the success the Don Ramon Company had garnered in the two seasons of its existence, but in among their dazzle crouched others more humble — dingy, patched, and decrepit, even some crude shelters of straw to house men who had gambled away their wealth. This bizarre settlement had been home all winter to three thousand men and boys, plus an unknown multitude of women. The treasurer kept sharp tally of the horses, the mules, the oxen, the wagons, the guns, the beans in the commissary, but for some reason no one ever counted the women.

Toby often marveled that he could have started this, but it had all sprung from a single evening's brainstorming in a monastery in northern Spain. As a penniless outlaw he had sown dragons' teeth and then ridden the dragon to fame and honor. It ruled him now. It owned him. Florence depended on messer Longdirk to defend her from the Fiend, but these men trusted him not to squander their lives in the attempt. One slip on his part, and few of them would see the harvest. They were cynical, tough as anvils, and many of them brutal, but they were Longdirk's men and proud of it. As he rode through the camp, he was hailed by lancers, pikemen, arquebusiers, and cannoneers. They were not cheering old Chevalier D'Anjou at his side, the rightful King of France; they were cheering Toby Longdirk, and that was worth far more than all of Pietro Marradi's gilt-edged invitations.

Don Ramon emerged from the coach unaided but unsteady. Framed by auburn tangles, his face had a greenish hue, and the copper mustache that normally twisted up in arrogant horns hung over his mouth like an apron. In only shirt and tights, he seemed almost frail, a slender boy. His unfocused, red-rimmed eyes peered uncertainly at Toby.

"Stand aside!" he muttered.

"You have a duty to perform, senor."

He clutched the coach for support and groaned. "Duty?"

"The condotta must be signed today. The Magnificent and I reached agreement on the essentials. You are Captain-General of Florence, senor."

The listeners broke into another cheer, for they had not been paid in weeks. The news would be all over the camp in minutes. That the don was in no state to negotiate with the hardheaded — and undoubtedly cold-sober — Florentine commissioners was very obvious, and there were a million essential details to be settled yet, enough to fill weeks of haggling. But speed was essential, and for all his grandiose illusions, no one had ever accused Don Ramon of lacking courage. An appeal to his sense of duty left him no escape.

"Today it shall be, Constable." He staggered off in the direction of the house. The mercenaries grinned admiringly, but they did not shout vulgar remarks after him as they would have done at Toby. The don was too dangerous to taunt.

Good spirits be with him this day! Fighting was much easier than negotiating. That was why most men preferred it.

The villa had begun life as a humble farmhouse, but now it was a rambling warren of low buildings, stonewalled and red-tiled, set about with vines and olives. The city placed it at the disposal of successive mercenary captains, and previous tenants had added watchtowers and a crenellated wall, so that it was almost a fortress, but not strong enough to alarm the Florentines.

The domestic functions of the villa were run by madonna Anna, a formidable widow whose iron-gray eyes had seen uncounted soldiers of fortune come and go. She ruled a diverse population of younger women who came and went much faster, and she treated them as servants. Some were legitimate wives of officers of the Company, some were innocents who believed they were about to become wives, and others would negotiate with anyone. Toby remained firmly celibate, having no choice, and Hamish preferred to hunt wild game in the city.

The two of them shared an attic room just large enough to contain a hamper for storage, a bed for Hamish, and seven feet of floor for Toby. It was cluttered with armor and weapons, and he was sure that one night he would be killed in his sleep by an avalanche of Hamish's high-piled books.

He arrived with a bucket of water and his foggy-headed feeling. As he stripped off his finery, he could look down on all of Florence. Seen from this vantage in the Fiesole hills, it was a fairyland of domes and palaces, a cake iced by red tile roofs. The city wall wrapped around it like a cord knotted with towers, and through it flowed the blue Arno, winding on toward Pisa across the fertile plain, between the hills in their olive, vine, and mulberry plumage. It was a jewel among cities, and he was its defender.

Italians had been fighting among themselves for centuries, but they had preserved the traditions of chivalry much longer than most of Europe had, waging war as a stately gavotte of maneuver and siege, where arms rarely clashed and nobody got hurt — certainly nobody of importance, but even the mercenaries' death toll was usually light. The peace treaty would stipulate reasonable ransoms for the prisoners, redistribute a few castles, and allocate some daughters in marriage to show there were no hard feelings. It was fine sport as long as nobody worried about the peasants whose crops were burned and womenfolk raped — and nobody did, certainly nobody of importance.

Fourteen years ago, Nevil had changed the rules by abolishing the rules. No rules, no peace treaties, and winner take all.

To be honest, in Italy it had been Toby Longdirk who introduced the new style of war. Less than three years ago he had landed at Genoa with Hamish, Don Ramon, Antonio Diaz, Arnaud Villars, and Karl Fischart. Even famous condottieri had jumped at the chance to sign up with these mad foreigners who would pay a retainer over the winter, when all sensible employers put their mercenaries out to pasture. The don was young, true, but he had earned a hero's fame in the Battle of Toledo. Diaz was an experienced trainer of infantry. Although Fischart, formerly Baron Oreste, had a gruesome reputation, he was a hexer of international renown, and any fighting man wanted a good hexer at his back. Villars, an obvious scoundrel, was throwing out handfuls of Josep Brusi's gold, smooth and yellow as butter.

By spring, when the fighting began, the men of the Don Ramon Company had discovered that the methodical Diaz lacked flair and the don had so much that he qualified as a maniac. They were taking their orders from a Scottish yokel who had no qualifications whatsoever — except, as it turned out, a ruthless ability to bring the enemy to battle on the wrong ground and beat him.

"You sigh?" asked a soft voice. The intruder in the doorway was a haggard scarecrow of a man in the black robe of a penitent, Karl Fischart, formerly Baron Oreste. He would not have interrupted without good cause, and good cause must be bad news.

"I was thinking that Florence is the fairest city in all Europe and I am a fool. Look at it! Isn't it glorious? Last night I promised to defend it. If I fail, it will be all gone before winter. Am I completely insane?"

"No, because to die fighting the Fiend is our only hope that some spirit will take pity on our souls. Any other death is ignoble. Faced with paramount evil, the only virtuous course is to die opposing it. We ourselves are so steeped in evil that to survive is evidence of insufficient dedication to the struggle."

So much for rhetorical questions. Toby had no doubts at all about his own sanity and felt no repentance for the deaths he had caused in his military career. Regret yes, but they had been necessary. Fischart was living with memories of the horrors he had committed when he was Nevil's premier hexer. No matter how he went barefoot, ate almost nothing, and mortified his flesh in ingenious ways, nothing would ever console him. Although his face was still round, the flesh on it had melted into bags and dewlaps. Stooped and white-bearded, he seemed to have aged a generation since the day he and Toby had come face-to-face in Barcelona and ended their long feud within the hour. The only evidence remaining of his former evil glory was the collection of jeweled rings on his fingers — plus his tedious habit of wailing his remorse to anyone who would listen.

"What's the bad news today?" Toby splashed water on his face. "Use short words and remember I'm stupid."

"I know you pretend to be. I was deceived once and have been paying for that error ever since and will pay until my death."

"The news?"

"We have been robbed. Gold is missing from the strongbox."

After a moment Toby realized he was staring like a gargoyle, mouth open. "Explain that! You were supposed to have hexed it."

"I am the premier suspect!" The old man wrung his hands in agony. "To fail in so simple a task is evidence that I have betrayed you all."

"Did you take the money?"

"Of course not! You think I would add to my sins by—"

"Then don't rant and wail, be helpful! We're cleaned out?" How much? Two days ago Arnaud had reported two thousand, five hundred, seventy-two florins in hand. Less fifty-seven for flour and eight-three for fodder — Toby rattled beads on his mental abacus. "There should have been twenty-two hundred and thirty or so florins there!" That was desperation money to keep the Company fed. Condotta or not, the dieci della guerra might still take weeks to deliver any cash, and it would not be inclined to move faster if the Don Ramon Company sank into debt to the Marradi Bank. Abandoning thoughts of washing, he threw open the hamper and rummaged in it for clothes.

"No, no! You don't understand! Villars insists only one bag is missing, a bag of green leather, one hundred florins. The rest has not been touched, and a purse of the don's is still there, too."

"That's absurd! Who can open the chest, apart from you and Arnaud?"

Fischart's hand rubbing grew more agitated. "Captain Diaz, Don Ramon, Brother Bartolo, messer Campbell. No one else can even get near it without setting off alarms and being trapped in the adytum. No one except a very skilled hexer."

Toby himself had never even seen the demon-guarded coffer because he never went to the adytum. "Can't you tell?" he asked, balancing on one leg as he pulled hose onto the other. "Don't you know if someone else has used gramarye on it?"

"There are shadows, only shadows. If it was a hexer, he is an incredible adept, better than I."

"Is anyone better than you?"

"No," Fischart admitted glumly.

"What else can it be except a hexer?"

"Nothing."

Morbid and tortured though he was, the old man still had one of the brightest minds in Europe, and it took Toby a moment to catch up with the misery in his crazed eyes.

"Then you will have to test everyone you just named."

The hexer looked ready to weep. "I have. Everyone except the don and Campbell, who isn't back yet but wasn't here when the money was taken. I can find no trace of hexing on them. If one of them took the money, then he was acting voluntarily. He would still have had to use gramarye, of course, but he cannot be under a compulsion."

Needing more time to think, Toby opened the window and tipped out his wash water. Was it possible that the Fiend had managed to hex Fischart himself to spin this tale? No one could be trusted absolutely in this war; but if the baron had been turned, then Toby ought to be helpless already, if not dead. The gold problem made no sense at all. If Arnaud said there had been a theft, there had been a theft. He did not make mistakes. That the Fiend had spies or even potential assassins within the Company went without saying, but why steal one bag of coins and leave the rest? Why should a skilled hexer draw attention to his presence like that? Or possibly her presence, he remembered.

"Probably the don took it to spend on some woman. And test him for hexing. I suggest you don't let him know you're doing so." If that failed, then the puzzle would have to wait until Hamish came back. He was the one with brains. "Perhaps you'd better test me as well."

"I can't. I would just find the hob."

Toby grunted. As far as he knew, being possessed saved him from being hexed, which was like not catching measles because one already had tertian fever. "So we have a traitor in camp, who may or may not be one of the people we've been discussing. That really is not surprising, is it? See if you can tighten your wards on the money, and also would you clear Don Ramon's head so he can negotiate the terms of the condotta today? There's no time to waste."

For a moment a flash of the old arrogance darkened the adept's face, then he rearranged it like putty into its customary pout. "Even demons draw the line somewhere, but if it will contribute in any way to the overthrow of the Fiend, then of course no task is too humble for me."

"Thank you." Toby pushed his feet into his buskins. He stared at his party clothes on the floor, all rumpled and in need of a wash, and he decided to worry about the fate of Italy first. "The condotta has been agreed in principle, so I have a million letters to send." He crouched to see his face in the broken mirror, cursing the great mop of hair he had to comb now. "There was a rumor going around last night that the Khan has sent a darughachi. He's said to be in Naples, expected to head north shortly."

The hexer drew in his breath with a hiss. "I suppose fourteen years too late is better than never."

Not necessarily. An emissary with plenipotentiary powers might appoint a suzerain or take overall command himself. Either way, he would certainly ruin all of Toby's carefully laid plans.

"It may be all hogswiggle, because the Magnificent never mentioned it." He would certainly have been one of the first to learn of any emissary, and why would he not confide in his captain-general?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lisa felt guilty for not feeling more guilty. Every step her horse took carried her farther away from Mother, who must be half-insane with worry, yet she kept catching herself actually enjoying this wild adventure, this unreal Arthurian romance into which she had fallen. Lack of sleep had stuffed her head with bed socks, and the beautiful Tuscan landscape enclosed her like a painting — fields, vineyards, olive groves, red-tiled roofs, geese, goats — all glistening in the sharp morning light. She must believe that it was real. She had seen a demon and witnessed Master Campbell bloodying his sword in her defense.

He was most attentive and excellent company. He had bought clothes for her from the innkeeper's daughter and sent one of his men back into Siena to organize a hunt for the countess. Every now and again he would peer back along their tracks to where his other man, Carlo, was trailing a mile or so behind, keeping a lookout for pursuit. Even Mother had never gone to quite such lengths, but Lisa was much more inclined to trust the mercenary's appraisal of danger than hers.

That did not mean that she trusted him without reservations. He was not being completely frank with her. He had motives he was not revealing. There were questions he would not answer—

"Why did you tell me to keep my kerchief?"

He blinked guilelessly. "When we locate your mother, we can send it along as proof that we're genuine."

"Then why didn't you give it to Rinaldo to take back with him?"

"I didn't think of it until he'd gone. Oh, look! Newborn lambs! Spring!"

Those were not the first lambs they had passed. Master Campbell was lying. Later she tried again. "What did you mean about Longdirk using me politically?"

"Taking advantage of you. Demanding ransom, for instance."

That was not what he had meant originally! And the questions he asked were not all innocent, either. He kept trying to find out things about Mother, who was none of his business. As Lisa was riding sidesaddle and he was on the left, she could watch him more easily than he could watch her. She could tell when he was just making conversation and when he was probing. She could also admire his profile, which was acceptably handsome for a knight-errant.

He was good company — witty, intelligent, well read, and very well traveled. Between them they could speak more than a dozen languages, although all they had in common were English and the usual smattering of Latin and Tartar that all well-educated people professed. Nor had they identified a single city they had both visited, for he had traveled mostly in the Fiend's domains, while Mother had always stayed inside territories loyal to the Khan. They shared a love of books. Many of the homes in which she had stayed had possessed books, even if the owners never opened them. Too often, books had been her only companions for months at a time, yet she had never met another genuine book lover. Now the two of them juggled titles and quotations back and forth with mutual glee, arguing what Plato had said in the Republic or whether it was worth learning Tuscan just to read Dante.

He admitted to leaving Scotland when he was fifteen, and later he mentioned this had been in 1519, so he must be about twenty-one now. Most men married younger than that, but she could not ask, and he did not volunteer the information. Despite her best efforts to match his vagueness on personal matters, he was revealing much less than she was. He would talk endlessly about his friend Longdirk:

"Aristocrats despise him because he's not of noble birth, and the crabby old veterans are worse. Some of them still seem to think his success was all just luck, but he calculates everything. He moved us from client to client — Verona, Ravenna, Naples, then Milan, so all the captains-general and collaterali got to know him, and when Nevil sent Schweitzer across the border last fall and they needed a comandante in capo in a hurry, they elected him because he was the only one they all trusted. He was a neutral, of course. Venetians don't trust Milanese, Milanese don't trust Venetians, and the Florentine captain-general was an idiot."

Lisa soon developed a strong dislike of this vagabond mercenary lord into whose power she was about to be delivered. "Yes, but—"

"The men worship him. He remembers their names, and their horses' names, looks after their comfort, shares out the loot fairly, never spares himself. They're Longdirk's men and proud of it. They swagger and strut like pigeons, and no one queries their right to do so. He's never lost once — siege, skirmish, or set-piece battle."

"But what sort of a person is he? Does he brag and swagger, too? Does he enjoy the killing?"

"Toby?" Hamish grinned. "Brag? He's the only man in Italy who still calls it the Don Ramon Company. He hides behind the don and tugs his forelock and runs circles around them all. He certainly doesn't enjoy killing. The only thing he hates more than war is the Fiend, who makes it necessary. He really tries not to shed blood. Take San Leo, for example. It was supposed to be impregnable. Ha! Two days after the condotta was signed, he went up a ladder in the middle of a rainy night with one companion and opened the gates for the Company. By the time the garrison woke up in the morning, the town was ours! That condotta only lasted a week."

"Who was the companion?"

"There's Carlo coming now. We can go on—"

"Who was the one companion?"

"It doesn't look like anyone's following you, I mean us. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"At San Leo? Who was the one companion?"

"Me," he admitted grumpily.

"Aha!"

He scowled. "I don't usually do such crazy things. I had to go with him because I'd seen a map of the town, that was all."

Master Campbell was being modest, which was a very odd trait in a man, but might be quite appealing once one got used to it. "Of course," she said. "And no one else ever had? I suppose during the Battle of Trent you sat in your tent the whole time reading a book?"

