Demon Knight

CHAPTER ONE

The Marradi villa at Cafaggiolo was more of a palace than a family farm, but its formal gardens blended into fields, vineyards, and olive groves; it grew herbs and vegetables and raised some of the finest livestock in Italy. The greatest artists of Europe had decorated its halls. Now Toby had unwittingly turned it into a barnyard. An intimate meeting of a few had exploded into a conference of hundreds. It seemed as if every city and town north of Sicily had sent its captain-general or collaterale, then backed him up with most of its signory, either because the politicians did not trust him or just because they wanted the honor of being guests of the Marradi. All these cavalcades of dignitaries had brought trains of attendants and guards. The Tartars were going to come later, perhaps even the prince himself, if they could lure him away from his romantic pursuits.

The villa had space for only a tenth, nay a fiftieth, of this multitude. They overflowed into the stables and outhouses, they set up camps in the fields and orchards, they filled up the nearby village and colonized the hills. When hunger bit, they were sure to start looting. Even before he reached the gates that first morning, Toby sent a squire galloping back to Fiesole to summon a hundred more lances to help keep order. Arnaud went with him to organize more provisions.

Making excuses was not in Toby's nature, but again and again during those terrible three days he found himself repeating, "I did not plan this!" The men he really wanted to see had all come — the top military leaders of Italy, all men he respected even if some of them he could not like, and he was proud that he could now regard himself as one of them. So he had invited them to a conclave and landed them in a bear baiting.

Even as he was trying to reach the main door with Hamish and half a dozen others at his heels, pushing his way up the steps through a yabbering, screaming, hand-waving mob of soldiers and civilians, he saw a face he knew looming over the throng and changed direction to reach it. Ercole Abonio, the Duke of Milan's collaterale, was a gruff, rawboned man, almost as tall as Toby himself, more than twice his age. Lombard ancestors had bequeathed him red hair and fighting skills second to none, but he was also a true knight in the finest traditions of chivalry, as if all that was honorable in his bloodlines had come to him, and all that was tawdry and larcenous had gone to his brother, the ambassador. Ercole had taught Toby much of what he knew, and yet at Trent he had steadfastly refused to accept the supreme command, pleading Toby's case instead of his own on the grounds of ill health. He had then fought like a maniac, being wounded twice and having three horses killed under him. There was no one that Toby admired more than the big Milanese, and the quirk of amusement that lit up the man's craggy face was a knife twisted in his heart.

As the two full-sized warriors were clearing a path toward each other through the shrubbery of stunted clerics and burghers, Toby realized that Ercole's companion was Giovanni Alfredo, Captain-General of Venice. That made a difference. Alfredo was not a personal friend, so this cozy little meeting of the three military powers of the north was going to be business, and it was also going to be conducted in the presence of their respective followers and a riot of onlookers. One careless word might overturn many apple carts.

Then Ercole was within reach and could grab Toby in a ferocious bear hug, roaring out his delight at their meeting. Toby gave as good as he got; they exchanged massive shoulder thumps as they parted. He turned to offer a more restrained greeting to Alfredo, who was already shaking hands with Hamish. They were cast from the same mold, those two — slim, dark, and quick of eye — and not far apart in age, either. Alfredo had been the unquestioned rising star of the younger condottieri until Toby had come on the scene. On paper he was still ahead, for he was captain-general of a richer, greater city than Florence, but he was ambitious and would not be satisfied to fight for others all his life. His brilliance at maneuvering around his opponents to turn up on their flanks or in their rear had earned him the name of Stiletto. He was reputed to have similar skill at politics, which many soldiers of fortune did not. Present company included!

Then the formalities were over, all the underlings acknowledged—

"I had not anticipated quite so many fellow guests," Ercole remarked. His expression was superbly innocent, but his eyes were twinkling.

"I did not plan this," Toby protested — for the first time, but knowing it would not be the last. "I don't know where they all came from." The entrance to the villa was now plugged solid by this meeting of the three warriors, their followers having packed in close around them to hear the exchange. Onlookers were openly eavesdropping on the outskirts.

"You should have learned by now, Sir Tobias," Alfredo said, "how rare a thing in Italy is a secret meeting." The glint in his dark eyes spelled satisfaction. He would not be human if he did not resent this brash foreigner who had upstaged him at Trent and was now looking very foolish.

"I should have known." Toby sighed. "Especially I should have known if you did, for you have only to deal with Venetian politics, whereas I am faced with the Florentine variety, which are so much more… er, how do you say 'Byzantine' in Italian?"

"Milanese," Alfredo countered.