He shot her a worried look. "Lisa… don't!"

"Don't what?"

"Don't start getting ideas about… Oh, demons!" He stared straight ahead along the track and said nothing more.

"I was inquiring, Chancellor, what part you played in the Battle of Trent?"

He spoke to the fields. "A very small, very insignificant part. But I did ride in the Great Charge, when Toby led the cavalry against the guns and the demons were loosed. I saw little of it. I was much too busy trying to stay on my horse, and there was fire and smoke and thunder everywhere. Magazines blowing up… bodies flying through the air like starlings."

"Monsters?"

"Yes, there were monsters. My horse didn't much like running with dragons. But we had more monsters than they did. Then the Swiss pikemen came in on the right… That was awful. Nevil's troops were hexed, so they couldn't surrender."

"So Constable Longdirk does shed blood when he has to! Is it true that he's possessed by a demon?"

"Oh, look! Lambs! Isn't it amazing how early spring comes in Italy? Back in Scotland—"

"Did he really set the forest on fire at Trent?"

Hamish turned to look at her then. His face was grim. "Yes. He had our hexers do it, and that left us open to Schweitzer's demons, so we took heavy losses for a while, but nothing compared to what the fire did to the Fiend's troops later."

"You mean he'll roast an enemy army without a thought but won't dream of using a maiden in distress for political purposes?"

After a brief hesitation, Master Campbell said, "Yes."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Given that Italy was a morass of conspiracy and intrigue, it went without saying that there were spies everywhere, using the dark arts of gramarye or just the ears they were born with. Toby tried to make things as hard for them as he could, although he also assumed that anything he said or did would be promptly reported to his enemies or allies or both. He held important meetings in the courtyard, which was enclosed by walls of ancient Roman brick and shadowed by cypresses, fruit trees, and grapevine trellises. It could be entered by a gate from the orchard or a door from the villa itself, but only the hearing of a cat could eavesdrop on what was said there. Even so early in the year, when the vines were bare and the almond blossom had not yet exploded into spring glory, the air was often warm enough to do business out-of-doors. There he passed the day, struggling to recruit an army without actually spending money he did not yet possess.

Seven men defined the Don Ramon Company. The don had ridden off to do verbal battle with Benozzo and the rest of the dieci, and Hamish had not yet returned from Siena. Maestro Fischart was also absent, communing with demons in an effort to find the missing gold. The four who met around the mossy stone table that day were Antonio Diaz the marshal, Arnaud Villars the treasurer, Brother Bartolo the secretary — and High Constable Longdirk, whose duties were mysterious, even to him, although he knew the organization would fall apart without him.

"Twenty thousand men," he said. "At the moment we have…?"

"Three thousand and thirty-three," Arnaud growled. He was the one the other three thousand and thirty-two were threatening to hang if they were not paid soon.

Toby looked inquiringly to the marshal.

"Another four squadrons, no more," Diaz said — roughly six hundred men or about a hundred helmets. More men made the Company more difficult to manage efficiently, which was why Arnaud was nodding agreement, although he and Diaz rarely agreed on anything. To fulfill his condotta, the condottiere must subcontract other companies.

"Who else is good?" Toby asked, although he had a clear list in his head already, plus extensive notes Hamish had left him. Arnaud answered first.

"The Mad Dogs."

"Brucioli's too fond of marching." Diaz's face never showed his feelings. "They fight well if they get the chance, though."

"We'll give them the chance," Toby said. "How about the Red Band?"

The day flew by in argument and discussion, the men by turns sitting on the wooden stools or pacing around. Who was good, who unreliable? Who clashed with whom? Why hadn't so-and-so's band been signed up already?

Time and again Toby's mind slid back to the problem of the missing gold. It made no sense. Whoever the mysterious shadow was, why make an impossible mystery out of the crime? Why take one small bag and ignore all the rest? Why take any? Perhaps the unknown spy's purpose was merely to sow distrust. Now no one could feel completely safe or rely on anyone else.

"Fifteen lire a man won't buy many," Diaz was saying. "They all know there'll be no looting, and the cost of everything is going up like a bombard shot. Rosselli is asking a twenty-thousand-ducat signing bonus."

"Can't afford it. He's good but not that good."

How much silver for a man's life? How much gold for his honor? Ignoring gramarye, who might sell out for simple avarice? Any of these three?

Brother Bartolo? The friar was a wine tub of a man, rubicund face perpetually beaming, with only a faint fringe of silver around his tonsure, an Italian edition of Friar Tuck. During a memorable celebration after the Battle of Padua some very drunk young squires had found a steelyard and started laying bets on who weighed more, Longdirk in his battle gear or Bartolo in his gray Franciscan robe. Because those striplings had acquitted themselves like veterans that day, Toby had submitted to the indignity of being weighed. He had lost handily. Enormous Bartolo ran the secretariat with good humor and unfailing efficiency. Even now, as each decision was reached, he would poke two fingers in his mouth and emit a whistle louder than a bugle call. A clerk would come running out to hear the details and then run indoors to write the letter. Soon corrected drafts and fair copies were piling up, ready to be signed and sealed. Toby could not imagine life without the fat man to handle his endless correspondence.

Yet he knew almost nothing of the friar's past. Don Ramon had hired him to write some letters the day after reaching Italy, and that timing made it very hard to see Bartolo as a spy planted on the Company, because the Company had not even existed. He evaded his oaths of poverty and chastity by insisting that his wages be paid to his mistress and their rapidly increasing family, and a man who could bend his sworn word like that was not perfectly honest.

Who was? Certainly not Arnaud Villars, with his enormous black beard, his ferocious dark scowl, his well-checkered past. The first time Toby had met him, he had been running a profitable smuggling operation between Aquitaine and Navarre. After war had ruined business, they had run into each other in Barcelona — apparently by chance — and Toby had hired him on the spot. Without doubt Arnaud skimmed something off the payroll, so he had no reason to steal openly. Furthermore, it had been he who reported the loss. As quartermaster, he was astute enough to stay level with the Florentine suppliers, as paymaster he ran a personal army of clerks to keep track of what every man was owed in wages or what he still had to repay on his equipment if the Company had provided it, to assign fodder for his horse and record whose horse it was — and on and on. Toby got headaches even thinking about it. He had known Arnaud longer than anyone in the Company except Hamish. They had fought shoulder to shoulder in Navarre.

But? But why was the leopard curled up on the hearth-rug? Men of action rarely transformed themselves so willingly into quill-pushers. Maybe the old scoundrel was just starting to feel his age.

Diaz? The captain was a true professional, a soft-spoken imperturbable Catalan with a face carved from well-seasoned oak. It was he who had turned the Company into a fighting machine as fine as any in Italy. He recruited, outfitted, drilled, disciplined, and never complained or argued or displayed any facial expression whatsoever. He was a devout man, deeply troubled by the spiritual dangers of his chosen career. The Don Ramon Company would collapse without him. As far as trust went, he ranked right after Hamish Campbell.

Men were never simple. The don, who would die rather than blemish his precious honor, would lie like a horse trader to seduce a pretty girl, promising anything. Maestro Fischart's hatred for the Fiend knew no bounds whatsoever, but he spent his days and nights in the company of demons; he had been enthralled once and might be trapped again. Even Hamish, honest as the hills, was usually either aching from a broken heart or so starry-eyed in love that he blundered into doorposts.

Toby was shocked to realize that the shadows were growing longer already. An arrow took only seconds to flash across a field and end a man's life, but if you counted the year or longer needed to make the bow and the many years required to train the archer, then an arrow was a slow death. Similarly, a war might be settled in a single hard battle. It was preparing for war that took the time.

The don's appointment had become known in the city, and volunteers were reported at the gates. Diaz sent word that they should wait, even knowing that most would turn out to be runaway apprentices lacking even a horse.

They had run out of names at last. Toby arranged the letters in heaps — the good, the bad, the possible, the last resorts. He pulled out four. "Desjardins, if he is still available." According to yesterday's rumors, he had signed on with Naples. "Simonetta, D'Amboise, and della Sizeranne. We need those four."

Three heads nodded.

All four condottieri had wintered near Naples. The fastest mail was the service run by the Marradi Bank, which was efficient — so efficient that a copy of any letter he sent would undoubtedly arrive on the Magnificent's desk before the original left Florence — but message and response would still require at least ten days. If the offers were refused, that meant ten more days lost. A demon ride would be faster, but that option was not available to Toby himself, and he would not call for volunteers. What sort of man would risk his soul for a handful of gold? What sort of man would ask him? The Marradi mail it would have to be.

He threw the letters on the table and sat down to reach for the quill standing in its silver inkwell. "Let's send these ones on their way as soon as possible. Who's next?" Biting his tongue, he began penning his signature…

"There is one position you have not mentioned," Diaz said.

Toby looked up sharply, but the marshal's face was as scrutable as mud.

"Who?"

"Il comandante in capo."

"Ah!" He went back to signing the letters.

They were all waiting to tell him he was the logical choice for the supreme command, but that was just loyalty — they would say so if he had a crossbow bolt embedded in his forehead. Was he? Of the thousands of soldiers in Italy, many must know the country better than he did, although he had spent most of the last two years in the saddle, exploring it from the Tyrrhenian Sea to the Adriatic. Almost all would speak the language better, and most would have more experience. Who was he to take the fate of the peninsula on his shoulders? He should not try to judge his own abilities, because no man could be totally impartial about himself. All he knew for certain was that he wanted the job more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. Wasn't that the best possible reason not to get it?

He replaced the pen and looked around the three faces. "Not me. No, it's impossible, never mind why. I accept your support — it's very flattering, and I'm truly touched, but forget me. Who's the next best man for the job? Florence will want to have a candidate, and the captain-general's opinion should carry weight. Who's our man?"

He was a lousy liar. Their surprise turned at once to disbelief. Inevitably the treasurer and the friar looked to the soldier to answer the question.

"There isn't one," Diaz said heavily. "Mezzo's good, but Rome won't ever accept a Neapolitan. Venice can't trust Milan. And so on. If it isn't Florence, it'll have to be an outsider — Girolami of Pisa? Or Barrafranca? The Chevalier?"

After a moment's mutual repugnance, massive subterranean chuckles began to shake Brother Bartolo's soft bulk.

"What's amusing you?" Toby demanded.

The fat man shrugged doughy shoulders. "Last fall I asked messer Campbell why you were moving the Company to winter quarters at Fiesole instead of somewhere warmer. He would not admit that you hoped to succeed the late messer Vespucci as Captain-General of Florence, but he did not quite deny it either, so one night I introduced him to our excellent Chianti wines. Sometime after midnight, we agreed that Nevil must come from the north, so either Milan or Venice will be the first to feel his spite, but those two cities are ancient rivals, and neither will ever trust a capo whose first loyalty lies with the other. Temporary deafness when the cry for help went out would be just too much of a temptation!"

Arnaud was leering through the black thatch on his face. Even Diaz looked close to smiling. What matter if they thought it had been Hamish who devised that strategy?

"Furthermore, the admirable Campbell agreed that Milan and Venice can never trust Rome or Naples, because they're too far away and might not get here in time. Florence, though, is right in the middle and is too small to be a threat to any of the other four." The fat man beamed. "Sir Tobias, you do want the golden apple!"

"Of course he does," Arnaud growled. "And he earned it at Trent. He's a foreigner, so he has no local loyalties. He fights in ways the old generals don't understand. And he's the best anyway."

"Swiss won't serve under an Italian," Diaz added. "But they worship a man who once massacred a whole troop of German landsknechte single-handed."

Toby scowled. "That we shall not discuss, if you please!" He let a smile emerge. "Yes, I do want it. I want it so bad I wake up sweating. I think the politicians will accept Florence. How do I convince the soldiers to accept me?"

"They voted for you last time," Bartolo objected.

"Last time was a panic."

After everyone had observed a moment's polite hesitation, Diaz said, "Call a conclave of the captains-general and collaterali—in the don's name of course. Here in the villa: Alfredo from Venice, Mezzo or Gioberti from Naples, Villari from Rome, and from Milan… Ercole Abonio, although he'll probably send di Gramasci. When the big boys have accepted, you can invite some of the small fry — Genoa and so on. Wait until you have the Italians behind you before you involve the Swiss or the Tyroleans or the Savoyards."

That was certainly the ram-it-down-their-throats-and-damn-the-cannons approach to be expected from him, but even Hamish had devised no better plan in months of thinking about it.

The friar coughed gently: "?"

Toby raised an eyebrow. "Brother, we have eight elbows on the table and yours are the only Italian elbows, so I suppose we may allow you a word or two."

"Condottieri are touchier than prima donnas," Bartolo said sadly. "Every one of them wants to be the loudest rooster in the barnyard, and you are going to summon them here to a conclave? You think you're still capo, young man?"

"Demons!"

"Upstart foreign stripling! Cocksure, arrogant, little… no, perhaps not little, but—"

"I've gotten the gist. You're right!"

"Ha!" said Arnaud. "They may think that, but it won't stop them coming. None of them will stay away in case someone else gets chosen. But you don't hold the council here, my lad. Get Il Volpe to lend you one of his country houses and leave the rest to me."

Brother Bartolo scowled reprovingly. "Arnaud, is this some evil you learned in your nefarious import-export business?"

The former smuggler donned an expression of virginal innocence, although the effect was spoiled by his ogrish beard. "Evil? No, no! Merely generous hospitality, brother! You fill the house with the finest wine and food, plus many voluptuous, but properly reticent, maidens. You drag your guests out on arduous wild-boar hunts every day, postponing the crucial discussion until after dinner on the last night, when their bodies are limp from exhaustion, their wits are dulled by good cheer, and their hopes are inspired by the vulnerable maidens weeping at the prospect of their departure — believe me, they'll agree to anything to end the meeting and—"

"Impossible!" Don Ramon roared, striding into the courtyard and cutting off the laughter. "Pettifogging money-grubbers! Artisans, merchants, word-splitting advocates and bureaucrats! Republicans!" he howled, that being the worst obscenity he knew.

All the men scrambled to their feet. He hurled a bundle of papers onto the table and glared up at Toby with his coppery mustache writhing as it did only when he was close to homicidal. "You told me you had an agreement with Marradi!"

"I certainly thought I had. He made the Ten For War agree."

"Never mind the dieci! What about the podestà? What about the gonfalonier della giustizia, the buonomini, the priori, the consiglio del commune, the consiglio del popolo, and the seven wise monkeys?" Blue eyes blazed.

"The who?"

Eight hands grabbed for the papers, eight eyes scanned them. They were passed around. Demands, restrictions, impossible conditions — matters were much worse than before.

Bewilderment, dismay…

"Demons!" Toby said. "Someone explain!"

"Democrats!" howled the don.

Arnaud clawed at his beard with both hands. "I fear so, signore. Il Volpe is an autocrat in fact, but officially Florence is still ruled by a hierarchy of officials, committees, and infinitely detailed regulations. The dieci will do as he wants, but only when you have met their price." No one knew more about bribery than a smuggler.

Brother Bartolo waggled his chins from side to side in worried disagreement. "Marradi should have foreseen that problem. I wonder if there is worse spite involved? The Fiend must have agents in Florence, spreading poisons. Others certainly do. The cities have been feuding for centuries — that is a hard habit to break." He narrowed his piggy eyes. "And you have enemies of your own, Constable, men jealous of your success."

"The Fiend, yes," Toby protested, "but surely everyone else will set aside petty quarrels…" Then he remembered Lucrezia. Was it possible? Did she have enough power to balk him? So quickly? Wishing he had Hamish around to advise him, he looked to the one man who had not spoken. "Marshal?"

"Back in Barcelona," Diaz said with his customary impassivity, "in the Palau Reial we had a saying, 'The hand to watch is the hand of the king.'"

"Meaning?" the don barked.

"It means, Captain-General, that in Florence you should never turn your back on the Magnificent. Nothing happens here that he does not approve."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lisa's first view of Florence was from the high ground at the Porta San Piero Gattolino, with Hamish pointing out city landmarks as proudly as if he had built them all himself: the duomo, the various towers, gardens, and palaces. They descended the Via Romana to the Arno and crossed by the teeming Ponte Vecchio, which bore many busy stores, most selling meat and poultry. She admitted she had never seen a city bustle like this one and certainly none as clean, for the streets were paved with stone slabs; they had gutters and raised footpaths along each side. He showed her the Piazza della Signoria, with its astonishing statuary and soaring palaces, then the Old Market, where the noisy crowds were haggling over textiles and leatherwork and pottery set out on booths. She could tell from Carlo's amusement that he was sidetracking to let her see the sights, but she was in no especial hurry to be turned over to the ominous condottiere Longdirk.