Ercole and his Milanese were not afraid to join in the laughter, but the Venetians at Alfredo's back remained carefully wooden-faced, recognizing that the joke was really directed at the Most Serene Republic and frightened they might be thought to be enjoying it. Venice was notoriously more Byzantine than Byzantium had ever been. Soldiers of fortune might be allies this year and next year enemies, but as professionals they bore no grudges. They all shared a healthy contempt for civilian rulers, whether they be the merchants of Venice and Florence, the aristocrats in Milan and Naples, or the acolytes of Rome. They would bleed or even die for those men's gold if they had to, but only courage and fighting skill would buy their admiration.

"Possibly in the next day or two we can arrange a private chat apart from the main meetings," Toby suggested.

"If a secret meeting is rare, one from which politicians are excluded is like the phoenix." Stiletto's eyes conveyed warning. Venice was always suspicious of its condottieri and had been known to chop off their heads. So, of course, had Florence. If those limp-eyed flunkies behind him had been sent along to keep an eye on him, who was keeping an eye on Toby?

"My dear brother is around here somewhere," Ercole remarked, including himself in this unstated brotherhood of the sword against the poison pen. "But I am more worried by the real foe. How many spies do you suppose the Fiend has sown in this conference?"

The three men exchanged grimaces as if they had all heard footsteps walking on their tombs. Alfredo smiled thinly. "Perhaps that's where everybody came from, messer Longdirk?"

CHAPTER TWO

Fiesole was a dull, dull place without Hamish. Lisa had her lady's maid for company — Beritola knew some wonderfully scandalous stories but not much else — and Sister Bona could be entertaining when she was not occupied being dam to her litter of children. All the other women had duties and interests that left them no time for frivolities such as conversation. There were men, some of them mildly amusing at times, but men just reminded her of Hamish and increased her misery. And of course there was Mother, who was admittedly much more endurable than she had been a few weeks ago. She had mellowed so much that she sometimes laughed now and would talk of her childhood and marriage — astonishing!

But the villa was dull. Life itself was dull without Hamish. Every moment they shared was as precious as rubies because they both knew their idyll could not last. The war would come; Maud would drag Lisa off to some safe refuge. Hamish refused to commit himself on what he would do then, but what could life hold for them but more agony? Their love was doomed. She had offered many times to renounce her royal heritage and marry him, and he would not hear of it. Men were stupid!

As she trotted her horse back to the villa on the second day of Hamish's absence, with her escort following, she was disturbed to see a large and impressive carriage standing at the door. Real glass in the windows, gilded moldings and bright enamels — a very splendid vehicle indeed, and the eight matched grays in the traces must be worth a king's ransom. Half a dozen saddle horses were being held by two men in blue-and-yellow livery. She ought to know that livery. Hamish had pointed it out to her in the city. Who had come calling with an escort of six men-at-arms?

A crowd had gathered at a respectful distance to stare — soldiers, women, children. With so many of the senior men in the Company currently absent, she did not doubt for a moment that this ominous intrusion concerned her. A strange knot was tightening in her insides, palms damp, heart pounding. Hamish! She needed Hamish, but he was leagues away at that fatuous conclave he admitted wasn't going to achieve anything. Even Longdirk, she decided. She would not mind at all seeing that overgrown lout planted near the coach, because he always got his own way, and so far he had provided her with admirable protection and hospitality, even if he was a merciless butcher and his manners would shock a rookery.

Her approach had been noted. Down the steps came Mother and several other people — saturnine Marshall Diaz, madonna Anna, and three others not recognizable. Behind them strode the six guards, glittering bright and dangerous.

She could not avoid the encounter. When faced with the inevitable, pretend it's what you want. That was what Hamish said when she warned him she was going to have to kiss him again. Or he would insist that no true lady would kiss a man of her own volition, and he would not allow it. In either case he would then crush her in his arms and preempt her kiss with one of his own, long and lingering and passionate. How dare he be missing when she needed him!

She reined in behind the coach and jumped down from the saddle before there could be any nonsense about bringing stepladders. She shook her skirts out, straightened her bonnet, and walked around the vehicle to face the group now waiting for her. One look at Mother's face was enough to confirm her worst fears.

Maud held out a hand to her. Lisa moved quickly to take it before anyone else could notice how it was shaking.

"We have company?"

"Elizabeth…" Her mother's voice was a croak. Her eyes were as round as a trout's. "We are honored by a visit from Her Grace, the dowager Duchess of Ferrara…"

Lisa had never met a duchess before and to be greeted by this first one with a full court curtsey, skirts right down in the mud, was shocking. Ferrara? Hamish had mentioned that name. She was petite, face rather childish, hair bright red but apparently natural, magnificently arrayed in a gown of deep blue satin with a daring décolletage and padded epaulettes. Its slashed sleeves displayed golden lining, and at least a hundred pearls adorned it. There were another fifty on her balzo cap. A duchess did not go down in the mud like that to anyone less than a queen. The bag was now catless, obviously.

"Please do rise, Your Grace."

Who had betrayed them?

"And, er, His Magnificence, um, messer Marradi, her brother," Maud said.