The afternoon was heading for evening, and yet she was not at all weary — possibly because she had enjoyed a wonderful night's sleep. Hamish had stopped at an inn he knew and spared no expense, providing her with a room all to herself, which was an extraordinary extravagance when most travelers slept three or four to a bed.

They left Florence by the Porta Pinti, heading through fertile country toward the hills. Soon he was pointing out their destination, the camp of the Don Ramon Company, bright tents like jewels scattered over the hillside. All too soon her horse was pacing the muddy grass between them, and coarse men were hailing her companions in several languages, hooting at her, making loud comments about the bookworm having done a little looting and so on, very vulgar.

"They are insolent!" she said.

Hamish seemed not at all angry. "I'm sorry they're insulting you, my lady. To me, it's a form of respect. Two years ago they just ignored me. Ever since San Leo, I've been worthy of insult. You should hear them lipping Toby! They don't think much of book learning. I'm not good at the things they regard as important."

"You fought six men and—"

"With a rapier. To them, that's a toy. Battles are fought with pikes or guns or broadswords."

Louts! They were a chilling reminder of the sort of man who might have rescued her. And the women were a chilling sight, too — an astonishing number of women. Some might be wives, but most probably weren't. Many carried babies on their backs, and children ran wild everywhere. This raw city of tents was unlike any place she had ever seen, and she dared not think about the future awaiting her if she could not be reunited with her mother.

At the door of a strange complex of buildings, seemingly half fort and half farm, Hamish dismounted and lifted her down. Carlo took charge of the horses, beaming bashfully when she thanked him for his help on the journey. The interior was dim and cool, with tiled floors and tiled ceilings; delicious odors of cooking made her mouth water. There were more women, more children, and more lewd greetings, more laughter.

The women's banter upset Hamish much more than the men's had. Scowling and tight-lipped, he hurried her through the building and out to a small enclosed courtyard, paved with mossy flagstones and partly roofed with trellises for vines. Two men were sitting at a massive stone table. They looked up at the interruption. Then the young one rose.

Hamish had mentioned that Longdirk was big, but he did not seem so at first. When she reached him, she realized that his breadth concealed his height. He was big in all directions. No one could ever describe him as handsome, for his face was all heavy bone — big jaw, brows like gables. Had she seen him in the street without his sword, she would have assumed from the size of his shoulders that he was a blacksmith or a woodcutter — unless she had noticed the penetrating brown eyes, which were appraising her now with worrisome concentration.

Golden hair was rare in Italy, but she had her head covered, and her clothes were nondescript and inconspicuous. Yet the giant was either very perceptive or an excellent guesser; he addressed her in English even before Hamish spoke.

"Your servant, ma'am." Bow. He moved gracefully for his size. His voice was a rumbling bass.

"I am truly honored to meet the famous Constable Longdirk." Curtsey.

The other man struggled belatedly to his feet, looking much like an old beggar, wrinkles and wild white hair, or perhaps some sort of crazy prophet. His eyes were certainly mad enough, staring at her. When Hamish named him as Doctor Fischart, she realized that this was the erstwhile Baron Oreste, the notorious hexer. He did not speak, so she ignored him.

She took the stool Hamish indicated and folded her hands in her lap. He pulled another up alongside her, comfortingly near, while the adept and condottiere settled themselves on the far side of the table. The expectant pause began to drag, as if Hamish were at a loss for words, for it was obviously up to him to speak first.

Longdirk said, "Perhaps we should order in some wine in celebration?"

"Celebration of what?" Hamish snapped. "Are you jumping to conclusions again?" His petulance surprised her. Was he nervous, too?

The big man grinned. "Not a one. I'm going to be very interested to hear what the correct conclusions are. You look like a retriever that's just brought in a phoenix. You're hiding something, my lad, something big."

Lisa took a hard look at Master Campbell without detecting any resemblance to a retriever.

"Don't be so vulgar," he said. "Listen. I was minding my own business in Siena on Carnival Night when I chanced upon some bravos molesting a lady. I used my guarddemon to rescue her. Then I introduced myself."

"How astonishing," Longdirk muttered. He flashed Lisa a grin that she found hard not to return. "Then he gave you a long lecture on Egyptian pottery, I presume? Or underwater Gregorian chanting?"

Hamish scowled. "This is serious! I had unwittingly put her in considerable difficulty, because my demon had moved us to another part of town. Having only recently arrived in Siena, she did not know the way back to her residence." (That was a very charitable way of explaining her predicament, Lisa decided.) "Moreover, it was obvious that the thugs had been looking for her specifically, and one of them was certainly a hexer."

The big man's hands closed into fists. "Gonzaga?"

"Probably. He was masked. In the circumstances, Lady Lisa agreed to accompany me back here. I sent word to Landolfo, telling him to try and locate her mother and inform her that her daughter was safe. That's all."

The big man studied him for a moment, then laughed. He had a very big laugh, to match his size. "That's a start. The rest of the camel is still outside the tent, but it'll come. May I inquire your mother's name, my lady?"

"Maud, Countess of Ely," Hamish said. He glanced uneasily at the ugly old hexer. "We must find suitable quarters and a suitable companion for Lady Lisa. Sister Bona, perhaps? A lady's maid, too. I fear her reputation may suffer if this tale gets out."

"I fear more than that," Longdirk growled. "I am at your service, ma'am. Your companion's keeping something from us, I think."

"And from me also, Constable. Is he always so elliptical?"

The condottiere grinned. "He's usually more egg-shaped. It's getting chilly, but let's stay out here a little longer, because it's one place we can't be overheard."

"Whatever you wish," Lisa said. Her hand was entwined with Hamish's, although she did not recall that happening. He had never mentioned anyone called Gonzaga to her.

Longdirk took a hard look at the bizarre old man, who had never taken his mad eyes off her. Longdirk was well aware of that. "Maestro, would you care to comment?"

"Blanche!"

Hamish must have felt her start, and Longdirk certainly noticed it.

"That name means something to you, my lady?"

"No. Nothing at all. I don't know anyone called Blanche. Why should I? Nobody called Blanche."

The hexer's mouth writhed as if chewing something unpleasant. "You have never heard your mother addressed as Blanche?"

"My mother's name is Maud! My father was the third Earl of Ely and was put to death by the Fiend. Mother fled from England with me many years ago and has traveled extensively."

"I'm sure she has," Longdirk said, his rumbling bass voice sounding surprisingly soft. It was hard to reconcile his gentle manner with the ferocious warrior of the stories, but he was obviously clever, dangerously clever.

Hamish's grip on her hand grew almost painful. "Toby, stop badgering her! She's had a terrible experience and been extremely brave. She must be exhausted after the ride, and she needs some decent quarters and a servant and some proper clothes and—"

"In good time, my friend. Let's talk about Blanche." He turned those cavernous eyes on Lisa again.

She pulled her hand loose from Hamish's grip. Obviously he wanted her out of the way before he discussed whatever it was that needed to be discussed — something everyone but she seemed to have ideas about. Somehow Longdirk had become her ally.

"Perhaps…" she said. "I mean, I may have heard Mother addressed as Blanche once or twice. She has used several names in our travels. I don't recall her ever calling herself Blanche, though."

"You are extraordinarily like her," the old baron croaked.

Longdirk folded his big arms, pleased and satisfied. "Tell us a story, Maestro!"

"Can't it wait?" Hamish begged. "She's had a long, tiring journey on top of—"

"It's too serious to wait. Let's get it out."

The old man laid his hands on the table and bowed his head. "My lady… I will call you that. I was a scholar at Wittenburg and later Oxford, a man of some repute. One of my pupils was the third and youngest son of the King of England. He was a quiet, studious boy, with no expectations of succeeding to the throne. His ambitions lay more in the field of—"

"Why don't you go straight to the famous Night of the Masked Ball?" Longdirk said.

The old man did not look up. "She does not know as much as you do. Although Nevil wanted to be a scholar, he was still a prince, and princes have dynastic responsibilities. King Edwin made a treaty and backed it up by marrying his youngest son to Princess Blanche of Jutland. She was sixteen, he was eighteen. They had no say in the matter and nothing in common, absolutely nothing. She was a foolish child, caring only for glittering balls and fine clothes, scorning his studies in the spiritual arts as unbecoming to royalty. Nevil sired a child on her, which was his duty, but he had lost his heart to a woman named Valda, a hexer of considerable ability. Valda persuaded him to return to court, and Princess Blanche was packed off to a remote country house to bear his child. Very soon Nevil's two brothers died, and then the king himself."

"Murdered by Valda?" Longdirk asked softly.

"Undoubtedly. Nevil was king, and now Blanche was queen, but she remained at Highcross with her daughter, Princess Elizabeth."

"Who was born when?"

"In 1509—May or thereabouts."

This was unbelievable! Lisa bit her lip and did not look up, although she could feel them all staring at her. Hamish had hold of her hand again and was squeezing it.

"And you?" Longdirk asked.

"I was called to court," the baron said hoarsely, "a summons I dared not refuse. Nevil installed me in the palace and gave me every facility to continue my studies. I saw that Valda was leading him into very dangerous realms of conjuration. I warned him repeatedly, but he was so besotted by her that he would not listen, and undoubtedly she was using gramarye on him. My efforts to break her enchantments failed because she was invoking demons more powerful than any I dared employ. I was certain that she planned to murder Queen Blanche in time. The baby would have died, too — Valda was utterly without scruple. The entire court was terrified of her." He sighed. "Including me. But I did manage to foil a few of her plans, and thus she saw me as her enemy. My influence with Nevil sank even lower."

"The Night of the Masked Ball?" Longdirk persisted.

"Valda had obtained an ancient and famous — infamous — demon by the name of Rhym, immured in a yellow diamond. It was hideously strong, and the conjuration was faulty. Several hexers had perished trying to use it. I begged both of them not to tamper with it, but Valda saw it as the key to her ambitions. With Rhym's power she could rip away the web that I and some others were trying to weave between her and the king. On the Night of the Masked Ball, Valda and Nevil attempted to conjure Rhym and the demon broke free. It took possession of him. How Valda managed to escape, I never dared ask him."

Lisa glanced at Hamish, then looked away quickly. That the Fiend was a demonic husk was a common belief, but this old man was claiming firsthand knowledge. Lisa — Elizabeth? Blanche — Maude? Scurrilous rubbish, surely, and yet it would explain some terrible mysteries.

The old man's voice creaked on. "I was not present, but I was close enough to detect what had happened. I fled from the court at once, not even changing my clothes. I rode alone through the night to Highcross and broke the news to the queen. By dawn she was on a ship bound for France." He raised his head for the first time and met Lisa's horrified stare. "You are very, very like her, child. When you stepped out through that doorway, my heart almost stopped."

"But—"

"Wait!" Longdirk raised a hand. "Finish your own tale, Maestro."

The hexer shrugged, although in the gathering dark his black-robed shoulders were almost invisible. White hair and beard and eyes like caves—"I went back to court to see if there was anything I could do. I had some slight hope that it might have been Valda who had been possessed, you see, although I should have guessed that Rhym was clever enough to make the better choice. Whichever of the two had survived must still know the conjuration, so I had hopes that, with my help, the demon might be immured again."

"You were courageous."

"I was a fool. Rhym enslaved me at once. I served that monster diligently for many, many years, until you released me, and for that I curse you, because I can never be free of the guilt my crimes have—"

"You bear no guilt, old man, as I tell you every day and as Montserrat told you. Your Highness?"

Longdirk was addressing her with that terrible title! She shook her head violently.

"It fits, Princess," he said. "It fits! No one ever knew what happened to the missing Queen of England. Obviously Nevil would want to destroy her, for that is how demons think, and destroy you also, because you represent some small danger to him. He has wiped out all the royal houses of Europe for much less cause. You are the right age, are you not?"

"It is a sad tale, sir," she muttered, "but nothing to do with me."

Yet her heart was telling her that it must be true, that Mother was not crazy at all with her endless flitting from place to place, staying away from the frontier as the Fiend steadily pushed it south and eastward, depending on friends originally, perhaps, but soon on strangers, loyalists who would shelter her and her child for a few months and then pass her on to others. Until in Siena the pursuers had closed in, two nights ago. Hamish had worked it out and not told her.

"Lisa…" he said. "I mean, 'Your Highness.' No, it isn't 'Your Highness' either, is it? We know that the King of England is a demonic creature, not human. He's legally dead, so you—"

"No, no!" This was worse!

"I'm afraid so — Your Majesty. Your true father died years ago, so you mustn't feel that the Fiend's atrocities have anything to do with you. We know a few of his agents in Italy, men bound to obedience as the baron here once was. We watch them carefully, and when one of them suddenly traveled to Siena, I followed to try and find out what he was up to. I enlisted some men to keep an eye on him. Now I know what he was up to, don't I?"

"Mother? Looking for Mother?"

"Yes, but looking for you even more." His voice sank to a whisper. "You are rightful Queen of England."

It was Longdirk who broke the terrible silence, his voice deep and smooth as a river. "That's not something to worry about today. You're safe here, my lady, but your mother is still in very grave danger. You don't know exactly where the house is? Maestro, what can you do? Can you locate her?"

For what seemed like a very long time the old man stared down at the table and the sparkling jewels adorning his ugly, clawlike fingers. At last he muttered, "No. I don't see any way at all. How close to the girl was Gonzaga?"

"He had his filthy hands on her," Hamish said grimly. "And for that he ought to die several times."

"If he had achieved that much two nights ago, he will surely have found Blanche by now."

"You risked your life to warn her once, old man! So you told us. Are you too old to do it again?"

The hexer looked up sharply, glared at him, then seemed to shrink into his black robe like a frightened turtle. "She knows I was bespelled. Just the sight of me will frighten her to death."

"That would be a merciful end compared to what Nevil would do to her. We must try to rescue her." Hamish slapped the table.

"Oh, must we?" Fischart sprayed spit in his indignation. "Well, it isn't possible. Unless the girl can direct us to the house, we'd need a whole legion of demons to search the city. The tutelary would never allow it."

"Flames! Lisa, I would go if I could do any good. And so would Maestro Fischart, if there was any way. Wouldn't you, Maestro?"

The old man shrugged. "Yes. But there isn't."

Hamish turned to Lisa, and she was shocked to see that he was smirking. "You have that kerchief?"

So now he would deign to tell her what the importance of the scarf was! She fumbled at her neck for it. He took it and spread it out for the others to see — a square of cheap cotton, not silk, ruined by two holes.

"She made a mask for Carnival. Lisa, I am presuming that you did this in your mother's house? Where are the pieces you cut out?"

Apparently he was serious. "On the floor of my room, I suppose. Frieda may have picked them up and burned them by now, or thrown them out with the trash."

Hamish cocked his head at the adept. "Two days ago? There should be enough residual propinquity for gramarye to locate the part from the whole, shouldn't there?"

"Oh, so now we have another hexer in the Company do we?" The adept was not amused.

Longdirk was, and suppressed a grin.

"Just trying to be helpful." Hamish thought he had been clever, but gramarye was a dangerous business to meddle with.

"If the scraps have been burned, it won't work," Maestro Fischart growled.

"Of course not. But if they're under the bed or out in the gutter?"

"Yes," he admitted, baring his teeth. "But have you any idea what you're asking? Suppose I just provide the demons and let you go alone?" Was that merely anger he was showing, or fear as well?

Hamish shrugged. "Teach me, and I'll try. We must be quick."

"How risky?" Longdirk demanded.

"Very!" Fischart wrung his hands a few times. "Suicide for him if he goes alone. Together we'll have a chance."

This was what Hamish had foreseen all along. This was why he had wanted Lisa out of the way when he spoke to his friends. Demons did terrible things to people — tortured them, maimed them, ate their souls.

"You must not!" she said. "Not if it's dangerous."

"I'm afraid they must," Longdirk told her. "Any risk is worth taking to save your mother from falling into Nevil's hands."

She had not heard him volunteering! "I'll come with you."

"No you won't," Hamish said, with none of the respect due a queen. "I had to work too hard to get you out the first time." He added a smile, but it died young. "Tonight, Baron?"

"Don't call me that. If it's possible. Late… preparations…" Mumbling, the hexer heaved himself upright as if to leave, but his shoulders stayed bowed. He wrung his hands. "Come to the adytum now, and we'll do a divination. No use trying it if it's hopeless." He was older than she had realized.

"Wait." Longdirk rose also, which was a different matter — he dominated the courtyard. "Hamish, who else knows about Her Majesty?"

"Carlo and Rinaldo know that she's an English lady in distress. But a thousand people saw us ride in together."

The big man nodded. "My lady, we must keep your identity a secret — which is just about impossible in this country. Hamish?"

"You're Mistress Lisa Campbell, my little sister," Hamish retorted, speaking as if reciting something he'd memorized. "In 1519, just before I left Scotland, you were fostered out to our aunt Meg. That's not uncommon for Highland families with too many children. Meg moved to the Continent under circumstances you may decline to discuss. Two years ago she placed you with the Countess of Ely as lady's maid. The countess was visiting relatives in Nice, and when she heard you had a brother in Florence, she decided to visit Italy." He smiled, and she wondered what he was reading on her face. "You don't have to run round the camp telling this tale to everyone. You may never need to use it, but now it's there if you do. We'll work out the rest of the details later." When he was pleased with himself, it showed.

"Yes, sir."

Longdirk said, "Ma'am, you are quite safe here at the moment, but if word gets out that you are the Queen of England, then I don't know what will happen."

"I doubt if anyone would believe it, because I don't." She did not like this oversize warrior. In spite of his gentle manner, he was too much a bull in a pasture, lording over everyone — bulls were slow and quiet until they began pawing the turf. He frightened her, and she was quite convinced that he would use her politically if he ever got the chance, no matter what Hamish had said.

She jumped as the condottiere's sword flashed out from its scabbard. He stepped around the end of the table and dropped to one knee. Even then, his eyes were little lower than hers.

"Your Majesty, I cannot admit that you are Queen of Scotland. And my first loyalty is to the Republic of Florence. Excepting those two caveats, I pledge my life and honor in your service as rightful Queen of England." He kissed the blade.

Well! Maybe she had misjudged him. No knight had ever pledged his sword to her before. It must be time for her to wake up and the dream to end, but until it did she could only play her part. She responded with what she hoped was a regal nod. "I am honored to accept your allegiance, Constable Longdirk." She did not rise as the giant strode out, with the hexer shuffling alongside him. When they had gone, she risked a sideways glance at Hamish, not sure whether to grin or stay solemn.

He was watching her with an oddly wistful expression. "I'm sorry."

"It was a bit of a shock." Was that the understatement of the millennium or just of the sixteenth century?

"I wasn't sure, truly I wasn't — not until I saw how the baron stared at you. I didn't know he knew your mother." But he had probably guessed that it was likely. Master Campbell was creepily well informed about almost everything.

"Next time warn me, will you?"

He laughed and clasped her hand in both of his. "Tomorrow I hail you as Sultana of the Turks. Tuesday afternoon you become Empress of Cathay. Believe me, you're safer here with Longdirk than with anyone, truly!"

It was odd to be sitting so close when they were the only people in the courtyard. "Safer with you!" she said, and suddenly she had her arms around him and his arms were around her, crushing her. A bristly cheek brushed hers; her lips turned to his. He was a friend, the only one she had or had ever had, a true, trustworthy friend, and now he was going to leave her and return to Siena, go into danger—

"Oh, demons!" Hamish let go and leapt to his feet, tripping against his stool and almost overbalancing. "Lisa, we mustn't!"

"Mustn't what?"

"Fall in love! I've been there, Lisa, I know the feeling. We must stop! You're a queen, and I'm a nothing."

"Oh!" she said. Oh, demons!

He should have warned her about that sooner.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"This is as close as I want to come," Toby said. "Good luck. Take care."

He was a massive, indeterminate shape in the starlight, but on those words he would have held out a hand to shake. Hoping his own was not too shamefully sweaty on this chilly evening, Hamish reached for it, found it, and endured the familiar forceful squeeze. An owl hooted derisively, sweeping overhead on silent wings.

"I always take care."

"Not so I ever noticed." Longdirk's tone deepened, grew more serious. "Are you sure you want to go through with this? You think Fischart is crazy. Do you want to trust him on a demon ride?"

Sure? The only thing Hamish was sure of was that if he could think of a way out of tonight's escapade, he would cheerfully give up his wisdom teeth to take it — they obviously weren't doing him any good. He'd done his share of roughhousing in the past and even slain some worthy opponents, but he preferred the pen to the sword. Derring-do was not his style.

"I've done demon rides before."

"You've also experienced a broken jaw and being run through with a sword, and you told me those were more fun."

True, but alas, he had promised the lovely Lisa he would tread this measure for her, and the music was about to start. "I didn't say the maestro's crazy. I just said I can't think how anyone else could have taken that gold."

Toby grunted. "You're a stubborn idiot, you know that? A pretty girl smiles at you, and you roll over like a puppy every time."

"I like getting my belly rubbed. We'll be back before dawn." He hoped.

"Good spirits be with you."

They were more likely to be against him tonight, if one included the guardians of Siena. Hamish turned quickly and strode off along the gloomy path toward the ghostly chink of light that marked his destination. Why, why, why had he made that crass remark about belly rubbing? No girl would ever rub Toby's.

Only the adept himself willingly went near the adytum, which crouched like a hunting cat among gloomy cypresses. Some parts were of Roman brick, others of massively thick stonework, all with squinty little window slits, but whatever the building's long history, it had recently been refurbished, and the tiled roof was solid and weatherproof. Even in summer it would stay cool; at midnight in February it had no trouble raising gooseflesh all over Master Hamish Campbell. So did the two horses tethered near the door. He gave them a wide berth.

He clattered the latch instead of knocking, and the hinges screamed like a witness on the rack. The only light inside was a solitary candle on the worktable at the far end, where Maestro Fischart stood, bent over a thick tome. He looked up with a scowl as his visitor approached.

"So the scholar turns hero? Rescuing the girl herself wasn't enough for you. Now you want to rescue her mother as well? Overcome with gratitude, she'll swoon helpless into your manly arms."

"She can swoon into yours all she wants, if you mean the countess. Lisa's enough of an armful for me." Hamish did not care for Maestro Fischart, essential though he was to the Company. He was undoubtedly crazy to some extent, the only question being how much.

Tugging his cloak tighter around him, Hamish looked around for a place to sit. His teeth very much wanted to chatter, and although he could blame the cold for that, chattering did not suit the role of knight-errant. The two spindly chairs bore teetering towers of books, and the plank bed was so piled with scrolls, boxes, anonymous bundles, and old clothes that its owner must be presumed to sleep on the floor. More litter lay on the two ironbound chests that contained the hexer's equipment and accompanied him everywhere he went. Glass vials and alembics cluttered a third, which was larger and stronger, the Company's strongbox.

The hexer squawked with derision and slammed the book closed, swirling dust up like smoke from the littered table. "You're mad, boy! You lust after the rightful Queen of England!"

That slash drew blood. Of course any thought of romance with Lisa was unthinkable, but that wasn't keeping Hamish from thinking about it. He'd been in love before, but this time felt different. Didn't every time feel different? Even more different. He had never met a girl like Lisa — haughty, learned, and courageous, and yet witty, naive, and appallingly vulnerable. Two days with her had set his wits so a-spin that the jeer made his temper boil.

"You were never young, were you? That dramatic ride to Highcross you told us about was prompted by nothing more than concern for the public weal? And tonight — hose, doublet, jerkin, cloak? My! What inspired you to discard that stinking robe at last? Want to look presentable to a lady, do you? Renewing an old romance? Playing gentleman? Haven't seen you wear a sword since Spain."

Fischart straightened. "Your ill temper is a sure sign of nervousness. Are you having second thoughts about this madcap escapade?"

Sudden caution. "Should I have second thoughts? What did you learn?"

The earlier divinations had given ambiguous results, and the hexer had promised to make further tests. Augury was always inexact, because no demon or spirit could foresee the future, but a skilled adept could learn whether his personal aspect was in positive or negative mode. Only an idiot would undertake a dangerous venture when the currents were set against him.

Fischart sighed. "The answers were no clearer. If anything less clear." He eyed Hamish for a moment, then dropped his gaze to the table and began shuffling objects around aimlessly. "Shadow. All I find is shadow."

"What shadow? Whose shadow?"

"The thief's. Longdirk tell you about the missing gold?"

"Of course."

"He hid himself with gramarye," the hexer mumbled. "My watchers didn't see him, but they saw his shadow." His hands continued to fidget as if playing a dozen chess games.

"You're sure it was a man's shadow?"

"No, but tonight my aura has that same shadow across it!"

Because it was his own shadow. He had contrived the theft himself for no sane reason. Lots of hexers went crazy. Consort with demons long enough and sooner or later you wouldn't know your armpit from an anthill. Fischart's gnawing guilt made him an obvious candidate for the chaos chorus.

"Across mine, too?"

"No, not yours."

"Then you stay here, and I'll go alone." That was sheer braggadocio. Hamish could not possibly handle the powers required. His new and untried agents in Siena had almost no chance of finding the countess by material means. In fact their bumbling inquiries were more likely to attract the signory's attention and thus drag her farther into danger. If the Fiend's minions had not already located her, the only practical way to find her was with gramarye. Coursing was tricky enough with dogs and with demons would be a roll in a snake pit. So he needed the hexer, and there could be no delay, for the propinquity of the severed kerchief must be fading fast.

"No. I'll come." The old man held out a hand. "Give me back Corte."

Hamish removed his ring. "Why can't I keep it for tonight?"

"Because it is conjured to whip you out of the way of any serious danger. Tonight you have to stay and enjoy it." Fischart dropped the guarddemon in a small casket of ivory and closed the lid. That box was familiar. Toby and the don had worked some real wonders with it once, including saving Hamish's life. He saw several things he recognized in the dust-coated litter on the table, but others were disturbingly strange — a furred hand with too many fingers, a lump of rock crystal containing what looked like golden feathers, a tortoise in a bottle, a basket holding embers that still glowed with worms of red fire and yet did not burn the basket, a small, brownish skull with teeth that were definitely not human…

"Have you ever considered becoming a hexer?"

Hamish looked up with an angry retort ready on his lips and was taken aback by the Fischart's pasty smile. The adept's humor was usually mocking, but this time he seemed almost wistful, and something like sincerity might be lurking in the rheumy eyes. That smile and the question were equally disconcerting.

Of course he had. Anyone who enjoyed books and learning as much as he did must at some time consider taking up the spiritual arts, and that was especially true in Italy, for almost every adept in Europe had spent time at the Cardinal College in Rome. Hexers, acolytes serving the spirits in shrines or tutelaries in sanctuaries — almost all were graduates of the College, and so were many of the Khan's shamans. The College would not willingly train a hexer, so only members of religious orders were accepted as students, and only by swearing fearful oaths could anyone join such an order, whatever he or she might do with the learning in later life.

"Too dangerous for me," Hamish said. "I'd rather keep on following Toby around and watching him rattle the world." Besides, the training took years, and its requirements included poverty, chastity, and obedience. Nothing much wrong with poverty or obedience, but chastity was altogether too plentiful already. No wonder adepts went crazy. Who would ever want to become anything like this cobwebby, memory-tortured old mummy?

"I see," said the mummy drily. "I have demonized the horses. Yours is named Westlea."

"It understands English?"

"It understands my English. What you call English is not what the English do. It knows Latin. I have also prepared two rings for you. Lupus will bring you back here the moment you utter the word 'Panoply.'"

"One word? Is that safe?"

The hexer's customary sneer returned. "No. And be warned — I have worded my edicts as carefully as I know how, but Lupus has a sense of humor. If you happen to be clutching a doorframe when you pronounce the word, it may rip your hand off. Or bring the house, too, and drop it on top of you."

"Charming! Is that possible? A house?"

"Perhaps not, but Lupus is an exceptionally powerful demon."

Gulp! Exceptionally powerful and a one-word leash? Dangerous! But if gramarye could flash him back here from Siena with one word, why did he have to endure a demon ride to get there? The mummy was waiting for him to ask. Hamish rummaged through his knowledge of gramarye in search of an answer and saw that Lupus could be assigned a specific target for the return — here — but there was no way to define an equally safe destination in Siena. Given any leeway at all, a demon would drop him in fire, open water, a cesspool, anything to cause pain and adversity.

"Tell me about the other one."

"The other is Zangliveri, and you must wear it on your sword hand. If we meet with any trouble, point your blade at it and say, 'Vestige.' The target will be destroyed."

"Destroyed? People, too?"

"Certainly."

The ethics of murder were troubling enough without wondering how the tutelary would react to strangers slaughtering people with gramarye. It might let them get away with killing other strangers, as long as they left its flock alone — or it might not. "You play for high stakes, Maestro."

"There can be no higher stakes than these."

"Is Zangliveri as strong as Lupus?"

"Stronger. You should be able to open paths through stone walls with Zangliveri."

Hamish nodded and cleared his throat, which felt strangely dry, as if he were starting a cold. "Panoply for a fast getaway, Vestige to strike dead."

Fischart stared at him sourly. "You need to practice them again, or may I open the casket now?"

"I think I've got it."

"Good. I'd hate Zangliveri to turn the floor under your feet into an inferno." He opened the box and lifted out two rings of gold. One bore a blue stone, and the other a black. "Zangliveri. And Lupus."

"Pleased to meet you, Your Maleficences." Hamish slid them onto fingers of his right hand. They went on readily enough, then became painfully tight, but that was just the demons playing tricks. A demon would vent its hatred in any evil it could get away with, which might be plenty when it was held by a mere one-word conjuration. "What's the plan?"

Toby defined a plan as "The least likely sequence of events."

Fischart came around the end of the table. "You ride to Siena, and I follow. We release the steeds, locate Her Maj… the countess… if we can, and thereafter proceed according to our judgment and the turn of events." He had at least a dozen rings sparkling on his fingers — how many of them had been pre-conjured to react to a single word like Zangliveri and Lupus? The man was a walking powder keg.

Panoply, Hamish thought. Panoply. Vestige and panoply. What are we waiting for?

The adept wrung his hands. "I am very reluctant to use my skills against innocent men, Master Campbell. I am not as agile as I was, either. So, while I believe I can handle any gramarye Gonzaga is capable of applying against us and can probably distract the tutelary long enough for our purposes, I shall rely on your reflexes and keen eye if we meet with mortal resistance."

It was a nasty shock to realize that the celebrated hexer was as scared as he was. "Fear not!" Hamish proclaimed. "I am dauntless as a cornered rat unless I have time to think. Let's go." He headed for the door. The nauseating knot of apprehension in his belly went with him.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Hamish untethered the first demon steed and held its head while Fischart mounted. The brutes looked wrong for horses, acted wrong, smelled wrong, and their hate-filled eyes glowed faintly in the dark. He approached the other carefully, alert for iron-shod hooves and demon teeth that could rip chunks out of a man's flesh, but the hexer must have bound the Westlea demon well, for he was able to mount without trouble. Then he let go the reins and folded his arms. That was a point of honor for a demon rider, because in his terror he might seriously injure the horse's mouth. It was also rank bravado, but only a maniac would attempt this anyway.

"Ready, Maestro?"

"Ready, lad." The hexer's voice was a croak — comforting! "Pivkas, I bid you bear me after Westlea, going unseen."

Hamish wet his lips. "Westlea, I bid you bear me southward, passing east of Florence, going unseen. Go!"

The horse leaped into a place of demons, taking him with it. The first time he had ridden a demon steed, he had screamed for what felt like a solid hour, although in fact he had returned to reality after only a few minutes. Men had been known to go crazy, or faint and fall off, forever lost. One never knew what to expect, except that it would be torment and nightmare. In this case he rode beneath a sky of liquid black, devoid of sun, moon, or stars, and yet there was light of a sort, for the earth was visible from horizon to horizon, barren rock and ash bereft of shadows or color. Buildings were ruined, roofless, and tumbledown. People? There were no people as people, but vague glows writhed here and there like tormented wraiths trying to crawl up out of the soil, wailing appeals as the demon steeds thundered by them. If that was speech they were attempting, it was drowned by the discordant howl of a wind that stirred eye-nipping clouds of dust and once in a while peppered his face with sand. Blasts of feverish heat alternated with skin-freezing cold, both of them bringing rank, repulsive stenches.

He risked a glance behind him and shuddered. All he could see of the hexer was a skeleton astride a skeleton horse. Bones and metal — horseshoes and dagger, boot buckles and coins in a belt pouch. Conversation was impossible in the shrieking wind, but he decided that the old man was coping. His arm bones hung down in front of him, so he must be hanging on to the pommel of his saddle. That seemed like a good idea. Hamish could not see his own saddle, but he could feel it and cling to it. He tried not to look at his own bones or the sword dangling unsupported at his side. The gale tugged at his invisible cloak.

Florence was a ruin and an ancient one, as it might look a hundred years after the Fiend had sacked it, all crumbling walls and hills of rubble. He reminded himself that demons could not prophesy, and it was obvious that a pillar of light marked the sanctuary and lesser glows shone from the many shrines, defying the demonic illusion. To look at them hurt Hamish's eyes. He was not in a state of grace at the moment.

He could not, would not, stand this torment for very long. Coughing at the grit and filth in his mouth, he shouted, "Westlea, I bid you go faster!" A few moments later he repeated the command. Now the demon steed hurtled over the nightmare landscape like a stooping hawk. It crossed the dry bed of the Arno in three or four leaps and raced up the hills beyond. Had the demon world been ruled by the same laws as the world of mankind, it would have left a dust cloud a league long.

The baron was still with him. Either the old mummy was tougher than he looked or he had reinforced himself with some gramarye that he had not offered to Hamish. Either way—

"Westlea, I bid you go faster!"

Now the drum of hooves blended into a roar, like rain. The eldritch scenery rushed by in a blur. Southward he flew over the Chianti Hills, past Impruneta, Greve, and Castellina, retracing his journey of the last two days in a tiny fraction of that time. It just felt longer.

He came at last to a demonized vision of Siena, but the spirits burned there as bright as in Florence and would not take kindly to demons within their domain. Hamish halted Westlea in a field just outside the city wall. Then the air was sweet again, the stars shone above living trees. He bade his steed stand absolutely still and leaped to the ground. He shouted the same command to Pivkas — glad that he had remembered its name — and caught Fischart as he tumbled from the saddle.

A few minutes' rest on the grass, and the old man had recovered enough to start being unpleasant again, berating Hamish for the pace he had set.

"You may enjoy that; I don't," Hamish retorted. "You could have made the cursed thing go more slowly if you wanted. Now get rid of these incarnates before the tutelary blasts all of us!"

Muttering, the hexer clambered to his feet and spoke his commands, immuring the demons back in their jewels. Then the horses were only horses, whinnying with alarm at finding themselves where they had not been before. Hamish tied their reins up out of harm's way, loosened their saddle girths, and left them as a pleasant surprise for some lucky Sienese. His hands had almost stopped shaking. Whatever happened now, the worst of the night was over.

"The scarf," said the hexer. "You hold one end, let me have the other."

Hamish pulled out Lisa's kerchief, felt the maestro grip it also, heard a single guttural word, Halstuch!.. and waited, shuffling from one foot to the other.

"What's happening?"

"El Bayahd's looking for the rest of it."

Searching the whole city? Every cesspit, every slop bucket? And what, pray, were the tutelary and its kindred spirits up to while these intruders disturbed the peace with exhibitions of gr—

The night exploded around him as the demon snatched him away.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Silence. Gasp for breath…

He stood beside Fischart, with his feet on mud and his nose almost touching the back of a coach. Beetling eaves showed high overhead against a sky just starting to think about dawn. A horse whinnied shrilly and jangled harness, as if it sensed the demon's passage, but no human voice was raised in alarm. Hooves stamped impatiently, clumping and clopping on stone. A man cursed, making Hamish's hand tighten on the hilt of his sword.

Someone very rich must be arriving or departing, for the carriage was no dainty gig for a jaunt to market but a lumbering shed on wheels that almost filled the roadway and would need a full team of eight. The voice had come from the side, probably a flunky waiting by the footboard. He must have been speaking to someone and there might well be another man holding the horses, possibly a driver on the box as well. Hamish abandoned his hopes that this escapade would involve nothing more vigorous than a tap on a lady's chamber door and a graceful bow as he was presented by her old friend Karl Fischart. Activities more strenuous now seemed imminent.

He leaned around the tall rear wheel to peek along the gap between coach and wall. He saw a bright streak where a house door stood ajar, a protruding footboard directly opposite it, and beyond both of those, two men silhouetted against the glow of lanterns on the front of the carriage. Just standing there waiting for something, but armed, and therefore more than mere grooms and postilions… Flames! How many more tending the horses? How many altogether? How much use was Fischart going to be when the trouble started?

"Taking a crappy long time, ain't he?" grumbled one of the two.

In English!

Granted that Italy was overrun with refugees from a dozen lands, common sense screamed that men skulking around long after curfew in Siena speaking English were those same Nevil agents who had tried to abduct Lisa two days ago. A demon had testified that the missing scraps of Lisa's kerchief lay somewhere amid the street garbage, so this must be the countess's residence. Common sense told Hamish to whip out his rapier and unleash demon Zangliveri to even up the odds a little. He tightened his grip on the hilt—

His hand refused to do more. His logic might be wrong. He could not blast men down without more evidence. He squirmed with frustration. He was crazy. Toby would have taken both of them by now, probably with his bare hands, but he was not Toby. Any minute now one of those bravos would decide to take a stroll around the coach and…

The house door creaked and brighter light flared up like a sunrise, revealing greasy pavement, footboard, the two guards. They were armed with both sword and dagger and wore no excessive clothing that might hamper their movements. They did not look especially villainous. They looked young and fit and dangerous as hell.

A dark figure ducked out from the door of the house, then raised its lantern and turned to light the way. A woman followed, muffled in a dark cloak. Her hat concealed her hair, so there was no way to tell if she was Queen Blanche, who in her youth had been called the White Princess, but she was tall enough to stoop for the lintel, and she stumbled awkwardly in doing so. Her arms were behind her, and there was another man right at her back. Abduction?

Of course it was an abduction! Get on with it!

Hamish drew his sword and took three steps to poke the man who held the lantern. "Vestige!"

His head jumped from his shoulders in a spray of air and blood. The lantern clattered to the ground with his hand still attached, then the rest of him collapsed into a blood-soaked pile of meat and garments. His head rolled into the gutter. The lantern had already gone out, but there was enough light coming from the doorway to establish that he had been completely disassembled. There could not be an intact human body in that heap. Several people screamed, probably including Hamish himself. Certainly his stomach heaved so violently that for a moment he was incapable of doing anything. Then a lot of things happened all at once.

Spooked by the blood odor or the demon, the horses reared, screamed, lunged against the collars. A man holding the leaders yelled and fell back. As the rig began to move, another man jumped down from the footboard to join the fray. Shouting, "Blanche! Majesty! It's me, Karl!" Fischart jostled past Hamish, throwing him against the wheel so the hub jarred his elbow and he almost dropped his rapier. The countess was hauled bodily back into the house by her captor. The two bravos flashed out their swords and daggers in an unnerving display of proficiency. Hamish recoiled off the carriage and stumbled over the gruesome stack of flesh that had been the first casualty. Fischart tried to follow the countess into the house, and one of the swordsmen ran him through. He screamed and fell. The door slammed, cutting off the light.

The carriage had departed, so the road was cleared for battle — Hamish Campbell versus no less than four opponents, possibly more. The darkness was on his side, but at least one of the enemy must be Gonzaga, the hexer he had bested two nights before. This time he was not wearing a guarddemon.

Hoping that Fischart was flat on the ground and out of the line of fire, he waved his rapier in the direction of the foe, and said, "Vestige, vestige, vestige!"

He heard the eruption of bursting lungs again. Once? Or twice? The runaway carriage collapsed into a heap of lumber, sending eight horses mad with terror. Its lamps blossomed in golden roses of flaming oil, silhouetting three upright opponents for him, but also revealing him to them. One was waving his hands and chanting, and must be Gonzaga. Fischart was scrambling to his feet, presumably healed of his wound. Shutters were slapping open all along the street.

Two armed men sprang at Hamish. He had Zangliveri demolish the first, but then the second was all over him so that he needed his rapier for parrying and could no longer direct the demon with it. He retreated before a dazzling blur of strokes — cuts and thrusts, blades rattling in a frenzied clitter, clitter, clitter… Spirits! The man was a leopard! Even the don praised Hamish's fencing now, and as long as he had room to move, his rapier should give him a significant advantage in reach over saber and dagger. So much for theory. He was about to be skinned alive. Parry, parry, parry… The dagger would be a sword breaker and must be avoided. Oh, flames! This yokel was faster than Don Ramon himself, superhuman! He had to be using gramarye. Spirits!

More light blazed up in the street, making screams resound from every window, for the battle now commanded a sizable audience. Hamish was too engrossed on staying alive to see what was happening, although he could hear Fischart and Gonzaga howling conjurations at each other.

Fortunately, just when wee Hamish Campbell thought he was about to die of terror, he saw an opening. It was briefer than the blink of a hawk's eye, but it let him run his point into Wonderman's forearm. The swordsman yelped and fell back. He did not drop his blade, but pain made him lose his focus just long enough for Hamish to aim the rapier and give the command to Zangliveri. It was a rotten way to treat a fine opponent, but a flesh wound would not have kept him out of action long. Leaping over the collapsed remains, Hamish sprinted back to the battle of hexers.

Gonzaga had summoned his oversized ape-bear demon with the claws and fangs, while Fischart had countered with a man-sized salamander of coruscating fire, which was the origin of all the lurid lighting. Now the two apparitions were rolling and wrestling about the street, filling the night with bloodcurdling shrieks and a foul sulfurous stench. Only the hexers themselves knew how many demons were involved in that display. Gonzaga was nowhere in sight, which was good, but the lizard seemed to be growing smaller and the furry thing larger and louder, and that was probably bad. Fischart had turned his attention to finding the countess. As Hamish arrived, panting, he hurled a conjuration at the door, which at once shattered into fragments. A tongue of white fire roared out.

It missed Hamish, but only just. He leaped back, wondering if he had lost his eyebrows. It engulfed the old man, who fell to the ground, screaming and writhing as his clothes burned. Hamish glanced helplessly back and forth between that baleful doorway — as dark now as it had been bright earlier — and the dying hexer, whose flesh blazed, charring and reeking horribly of roast meat. He was beyond all help, both mortal and immortal.

Where there's one booby trap there are usually more.

Hamish dived through the door into the house and lived; no wave of fire threw him back. He found himself in a dingy, low-ceilinged room, lit by a single candle, and cramped by half a dozen chairs and a wooden table… cupboards and shelves on the walls… a closed door that probably led through to stairs and other rooms… He saw what he had come for in a corner — the woman in the dark cloak, gagged and tied to a chair. There was no sign of her assailant. He reached her in three steps, sheathing his rapier as he went.

"I come to rescue you, ma'am. Lisa is safe. I know who you—" He felt for his knife to untie her, and it was gone, lost somewhere in the evening's confusion. "Demons! I'm a friend. Will you trust me?"

No nod, no headshake, just eyes rolling in wild terror. He was soaked in blood, and she was beyond rational thought.

What to do? He looked despairingly at the doorway, where the multicolored flashes were fading and the ape's roars completely masked the salamander's dwindling shrieks. Fischart was dead and must be abandoned. Hamish couldn't even take the old man's body back with him, because Gonzaga must be still at large, as well as the accomplice who had tied up the countess.

Where there's one booby trap there are usually more.

This was a worse nightmare than the demon ride, the sort of experience whose memory will waken a man for years afterward, howling in sweat-soaked bedding. With a quick prayer for mercy to the tutelary, he made his choice and leaned over the lady to grip her arms. "Forgive me, ma'am, but we have to get out of here." She was shaking, but so was he. No trap so far.

Lupus. What was the word…?

What was the word?

"Panoply!"

The demon took them away.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Having forgotten Fischart's warning that Lupus had a sense of humor, Hamish expected the chair to go with them, but the chair stayed behind, and so did the countess's bonds. She landed on her back in total darkness, and he fell on top of her. Making piteous noises behind her gag, she struggled and thrashed against his efforts to restrain her. That was a job fit for Toby, for she was a large and powerful woman in a frenzy of terror. Even if they were back in the adytum, there would be things around that could injure her. He wrapped his arms tight around her and talked comfort in her ear until she ran out of strength.

"Majesty! Countess! You are among friends. Lisa is safe. We know who you are — Karl Fischart… Baron Oreste… Lisa is here… Lisa is safe…" His eyes were adjusting. He could see shards of predawn light through the slits. It was the adytum. "Let me take off the gag, ma'am, and I'll escort you to Lisa."

She fell still, if violent shivering could be called stillness. He released her and felt for the cloth. By the time he had untied it, and they were both sitting up, she was weeping. It had been a rough night. For her, two very rough days. Fourteen very bad years…

"Come, my lady. My name is Hamish Campbell…"

And so on. He helped her rise. She staggered, barely capable of walking. The candle had gone out, so the excursion to Siena must have lasted longer than it seemed.

"Lisa? Truly?" She could barely speak, teeth clattering like a forest full of woodpeckers.

"She is here and unharmed. This is Fiesole, just outside Florence. You are quite safe here. We are sworn enemies of the Fiend." Going mostly by memory, he steered her across the room to the door. The cypresses were stains of black against gray, but dawn was coming, the day stretching as it wakened. Birds singing. He talked. She did not seem to hear.

He wondered how he was going to break the awful news to Toby that the Don Ramon Company had lost its hexer. That was almost as bad as losing its cavalry. He was so engrossed in that problem that he did not notice the two figures waiting at the edge of the trees until one of them squealed and came flying. It was Lisa. Toby loped along behind her.

Toby and Lisa? Lisa and Toby? Lisa crashed into an embrace, making predictable noises of, "MotherMotherMother!" and, "AreYouAllRight?" and "OhWhat'sTheMatter…?" And so on.

Gasping the equally predictable, "LisaOhLisaIsItReallyYou?" the countess staggered and would have fallen if Hamish had not steadied her.

Then he stepped aside, leaving the two of them locked together, weeping.

"Just shock. She's had a very bad time. Don't think she's injured."

Toby said, "You look a little dilapidated yourself. Any of that your own blood?"

"No." He rubbed his face and felt the caked stains. "No. None of it honorably earned, either."

"Rough voyage?" Toby thumped his shoulder.

That was about as far as he ever went in displaying emotion, but there could be exceptions to any rule — he also avoided women as much as he could and private assignations at all costs, yet he had been waiting there on the path with Lisa. Oh, demons! What sort of thoughts were those? There could never be reason to be jealous of poor Toby, not where girls were concerned, and Lisa was forever out of reach for both of them.

"The water was a little choppy." The voyage had been much rougher for some. Hamish was shaking with reaction now, nauseated, thinking all confused. He knew the feelings and had seen them in other men often enough; it was only in books that heroes walked away from battles as if nothing had happened. How many corpses? And Fischart. Oh, spirits!

Before he could find the words, Toby said: "You came back alone?"

" 'Fraid so."

"Damn." Longdirk rarely swore and always very quietly. He never lost his temper. Part of that icy self-control he had learned from the saints at Montserrat as the only way to suppress the hob, but he had shown much of it as a child back in the glen. It was absolutely typical of him that now, seeing the Company crippled, his creation perhaps fatally weakened, and all his plans thrown in jeopardy, he said only that one soft word.

Then, "Any doubts? Any hope?"

Hamish shook his head, shivering as he remembered the blackened flesh burning like wax in the gutter. "None. It was treachery."

"What sort of treachery?" Longdirk's voice remained gentle, but there was menace in it.

"The gold thief. I'm sorry, Toby! You asked me, and I was too stupid… I should have seen this sooner. The gold was a red herring to distract us. Whoever he was, the intruder was in the adytum to tamper with Fischart's demons — one of them, some of them, I don't know. Not all of them, but when he invoked one in Siena to open a door, it destroyed him." It had not been a booby trap at all. If the door had been booby-trapped, then the countess would have been booby-trapped also, and Hamish would have suffered the same fate as the hexer. Fischart had seen the shadow of his assassin across his path, but the shadow had been there to doctor his demons. "And before that a man stabbed him with a sword. That doesn't happen to hexers… I should have guessed!"

"So should Oreste himself." Sigh. "He was a cantankerous, hagridden old blackguard at times, but you could never doubt his loyalty or his hatred of the Fiend. It wasn't your fault, and I'm very happy you made it back safely. Tell me all about it later." He glanced around at the countess, then inquiringly at Hamish, who shook his head.

"She didn't see."

"Good. Don't breathe a word to anyone else."

"Aye, aye, sir." Yet Hamish was surprised. It might be days or weeks before the camp realized that the hexer was missing, and thus the condotta might yet be signed before the Florentines learned that the Company had lost one of its major assets, the finest hexer in Europe, but that seemed very close to cheating — closer than he would have expected Toby to stray.

"Especially not the don."

"Of course." Hamish would prefer not to be around if, or when, the haughty, hair-trigger caballero heard the news from somebody else.

"And talking of El Cid," Toby said, "he's nastily close to his flash point. I know you've had a tough night, laddie, but can you back him up at the talks this morning?"

If he could sleep for a week first. "I can try." It would be a distraction to take his mind off the horrors. It was also a devil of an imposition on top of a night without sleep, so it was both flattering and inspiring to be thought capable — typical Longdirk. He could always wring more out of a man than there was in there to start with.

Toby smiled faintly, as if guessing his thoughts. "Just stun him if he starts killing people. And—"

Lisa interrupted, grabbing his arm to turn him around."…great condottiere, Constable Sir Tobias Longdirk, the hero of the battle of Trent, the toast of Europe! Constable, my mother, Countess Maud."

Toby bowed over the lady's hand. "Your servant, ma'am."

"I cannot begin to express my gratitude, Constable."

"I am deeply honored to have been of assistance, my lady."

Bleary-eyed and thickheaded with fatigue, Hamish waited to be brought into the conversation, but that didn't happen. In a few moments Toby offered his arm to conduct the lady in the direction of the villa, so that she might be tended and restored by Sister Bona. Hamish followed, and it was only then that he realized that affairs were being stage-managed by Lady Lisa. She moved in close, linking arms. She beamed at him. In the unreal light of dawn, her eyes shone brighter than Lucifer, the morning star.

"I think you're wonderful!" she said. "You're so brave, so clever! You're marvelous! I've never met a man like you."

Oh, no! No, no, no, no, no, no!

"Lisa!" he croaked — wanting to shout, but whispering in case her mother would overhear. Or Toby. "Lisa, I told you! You mustn't fall in love with me!"

She gave him a look to melt his bones. "Your warning came too late. I already did."

After a moment, she added, "Don't you love me?" menacingly.

He had been a fool to say that word to her. Her challenge hid a desperate appeal for reassurance, and the comical bantam belligerence was a mask for terror. Hers was much more than the uncertainty of a first romance, the insecurity of a child plunging into the world of adulthood, for she was in genuine danger — awful danger — and the destiny that had been revealed to her so abruptly last night would terrify anyone. She needed a champion, a paladin, a hero. She had elected him. She had no one else to turn to if he refused her.

"Lisa, I have never met a woman to compare with you. I would die for you." He saw relief slacken the tensed muscles around her eyes, a hint of satisfaction curl the corners of those breathtaking lips.

"That will not be necessary," she said. "Will you live for me?"

"Till the day I die."

She let the smile blossom. "Say it, then."

Demons! "I love you, Lisa. I love you with all my heart and all my soul, and for all my days to come. I have loved you since the moment I first saw you. I will do anything for you, anything you ask or want, anything at all. I am yours, always. Body and soul, for ever and ever."

She sighed and walked on without speaking, hugging his elbow hard and staring straight ahead.

He'd really done it now.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"That's your third yawn in the last furlong," Don Ramon said icily. "How many bawds took your money last night?"

Whether he enjoyed a challenge or just liked to show off his equestrian skills, Don Ramon had collected a herd of the most vicious horses ever to eat the grass of Italy, and that day he was mounted on the worst of them, a monstrous eighteen-hand stallion named Brutus, which his squires were convinced was possessed — they were always threatening to put a blade through its heart. It would kick or bite anything that came within range, so Hamish was having great trouble keeping his dowdy, unassertive palfrey within reasonable distance.

"You wrong me, senor! I spent the hours of darkness doing good works among the deserving poor."

The horns of the copper mustache writhed in contempt. "Spare me your jackdaw Castilian. Your Italian cannot be any worse." His own would never be described as fluent, but that was a problem for other people. "And see you stay alert during the negotiations. How many deserving poor?"

"Four, signore."

"You're lying!"

"All four are less poor, but two remain deserving."

"I may decide to believe that," the knight conceded.

They continued their canter down the hill to Florence. Hamish was dressed as a humble clerk, being careful not to upstage the most successful condottiere in Italy, although that would have been difficult, for his companion was garbed in quasi-royal splendor — silk and sable and cloth of gold. Erratic and capricious in every way, he was especially unpredictable toward Hamish. Usually he considered him as being beneath contempt, like the vast majority of the human race, but he had noted his talents with a rapier and taken infinite pains to teach him the finer points of fencing, he himself being a master trained by de la Naza. Although their backgrounds were vastly different — son of a wilderness schoolmaster and scion of one of the oldest noble houses in Europe — they differed by less than a year in age, and their adulthood had been spent campaigning together. After the sack of Ostra, Don Ramon had presented Hamish with a bagful of priceless medieval manuscripts. Once he had led him off on a wild all-night campaign of drinking and wenching in the slums of Milan and been still in full rampage when Hamish had passed out under the table — or had it been a bed? Twice he would have put him to death had Toby not intervened. Precedents were never reliable where the don was concerned.

"I am minded, Chancellor, to give these motheaten quill-scratchers a lesson in manners. I may even choose to overstate my case a trifle, for the sake of effect. If I decide to do so and you think it would be advantageous to remonstrate with me, then feel free to speak your mind. Provided, of course, that you temper your words with proper respect."

Toby might know what that meant. Hamish did not, and his nerves were still too jangled to play foolish games. "Longdirk told me to stun you if you tried to kill anyone, signore." Wondering what sort of cataclysm that would provoke, he looked up to meet the icy blue eyes.

Briefly they measured him for a coffin. Then the don twirled up his mustache as he did when he was pleased. "Only if I am dissembling. You will not interfere when I am serious."

"Sì, signore," Hamish said resignedly.

As they trotted their mounts along the busy morning streets — with Brutus constantly trying to sink his teeth in people and other horses and being consistently thwarted by the don — Hamish saw the soaring dome of the sanctuary straight ahead, and a sudden tug at his heart reminded him that he had survived an exceedingly narrow escape in the night and had also lost a comrade.

"Signore, I most humbly beg a few minutes' grace to visit the duomo."

The don's ginger eyebrows soared high, although his stare was shrewd and calculating. "You did have a busy night, didn't you? How many deserving poor, did you say? Very well. You will attend me as soon as possible at the Palace of the Signory."

His surprise was understandable, for tutelaries had little sympathy for soldiers of fortune, men who earned their living by killing. Hamish had not made confession since he arrived in Italy and took up the trade. Nevertheless, times were a-changing. Fighting against the Fiend would never be a sin, and Karl Fischart had died in a noble cause.

Engrossed in rehearsing what he would say, he dismounted outside the duomo and allocated the reins to one of the handful of grubby boys disputing for the honor. Normally he found the facade's symphony of white, pink, and green marble fascinating, but today he strode over to the south door without an upward glance. Pigeons and beggars summed him up and ignored him. As he was about to enter, two young men emerged and blocked his path. More of them followed. His mind flashed back to the present, and he fell back a pace, reaching for a sword he had left at the villa.

"One moment, ser," said the nearest. They were fairly typical bravos, finely garbed, arrogant, dangerous, but apparently in this instance merely holding the door for someone, making sure the coast was clear.

"I bid you good morning, ser Campbell."

He looked twice at the grandly dressed lady and twice decided she could not have addressed him. It was only then that he realized that the inconspicuous, somewhat foxy-faced, nonentity at her side was not just another flunky. The bodyguards, the last of whom were now emerging at his back, were there to protect him.

Gasp! He bowed low. "I am honored, Your Magnificence!" He almost added, "I did not recognize you," and bit back the words in time.

In truth, though, Pietro Marradi enjoyed being anonymous. He also enjoyed showing off his politician's memory for names and faces — Hamish had been presented to him only once, and that had been many months ago.

"Duchessa, may I present ser Campbell, a chancellor in the Don Ramon Company?"

Lucrezia, the notorious hexer? The diminutive lady in the ermine and jewels acknowledged Hamish's protestations of undying loyalty with a nod that implied extreme boredom, but her gaze seemed to sharpen a fraction when her brother added, "Ser Campbell is a close confidant and childhood friend of comandante Longdirk." The lowly ser was to chide him for not wearing a sword.

"It is hard to imagine messer Longdirk as a child." She did not look notorious.

"Indeed he never was, madonna!" Hamish said boldly. "He sprang fully armed from a Highland bog." That felt moderately witty for spur-of-the-moment.

Lucrezia seemed unimpressed, as if she had already done her duty by a barbarian youth, but Marradi honored the jest with a smile. "Ah! You are a student of the classics?"

"An ignoramus by Italian standards," Hamish protested. "I prefer the moderns, such as your own notable sonnets, Your Magnificence." He quoted a few lines from "The Vine" to show that he could.

Truth makes the deadliest flattery, and Marradi was a celebrated poet. He bowed his head to acknowledge the compliment. "Would you be available to take a cup of wine around the sixth hour, messer Campbell? Some friends will be joining us to witness the unveiling of Maestro Buonarroti's new marble and hear a few sonnets. Bring along a couple of your own favorites to share."

Astonished, Hamish protested his eternal gratitude for such an honor. It was no trivial experience just to be talking to a genuine (if notorious) duchess and the world's richest banker while surrounded by his respectfully waiting bodyguard with half of Florence looking on. To be invited to his salon was an honor half of Florence would kill for. He wondered what his mother would say if she could see him now.

And he wondered if this stroke of good fortune might be turned to advantage. Here, after all, was the hand that held all the strings. If Hamish could wring a few fast concessions out of him, he could turn up at the meeting with a decided edge. Hastily, for Marradi was already turning away, he said, "I came into town, Your Magnificence, to assist Don Ramon in his negotiations with the dieci. Time grows desperately short."

He knew instantly that he had erred, but it was a slight tilt of Lucrezia's head that told him. Marradi's expression did not change.

"Indeed it does!" the Magnificent sighed. "The problem lies, of course, with the podestà, but I expect you know that." Hamish certainly did not, and gaped like a fish. Before he could comment, the despot added smoothly, "I am told that His Excellency is reluctant to approve anything until the darughachi has made his will known."

"The rumors… There really is a darughachi then?"

"Oh, yes!" The Magnificent seemed politely surprised by his ignorance. "His Highness Prince Sartaq, seventh son of the glorious Ozberg Khan. He brings plenipotentiary powers to suppress the revolt north of the Alps." A shrug, a hint of a smile accompanied that description of the disaster that had engulfed most of Europe for half a generation as a revolt. "We expect him to come north, once he has completed his business in Naples and Rome." As a verbal street fighter, Marradi was unmatched — having laid Hamish on the floor, he now applied his boot: "Siena is a delightful town, is it not, ser Campbell? Did you enjoy Carnival?"

Hamish managed a nod, making faint croaking noises. So much for his hopes of wringing anything out of Il Volpe.

Marradi sighed and let his face grow doleful. "We were all desolate to hear the tragic news of Maestro Fischart's demise. Do please convey our sympathy to Don Ramon and the constable, won't you?" He strolled away with his sister on his arm and his mastiffs around him, leaving Hamish feeling like something dropped by one of the pigeons.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

He stumbled into the cool gloom of the duomo and waited by the door, planning to allow the Marradi party a few minutes to depart, then scamper like a burning squirrel in search of the don. If the bizarre Castilian learned of Fischart's death from anyone else, he would be most exceeding wroth. If he denied it in public only to discover his subordinates had kept the news from him, he would wax homicidal.

Demons take Toby and his stupid deception! He knew it was impossible to keep a secret in Italy. All the same, granted that the Marradi Bank ran an intelligence network second only to the Venetians', and even factoring gramarye into the problem, there was no obvious way the Magnificent could have heard the news so soon. Did the Siena tutelary correspond with Florence's? Or was this again the hand of the mysterious enemy who had arranged Fischart's death?

The devout of Florence bustled by him, some seeking out booths to make confession, others going forward to pray before the altar. Perhaps some had come just to enjoy the peace and beauty of the great building. The choir was singing, and were he not so preoccupied, he could have lost himself in those intertwining melodies soaring like swallows to the lofty dome. How strange it must be to spend one's life as a musician! Would he be happier if he had nothing more to worry about than producing a pure note or well-shaped phrase — happier than he was helping Toby fight the Fiend? But that thought set him wondering what this vast building would look like in half a year if people like Toby could not stop the Fiend. There would be no singing then.

Time to go. He turned for the door, aware that he would have to admit to the don that he had lied about—

"You have not achieved what you came for, Hamish."

The whisper spun him around. He found himself nose-to-nose with a gaunt, pale-faced youth, a shaven-scalped novice several years his junior. A boy that age must always be judged guilty of mischief until proved innocent, and no doubt the vacant smile and toneless voice of an incarnation could be faked quite easily, but he had spoken in Gaelic.

"Holiness?"

"Do not kneel here. Follow us." The incarnation turned.

"But, Holiness, I have to go and find the don and tell—"

The boy stopped without looking around. "You have more important things to worry about than the wounded pride of Don Ramon."

Hamish twisted in agony. "If I may just go and tell him, Holiness, and then I will come—"

"Follow us." The incarnation stalked off with the hem of its robe swishing around ankles like twigs. It led the way to an empty booth and sat on the bench, fixing its gaze on the wall to Hamish's left and remaining inhumanly still. In the velvet gloom, there was no mistaking the filmy golden glow of the tutelary around it. Hamish knelt on the cushion and gathered up his thoughts.

He spoke at great length, slowly at first and then faster. Once or twice the tutelary demanded more detail or questioned an interpretation. When he thought he had finished, it suggested some things he had omitted, and he added them to his confession. He told everything, but without mentioning that Lisa was rightful Queen of England. That information was irrelevant.

"And what do you want of us?" the spirit asked when he had finished.

He was nonplussed. He had expected a lecture, forgiveness, penance, never that question. "First, I mourn Karl Fischart. Will Siena cherish his soul? I admit I did not like him, but I—"

"Do not concern yourself with him."

Oh! Italian tutelaries seemed to have their own rules. "Then, Holiness, did I do wrong in Siena — when I went to Lisa's rescue and when I returned with Fischart?"

"Your motives were sound," the boy's thin voice said, "but you play a very dangerous game when you consort with demons, Hamish. Had you not relied on gramarye, you would have gone to Siena with a band of strong young men at your back, would you not? Then you might have rescued Lisa without imperiling her soul or yours."

There were a hundred objections to that, such as, supposing the opposition had loosed its own demons against those strong young men? And how would they have found the countess? The tutelary in Siena might have helped the righteous, but who could guarantee that?

"Yes, Holiness." One did not argue with spirits.

Without shifting its gaze, the incarnation held out a hand. Reluctantly Hamish gave it the Lupus and Zangliveri rings and watched them vanish into a belt pouch. A well-trained demon was worth a king's ransom.

"Did you tell Elizabeth you love her?"

"Yes, Holiness."

"How many women have you told that to?"

Squirm! "Two or three."

"How many?"

Hamish dug nails into his palms. "Four or five. But not always. I mean not always seriously. Maybe eight. But not quite like that. It's not the same when a man's, um, in bed with a…"

"Or trying to get into her bed," the boy said. "Is that what you want of her?"

"Me? Lisa? No! No! She's a lady, far above my station." He was surprised to realize that this denial was the truth. He had never considered trying to seduce Lisa — not seriously considered. He could have done it on the journey, at the inn. He'd thought about it, decided that there would be no sport in a victory so easy. She was too vulnerable. One glass of wine and some sweet words… Even if she was almost past marrying age by Italian standards, she was still only a child emotionally. And she was a queen.

"Do you love her?"

Yes. No. Yes. "Um, if things were different… Yes. Yes, I do." Were she not who she was, he might even be giving a thought or two to marriage — if he were not who he was, a penniless adventurer… He tried to imagine himself carrying her over a doorstep. She wore flowers in her hair, and she smiled at him. The prospect was not very terrifying. "Yes, I do." He sighed. Things would have to be very different, though — little things like the history of Europe.

"Hamish," said the tutelary, "all you have confessed is forgiven. These are hard times, and you stand between great dominions in contention. You must be ever vigilant and prepared to make hard choices. If you have time, come and discuss your problems with us before you decide."

"Yes, Holiness. I thank you." Was there to be no penance?

"Your penance is this: You are to guard Lisa with your life."

Hamish stole a glance at the spiritual aura gleaming around the boy and was reassured that this could not be a hoax. "I have never heard of such a penance, Holiness! I will gladly…"

Pause. Mm!

"Gladly?" said the tutelary. "With honor? Without asking or accepting the sort of shameful favors a man might demand of a maid? And with your life?"

"It is a fair penance," Hamish admitted. His mouth felt awkwardly dry. It was a demon of a penance! "My resources are limited, Holiness, considering the contending dominions you mention. What foes do I guard against? What foes can I guard against? Nevil?" He laughed uneasily.

"Primarily your accomplice, Longdirk."

"What? I mean… Toby? But Toby can't… Toby wouldn't!"

"Wouldn't what?" asked the boy's high voice. "Rape her? No, even if he did not fear the hob, he is a decent man who does not use his strength unfairly. But exploit her politically? Can you defend her against that, Hamish Campbell?"

He glared at the incarnation, wishing it was human so he could knock its teeth out. "You know who she is, don't you? Did you tell Pietro Marradi that, too? Is this another secret all Italy knows?"

"You are the only man in Florence who knows at the moment. Her safety depends on that secret being kept."

"You're saying Toby won't? That he'll throw Lisa to the hyenas? Why? For some sort of personal gain? I've known him all my life, and I don't believe that. Not for a moment!"

The boy turned his head, and it seemed as if the tutelary looked out of his eyes at Hamish. The illusion was startling, terrifying, and fortunately transient. The blazing intelligence faded back to a blank stare.

"Don't you? The struggle against Nevil is still to come. The contest now is to decide who will lead that struggle. All the princes and powers of Italy are contestants, and Longdirk is one of the leading players."

"But—"

"Hamish, Hamish! You are not the same boy who left Scotland six years ago, are you?"

"Well, no, Holiness. Of course not."

"Longdirk is not the youth who left with you. He has grown and changed. He is not even the young man who came into Italy, for now he knows how good he is. He has won renown. He has discovered ambition, Hamish, and ambition feeds on success. He wants to be comandante again, because he truly believes he has a better chance of stopping Nevil than anyone else does. Do you disagree?"

"No," Hamish agreed sulkily. "But you're wrong about him! He's not a schemer, he's an uppercut-to-the-jaw man. He doesn't deceive people. He plays stupid and lets them deceive themselves."

"Don't argue with us, Campbell," said the spirit. "Do as we command."

CHAPTER TWENTY

Toby was trying to come to terms with the hexer's death and what it meant for the Don Ramon Company. As he often did when he needed to think, he sent for Smeòrach and went for a ride. The big spotted gelding was an eager mount and a very good listener. He never argued.

"We'll have to find another," Toby explained as soon as they were out of camp and it was safe to talk. "Rome's full of them, even if the College won't admit it and calls them all adepts."

Smeòrach did not even twitch an ear back to listen. He had a meadow ahead of him, and his simple mind was engrossed in seeing if he could run fast enough to leave the ground altogether.

"In fact, a really good hexer should turn up and volunteer his services right away, shouldn't he? That would show how skilled he is at knowing where he's needed." But no replacement would ever be as good as Karl Fischart, nor as unshakably loyal to the cause.

At that moment a thrush popped out of the hedge. Although it was about one-twenty-thousandth of Smeòrach's size, he decided it was highly dangerous and went sideways so abruptly that he almost dropped Toby in the mud. For a while neither of them had time to worry about hexers. It was an hour or so later, as they were returning to the villa, that the lecture began again.

"The Magnificent won't like it, but we have an agreement. We shook hands. All right, I kissed his, but the principle's the same. No one's going to miss the old man for a couple of weeks, and surely Hamish will get the condotta signed by then!"

"Hay!" Smeòrach said loudly. "Water. Oats. A good rubdown. Salt." He spoke in horse, but his meaning was obvious enough. "More oats," he added.

Toby chuckled and patted his neck. "I can always trust you to know what's important."

It was a fine morning. He headed for the courtyard, meaning to summon Diaz and Arnaud for a discussion of the Company's fragile finances. As he ducked his way through bustling, bread-scented kitchens, he was accosted by the formidable madonna Anna, whose customary air of Vesuvian menace was even more marked than usual. She brandished a wooden spoon under his nose, which forced him to straighten up with his head among the dangling copper pans and bundles of onions.

"Condottiere! The English milady! Who is this person? By what right does she rule here?"

If he could have chosen the next problem to be added to his burdens, squabbling women would have been low on the list. How could the fugitive queen have alienated the household in less than three hours? That was certainly not the best way to remain incognito.

"By right of hereditary stupidity, monna, I expect. What has she done to upset you?"

Plenty, apparently, including commandeering messer Longdirk's personal work site. So he stalked outside and found her holding court there, seated on a grand chair with a young woman trimming her nails and Lisa reading to her. The servant looked up in alarm — her name was Isotta, and she was the wife of one of the gunners. Lisa's glance was probably one of amusement, but too brief for him to be sure of. She went on reading, in Latin. The countess ignored him, intent on her daughter. Could she truly be so oblivious of her offense? Anna and the others must have told her whose territory this was.

Toby said, "Leave us, ladies."

The countess looked up and glared. The maid at once bundled up her implements in the cloth on her lap and made haste for the house. Lisa flashed her mother an I-told-you-so glance.

"Perhaps you should step indoors a moment, dear," the countess said grimly.

Lisa closed her book and stalked out with her chin high. Toby remained standing and folded his arms.

In her youth Queen Blanche had been blessed with a fabled beauty. The hard years of flight and exile had not stolen all of it. Her hair was golden, her complexion aristocratically pale, and if the lines at her eyes and mouth could not be denied, her features were still firm. She was a buxom, powerful woman, and her gown was not only too small for her but had been intended as practical wear for some merchant's wife, yet somehow she managed to look like a lady in it, a very frightened lady, a lady bent very close to breaking point.

"Sir Tobias! By what right do you give my daughter orders? You know who she is."

"I do know who she is. I swore to defend her against all foes, and that includes stupidity. Do you want everyone to know who she is?"

Probably no one had addressed Queen Blanche like that since she was a child at her father's court. A hint of true color appeared under the face powder. "You are being offensive!"

"You leave me no choice. We suggested a story to your daughter, a plausible explanation of who she is and who you are and why she is under Hamish Campbell's protection. If I must drop to my knees every time I speak to you, or if you behave as though this camp is your personal estate, then people will gossip. It is almost impossible to keep a secret in this country, my lady. You and your daughter are newsworthy. If you will not be guided by me, then I may as well take you into Florence right away and deliver you to the Marradi Palace. You will be a welcome guest there until the Fiend's agents are ready to kidnap you again."

She had a glare to match the don's, but the effect was spoiled by a tremble in her lower lip. "I am a lady. I cannot behave like the wife of a fish merchant."

"I do not suggest you try. Gentry in exile can retain their self-respect without drawing attention to themselves. We have a marchioness and two baronesses here in the camp. A Bohemian princess and the former Queen of Burgundy reside in Florence. I would present them to you and ask them to give you lessons, but I don't trust the men they are living with. There are many exiled ladies of rank in Italy. Their menfolk did not fare as well, but we have some of those around also. One knight in the Company is the pretender to the throne of France."

"I need no lessons from them or anyone." Her voice was shriller than before. "I have been a fugitive since you were a child, Constable. I have always lived as a lady and expected to be treated as one. Furthermore, I have a duty to rear my daughter in a style appropriate to her rank so she will be competent to take up her inheritance when the Fiend is overthrown. You realize that I have been bereft of my entire wardrobe, all my jewels, my money? What steps are you taking to recover those for me?"

"None, ma'am. Your enemy in Siena was a notable hexer. Any attempt to recover them would lead him to you, and what you recovered would probably be poisoned by gramarye. For your own safety and Lady Lisa's I must ask you to resign yourself to your losses and just be thankful that you both survived your terrible experiences unharmed."

She chewed her lip for a moment. He despised himself as a bully, but he could see no kindness in lying to her. Her only hope of survival was to face the brutal realities of her situation. By coming to Italy, she had left herself without a back door to use when her husband came in the front.

"I require at least two maids, separate sleeping chambers for Lisa and myself — with some decent furniture — a wardrobe of suitable garments, and a personal steward. The use of a carriage, postilion, and footmen two or three times a week. This is an absolute minimum. Anything less is a flagrant insult to my rank and person."

To laugh would be unkind. To ask her how Nevil would treat her if he caught her would be sadistic. She was a tired and very frightened woman.

"I shall see what can be arranged, ma'am. I had no warning of your arrival. Sister Bona—"

"Has children! Cohabits with a friar!"

"Can keep her mouth shut."

They traded glares.

Queen Blanche looked away first. "Very well. Sister Bona?"

"Will assist you, ma'am. I shall have our treasurer allocate funds for your maintenance. I do believe you are as safe here as you can be anywhere in Italy. Chancellor Campbell is currently—"

"Is it true," she inquired in a markedly different tone, "that he is a younger son of the Earl of Argyll?"

Toby wanted to shy like Smeòrach meeting a thrush, but he managed to keep his feet on the ground. Whose invention was this? He hoped it was Lisa's. Doubtless Hamish plied many wiles and stratagems on the battlefield of love, but no man should stoop as low as that.

"Ma'am, please! I told you that secrets are never safe in this country — every leaf whispers to the wind. If the Fiend were to hear that a son of the earl were fighting against him, then his entire family would suffer for it, and perhaps the entire Clan Campbell also."

"Ah, of course!" The countess nodded, apparently convinced. "He is a remarkable young man, isn't he?"

"He is indeed," Toby said with confidence. Was she unusually gullible, or was he gaining some skill at lying? He had not actually lied, of course, merely stated an irrelevant truth.

Evidently it was to be peace for now. She managed a shaky smile. "I admit I am impressed by some of your associates, Sir Tobias. Lisa tells me Baron Oreste is one of them, my old friend."

"He played a major role in your rescue, ma'am, but he has not yet returned from—"

"There he is!" roared the don, striding in through the gate with a dozen men at his heels.

Toby summed them up in a glance. Three of them were the don's personal squires, who would do anything he told them. Four were senior knights, squadrieri in the cavalry — Baldassare Barrafranca and D'Anjou and a couple of other troublemakers — and they, too, had brought minions to handle dirty work. Conspicuous among the supporting cast was the toothless leer of Ippolito Varano, the Company hangman, a cold-blooded horror who had not yet had the pleasure of hanging any of its members but had flogged a few. He and some others were carrying ropes. They spread out as if to come at Toby from both sides, but by that time, Constable Longdirk had his back to a brick wall, a stool in his left hand, and his sword in his right. Everyone stopped to evaluate the situation.

"Good morning, Your Excellencies," he said. "I do not recall summoning you."

The don's eyes had been crazy enough even before that remark. "You do not summon me, peasant!"

"That is true, signore. Your companions I can summon, though, and I can also dismiss. Leave us, gentlemen."

That was not strictly true, but although Toby had no real rank, he had considerable standing, and the rest of the Company would create a substantial fracas if the don and his toadies dragged him out to the gallows or whipping post. They would rather do whatever they intended here in the courtyard. He did not intend to be hanged this morning.

The countess rose from her grand chair and walked away, sensible lady. She was doubtless reconsidering her favorable opinion of Signor Longdirk's associates. No one spared her a glance.

"Bind him!" the don roared. "A hundred lashes!" That he was crazy had always been obvious, but until now he had tempered his delusions enough to let reality work around them.

"The first and second men to touch me die," Toby said, and was relieved when no one moved. His sword was two-edged, long as any rapier, and wrought of good Toledo steel, but he was no greased-lightning foils man like Hamish, who might be able to restrict his defense to inflicting minor wounds. He was a slugger and would kill with it. They knew that. "I remind you that we are all bound by the terms of engagement, and any man who breaks them must answer to the whole Company. Only a properly convened court can order me or anyone else flogged. Now, Signor Ramon, will you kindly reveal what has provoked your anger?"

"You deceived me!"

"Never, signore."

"Where is the hexer? Where is Oreste?"

Try to look surprised, dummy…

"I do not recall discussing the maestro with you in the last week, so how can I have lied about him? Last night he went to Siena. So far as I know he is still there." Not quite a lie.

"He died there!"

Now try to look disbelieving. He hoped Hamish had not strayed from the agreed story, or he might be about to save his own neck at the cost of putting Hamish's in the noose. "Sad news, if true! Who says so, senor?"

"All Florence knows!"

Not Hamish's doing, then. Toby threw down the stool and sheathed his sword. He felt the wind change as he did so — men shuffled feet and exchanged glances. "Florence is a stew pot of rumors, senor, always. If Maestro Fischart died in Siena last night, how could the news possibly have reached here already? I shall be happy to discuss the matter further with you in private. Kindly dismiss your escort."

Don Ramon turned on his heel. The crowd opened to let him through, then slunk after him. The confrontation was over, but not the trouble. His wretched Castilian pride had suffered, and he was quite clever enough to guess that he was being kept in the dark. It was fortunate that nobility could not duel with the lowborn, else he would certainly call Longdirk out and fill him full of holes. For the first time in Toby's experience, the don had lost his temper and made a fool of himself. There was nothing to be done about it now.

Word of the quarrel would be all over Florence within the hour.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It was all over the camp in much less time than that, of course. Toby sent for Colin McPhail, who was taciturn and surly and had more brains in his elbow than most men had in their heads, and ordered him to ride like the wind into Florence to find Hamish and warn him of the problem. Then he summoned Diaz and Arnaud for that delayed discussion of the ledgers.

The three of them were still chewing their nails over the account books when the don came striding back into the courtyard. They sprang to their feet, as was expected of them.

"Constable!" The crazy blue eyes sparkled too brightly, but there was no frenzy in them now and no armed mob at his back. Evidently he had adjusted reality to fit his needs. "Rumors are going around Florence that the baron was slain in some sort of spiritual duel in Siena last night."

Diaz and Arnaud must have heard of the morning's argument, for they went very still, looking nowhere.

Toby frowned. "That is bad news. Hamish was worried about him."

The don bared his teeth but held on to his temper. "He did not mention anything to me."

"I ordered him to be discreet. He may have construed my instructions too rigidly. You understand that he returned here yesterday? With his customary efficiency, he had located the abode of the sordid Gonzaga in Siena. When Maestro Fischart heard of this, he decided to go and neutralize the hexer before he achieved his nefarious ends, whatever they might be. Hamish agreed to return to Siena, show the learned adept the house, then come back here. In the instant before he left Siena, he saw a brilliant flash and heard a dreadful sound. He was not sure what this portended. Hence my command that he make no comment until we had confirmation of events."

Who said he couldn't tell lies? The problem was whether his lies would be believed, and the don's scowl was discouraging on that score.

"The rumors speak of a demonic battle, monsters in the streets, dead men and horses, extensive material damage, and also of a dramatic sword fight. The baron was no swordsman."

Toby frowned, which was not difficult, and shrugged, which was, and sweated, which he did not intend to. "Campbell may have withheld some of the details. At times he displays a foolish tendency to excessive modesty."

The don glared, snarled something unintelligible in Castilian, and stalked out of the courtyard.

The remaining three resumed their seats in delicate silence, nobody meeting anyone else's eye. Diaz stabbed a finger at the open ledger.

"Next item," he said. "One hundred shovels, four ducats."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

On the fifth day of her stay in the villa, Lisa came prancing out… was prancing a suitable gait for the rightwise born Queen of all England? Perhaps something equally eager but more dignified—sweeping, say?

On the fifth day of her stay in the villa, Lady Lisa swept out to the stable yard in the new riding costume of forest green linen she had ordered on her first shopping trip into Florence with Hamish — one of three such outfits, all of which had been delivered last night, together with the fur-trimmed hats and cloaks she had bought on the second day… all charged to condottiere Longdirk's credit by Hamish.

There he was, waiting for her with Eachan and Dapple already saddled. She was a little late. Ladies were expected to be late. Sometimes even this late. Hamish tended to be early, which was appropriate behavior for a gentleman, but today he might have been earlier than usual, for he was leaning one arm wearily on Eachan's neck and staring morosely at the mire as if he had taken root. Then he sensed her approach and glanced up, and the flood of joy that then transformed his face was extremely flattering. She would forgive him for being early.

"My lady!" He gazed at her with an awe so overpowering that she would have dismissed it as faked in any other man, but she knew Hamish was always genuine. "You are… You are unbelievably beautiful in that outfit. Artemis herself." He took her fingers and kissed them. Yesterday, when they had dismounted to rest the horses, she had kissed his lips. He had told her sternly never to do that again. Naturally she had done so again, at once — and was planning to do much the same again today as soon as she got the chance.

Realizing that she had not spoken yet — had, in fact, been smiling at him all this time as witlessly as a stuffed owl — she belatedly said, "Thank you, sir."

"How fares your mother this morning, my lady?" He led the horses over to the mounting block.

"Sleeping. Sister Bona still isn't worried." Lisa would have been quite frantic had this happened in the villa in Savoy, or even in Siena, but here she had advisors, and Sister Bona was a very comforting, competent-seeming sort of person. If the countess wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep, she said, then it would do her no harm. And that was exactly what Mother was doing, all day, all night. It was worrying, but it did allow her daughter time to engage in healthy exercise, such as long rides with Master Campbell. Two a day. Three yesterday.

"She probably has a lot of sleep to catch up on," Hamish said with one of those irresistible smiles that quirked the corners of his mouth into almost-dimples. "Fourteen years."

"That's absurd!" Lisa settled on the saddle and took the reins.

"Not completely. I read once—" He pulled himself up short, grinned at her before she could tease, then swung up nimbly on to Eachan's back. "She probably feels safer here than she has felt in years, so she's catching up on her sleep. Let's make the most of it. Would you like to see the Roman theater?"

"What's on the playbill?"

Hamish's laugh never really started. A large speckled horse came trotting into the yard with the huge and ominous figure of Longdirk on its back, heading for them.

Lisa glanced at her companion, and her heart sank like a rock. "You look like a schoolboy caught playing truant."

"That's exactly what I am."

"Fair morning, my lady," Longdirk said. As always, his face was infuriatingly unreadable.

She nodded without bothering to hide her displeasure.

Hamish just sighed, and said, "Where, when, what, who?"

"I hate to drag you away from important pleasure," the big man told him solemnly, "but it has to be you, and milady can't tag along."

Lisa was shocked at how the day darkened. Being separated from Hamish for very long was unbearable. Did this overgrown barbarian realize the suffering he was causing her?

"Lucas Abonio," he said. "You know his residence? Take every conspicuous precaution to make sure no one sees you entering or leaving."

Hamish opened his mouth, then shut it with a click. "And what furtive message do I whisper to His Excellency?"

Longdirk shrugged. "Tell him about Babylonian chariot racing or that procession of equine oxen that interests you. You'll think of something."

"Italy has not been good for you. You used to be a nice straightforward boy." Hamish turned to Lisa, then glanced down at Longdirk's horse as if noticing it for the first time.

"Yes," the big man said. "It is a plot to get you out of the way. Writhe in jealous rage all you want, but go and see Abonio."

"Heartless swine," Hamish said sadly. "You'll be safe with him, dearest, but he doesn't know a Roman theater from a hole in the ground." Then he made a brave attempt at a grin and urged Eachan into a canter.

"The Roman theater is just a hole in the ground," Longdirk said. "Not worth wasting time on. I know more interesting places to visit."

"I believe I will wait until Master Campbell returns."

"No you won't. I have something to show you. Come along."

Thus it was that Lisa found herself being escorted across the meadows by the condottiere himself that nippy spring morning, her wishes in the matter having been totally disregarded. She would have objected more strongly had she had anything better to do, or if the Highland gorilla were less intimidating. He scared her, but she was never going to admit that, even to herself. And she hated the way he ordered Hamish around, sending him off to Florence like a flunky just to… to what, exactly?

The two of them rode in silence for a while. Then Longdirk suddenly pointed at the plain below. "The large dome is the sanctuary, of course. And the tower beside it is the campanile." He went on to point out the main landmarks in the city and then those outside — villages, hills, roads, naming every one and adding pertinent information. As the trail entered an olive grove he glanced around at her. "You smile, ma'am?"

"Oh, pray forgive me! I was just remembering how you chide Master Campbell for lecturing."

He blinked. "His lectures come out of books. I learned all this on horseback."

"Then you must write a book." That stopped him! "Who is Lucas Abonio?" she inquired, brazenly pressing her advantage.

Peering down from his much greater height, he studied her in silence for a moment, as if she were an errant piece of ordnance. "This must be in confidence."

"Oh, I have no wish to pry, Constable! I should not have presumed to—"

"He is the Milanese ambassador to Florence."

She considered that answer for about four olive trees. "This is a secret?"

"No." The big man's face was less scrutable than some Arabic scrolls she'd found in a castle library once. "No, that is no secret. He's been trying to bribe me to enter the duke's service, and that is no secret either. And Florence is being interminably difficult about giving me the condotta we need, but everyone knows that, too."

"Doesn't it want to employ you?"

"I think so. I hope so. Part of the problem is that the present dieci, the Ten For War, are due to be replaced on March first, and they're trying to spin out the negotiations so that their successors can share in the bribery."

"Oh. According to Hamish, everything in Florence is run by Pietro Marradi. Why don't you just go and talk to him?"

"I did, my lady. I spent all yesterday morning in his waiting room with a very strange collection of sculptors and poets. I was left until almost the last, and then told he was too busy to see me."

She found that very funny, but she must not let her amusement show. "So today you send Hamish on a secret visit to—"

"No. You can't keep a secret in Florence. The Magnificent will know within minutes that Hamish is visiting Abonio. He won't know why, though."

"But you told Hamish to make—"

"That was just for realism. Marradi will know. And he knows Hamish is my closest confidant."

After several more olive trees had gone by, she said, "I see what Hamish meant when he said you weren't straightforward."

"Does that make me straightbackward? Or bentforward?" The cavernous brown eyes were as somber as ever. He must be making fun of her.

She was very little wiser an hour or so later, when he led the way into a farmyard, setting dogs to barking and geese into paroxysms of hissing. She had confirmed that she neither liked the big man nor trusted him and found his reputation for ruthlessness entirely credible. Without a word of explanation, he jumped down from his horse.

"What?" she said, looking around in alarm at the low-roofed buildings, half-buried in vegetation like lurking bears.

"Friends of mine. They make some of the finest wine in all Italy." Two ragged-looking urchins came shrieking out from behind a barn, and chickens flapped away in the opposite direction.

Alarmed, she said, "But I do not wish—" and no more, for Longdirk lifted her off the saddle as if she were a child and set her down. Who did he think he was? Or she was?

The boys jumped at him and hugged him in volleys of Italian. He picked them up by their smocks, one in each hand, and swung them high in the air, their howls of glee totally drowning out his efforts to address them. An obese and ancient peasant woman waddled out of the main hovel, wiping hands on apron, jabbering even faster than the children, and smiling to reveal a very sparse set of teeth. She was motherly enough to calm Lisa's worst fears, but not perceptibly the sort of person she cared to befriend. Longdirk set the boys down and introduced Lisa in his limping Italian to madonna Something.

"Do tell her," Lisa said, "how delighted I am to have met her and how much I regret that we cannot stay." The children had noticed Lisa and were gaping openmouthed at her.

Predictably, Longdirk ignored her wishes and led her into the old woman's lair, with the crone following them, nodding and leering. Lisa found herself expected to sit on a tottery stool at a rough plank table with him beside her. Admittedly the deeply shadowed kitchen was cozy after the wind, nor could she could deny that the smell of baking bread made her mouth water, but there was a baby screaming somewhere nearby and she had no desire to indulge in the wine set before her in a cracked pottery beaker or the curious scraps of food Old Mother What's-her-name began piling on a platter between her and Longdirk — cheese and pastries and dried fruits. The children started stalking these with nefarious intent, ignoring their grandmother's efforts to chase them away.

Nevertheless, Lisa's self-appointed escort was waiting for her to proceed. She took a sip of wine. "Is this what you meant when you said you had something to show me?"

"Partly. Do try some of these treats. The white cheese is good. May I tell monna Agnolella that you like her wine?"

"Tell her anything you want."

"I'll tell her you can't help your manners, then."

"My manners?" Angrily Lisa turned to the crone and went through a dumb show with the wine — smile, nod, smack lips. "Does that satisfy you, Sir Toby? I do hope you're going to eat the food. I can't possibly." She would have to make an effort, though. Perhaps she could slip some to the boys or the smelly dogs around her feet. Why had this annoying man brought her here? Slumming! It would have been fun with Hamish, but Longdirk did not know what the word fun meant. He never smiled.

In response to another of his labored speeches, the old woman bared her gums in a leer even more gruesome than its predecessors, then disappeared into the depths of the house, shooing her wayward brood before her so the visitors could be alone. Mercifully, the baby's yelling stopped.

The pastries were, in fact, delicious. Lisa graciously took a second. "So what exactly am I supposed to be looking at, Constable?"

"Just looking." Longdirk had his back to the solitary window, putting his face in shadow. "I come here quite often. It's a good place to meet people without being disturbed. Or seen. I pay her a few lire for the privilege. Luigi died at Trent, so times are hard for her yet. How old is your mother?"

"I don't see what business that is… If you'd listened to Baron Oreste's story, you would know that. She'll be thirty-three next birthday."

"I did listen. Monna Agnolella is the same age."

"Nonsense! You're serious? You mean that baby I heard…"

"All of them. Twelve sons. Two of them serve in the Company, following in their father's footsteps. One of them's almost as big as me. Agnolella runs the place with the other ten. Nine, I suppose. The baby won't be much help yet."

Lisa took a drink of wine to mask her dismay, but he had seen it and must be secretly laughing at her reaction.

"Looks about seventy, doesn't she?"

"What have her troubles to do with me, sir? Why drag me here just to gloat over a… a… When did she start — eight?"

"Let's see. Niccolò is nineteen — she probably married at thirteen. That's normal. A dozen babies in nineteen years is not unusual, but twelve living is. In a sense she's lucky Luigi died, or she'd have gone on bearing children until one killed her. As to what it means to you…" He folded his enormous hands on the table and stared at them. "My lady, I admit that falling into the Fiend's clutches is a very real danger to you and absolutely the worst thing that could happen. But there are other bad things in life that you don't know much about, and one of them is poverty."

"It is most kind of you to take such an interest in my education, Constable, but I do not see why it need concern you."

"Because Hamish is my friend."

"I understand he is of age. He is certainly articulate."

The big man sighed and began to pop morsels of food in his mouth, continuing to speak as he chewed. "He is also very impressionable where… women are concerned. Honorable within… limits, but very few men are… capable of celibacy for long, no matter how solemn their intentions—"

"You speak from experience, I presume?"

He nodded with his mouth full. "Mm." Swallow. "Get Hamish to tell you about his family."

"He already has." Not deliberately, but in passing Hamish had mentioned ghastly things like sleeping six to a room and not having shoes when there was snow on the ground, but he had not seemed to think any of them remarkable. "I still do not see why this concerns you."

"His father was… the schoolmaster and… rich by local standards." Longdirk had eaten just about everything the old woman had put out. He washed it down with a gulp of wine and reached for the bottle to refill his beaker. "What I'm saying, ma'am, is that any future with you and Hamish in it can only bring misery to both of you. Think on it. You are not stupid, only naive."

"You cannot imagine how relieved I am to hear that."

"Let's find something you will listen to, then." He dropped a small leather packet on the table and fumbled with the catch. "I have a trifle here that is rightfully yours."

"I don't recall losing anything. How long have you had it?"

He glanced up. His eyes glinted very brightly, although his expression was indeterminable against the light. "Six years? More than five." He tipped a shiny pebble out onto the table. "This is an amethyst."

"I've never seen—"

"I know. Just listen for once, will you? As a gem it's worth nothing, pennies at most, but it has other values. The first, to me, is that it was a parting gift from my foster mother, the woman who raised me."

"Your… But I couldn't possibly…" Was he playing some sort of elaborate joke? "I mean—"

"Listen! She was the village witchwife and more than a little crazy. She and the hob both. But that isn't what makes this stone special, my lady. The baron didn't tell you everything that happened on the Night of the Masked Ball. You and your mother escaped, but so did Valda, your, er, the king's…"

"My father's mistress."

"Accomplice. And Nevil — or the demon Rhym, I should say — hunted her for years and had his minions hunting for her. He put a huge price on her head. That's important, because it's the only confirmation we have of what Valda told me when… Yes, me. She turned up years later in Scotland. Where she'd been we don't know, but somehow she'd acquired more demons to replace those she'd lost, and she was looking for a good…" He paused as if he had reached a difficult part of his story and tried another tack. "Valda believed that when Rhym possessed your father, your father's soul was displaced in the confusion. That doesn't normally happen in a possession, but remember they were playing with very powerful gramarye. She was convinced that the soul of the mortal Nevil, the real Nevil, had become immured in the yellow diamond that had formerly contained Rhym."

Again Lisa took a drink. Yes, this had to be a joke, in very bad taste.

The condottiere refilled her beaker. "So when Valda reappeared five years ago, she was prepared to redress that misfortune. She wanted to reincarnate your father's soul in a mortal body. She chose me." He was not looking at her now. "An honor I was more than glad to be spared. Things went wrong again. It's a complex story, my lady, but the short of it is that the soul of your real father is now immured in this gem."

Lisa stared in growing horror at the shiny purple crystal. After what seemed a long time, she found her voice. "You can prove that?"

The big man sighed. "I'm very sure. A great tutelary confirmed that there is something in there, something not potent enough to be a demon."

"You mean… my… my father is imprisoned… fifteen years? In there? Is he conscious? Aware? Does he know—"

"I don't know." He shrugged his great shoulders. "Nobody does. In a thousand years of tending mortals, Montserrat had met no precedent. If he can be restored, he may well come back as a raving maniac — and who supplies the living body? But this pebble contains the rightful King of England." Before she could speak, he went on. "There is more. Valda is dead. Hamish killed her."

"Hamish? But she was a hexer, an adept… Baron Oreste—"

"And Hamish is Hamish. Get him to tell you that story, too. Yes, she was a hexer. Both she and your father knew Rhym's name, the conjuration that was supposed to control the demon."

"It didn't cont—"

"That one time it didn't. Nevertheless, if properly invoked, it may still control Rhym. If your father can be restored to life, he may be able to snare the Fiend with a simple incantation, bottle Rhym up again, and so stop all Europe's suffering with a word of command. So before you accept this gem, you should be aware that the Fiend will stop at nothing to lay his—"

"Constable, no power in this world will persuade me to touch that amethyst!"

"Your father, my lady—"

"No! No! No! It is yours! Keep it." She would not believe such a tale.

He sighed and nudged the stone back in its case with a meaty finger. "Very well."

"May we go now?" This had not been a very successful outing.

"Yes, if—" He frowned and looked around. "Can you hear something?"

"Flies. Lambs bleating."

He shook his head. "Sounds like drumming."

"The children?"

"Perhaps." Longdirk was unconvinced — puzzled and uneasy, cocking his head as if listening to a distant beat.

Perhaps it was the wine—"Is it true that you are possessed by a demon?"

She flinched at the look in his eyes. It seemed he was not going to answer, but then he said, "How can I be? If I were, I would already have raped you, mutilated you, and tortured you to death. That's what demons do to pretty little girls."