Ugh! Lisa felt as if she had just fallen off a horse. Backward. Now she realized. This insignificant middle-aged man in drab brown doublet kneeling to her was the Magnificent, despot of Florence! His sister was the notorious Lucrezia Marradi. Hamish had told some stories about her that had made Lisa's hair stand up, or try to. Beritola had told others that curled it.

"Oh, please rise, Your Magnificence."

Maud did not present the third visitor, an elderly, portly man, but his threadbare garb and the way he lingered in the background indicated that he was of no importance. And Marshal Diaz would be no help. He always looked as if he had been carved out of oak. Today he had been cast in bronze.

She did not attempt Italian. Mother had been speaking French.

"Your Grace, Your Magnificence — I am most honored to meet you, although you catch me at an unfortunate moment. Dishabille! Had I known in advance of your coming, I should of course have been most delighted to enjoy, er, share your visit. I have heard so much about… I mean next time…" It was not going to work.

"You poor child!" said the duchess. "How can you have endured this horrible place? Tonight you will sleep in silken sheets on a swansdown bed, as a queen should." Her smile would melt a portcullis.

"But…" But she was about to be taken away and locked up, and she would never be allowed to see Hamish again. She turned to glare at her mother. Why had she admitted her identity after denying it for so long? Had Lisa been here, she would have stiffened her backbone for her. Deny it! They could prove nothing!

"I have accepted Her Grace's invitation, Lisa."

"Well, I have not! Go if you wish, Mother. I will stay here. I am the guest of Constable Longdirk, and it would be most discourteous of me to leave when he himself is absent, and without thank—"

The notorious Lucrezia laughed most gaily. "Longdirk? I don't think that overgrown brute will cause—"

"Be silent," the Magnificent said sharply, stopping her instantly. He turned a pair of alarmingly sharp eyes on Lisa. "Your Majesty, we learned of your presence here and your identity only this morning, and we came at once. What we have learned, others will. I confess that our interest has now made this inevitable, but it would have happened anyway. You are no longer—"

"Learned how?" Lisa demanded. "From whom?" She was digging nails into her palms, desperately trying to dream up some valid defense, some way of staying here until Hamish returned.

"From a source I trust too much to reveal, madonna." He was amused by her resistance and barely managing to pretend otherwise. He gestured at the third member of the group, the elderly fat man. "For many years messer Minutolo was my family's agent in London. He was present at your parents' wedding, and we brought him along to confirm your mother's identity, so we should not cause trouble or distress to anyone if our information was false."

Marshal Diaz took up the cudgel. "My lady, His Magnificence also brought a warrant from the signoria. The Don Ramon Company is in their employ, my lady. I shall inform Constable Longdirk immediately of what has transpired, but in the meantime I respectfully counsel you to be guided by Her Grace and His Magnificence."

Stupid, stolid, stagnant Diaz! He should have been an acolyte, not a mercenary! The footman and postilion had opened the coach door and dropped the steps. The guards had closed in around the group.

"Come, dear." Maud laid a hand on her arm.

"Where are we going?"

"My house is at your disposal, Majesty," Marradi said.

She had seen that gloomy pile. Hamish had pointed it out to her. It looked like a fortress. "My clothes—"

Lucrezia laughed. "You will have all the clothes you can stand to try on, child, garments more suitable for a palace, I daresay."

"My maid! Beritola?"

"We can send for her if you wish, but I can give you a dozen better."

Reluctantly — oh, so reluctantly! — Lisa let her mother urge her toward the coach. Hamish would rescue her! No. Disloyal though it seemed, she did not believe that. The only person she could imagine who might be able to rescue her from the Marradi's clutches was Toby Longdirk.

Unless he had been the one to betray her.

CHAPTER THREE

The conclave was a disaster. Hour by hour it became more obvious that the cities would never agree, and the Khan's intervention had only made things worse, because Sartaq knew nothing, his advisors were incompetent, and every one of them wanted to meddle. Nevil would be receiving very encouraging reports from his agents.

The agony was that it should have worked. The men Toby had invited had all come: Giovanni Alfredo, Ercole Abonio, Bruno Villari from Rome — whose only good quality was that he fought like three rabid badgers — and from Naples, Egano Gioberti, Jules Desjardins, and even Paride Mezzo, the collaterale, who had ridden all the way in agony, knowing he was dying but anxious to do his duty to the end. All for nothing! Even the Swiss had responded. On the second day Beltramo di Nerbona rode in at the head of a delegation from no less than ten of the thirteen cantons, which was an astonishing show of cooperation. They left before dawn. They knew a lost cause when they saw one.

At first Toby assumed that the senior delegates would be able to meet privately together, ignoring all the hangers-on and political parasites, but even that proved to be impossible. Every man had a spy or two at his shoulder put there by his own government, quite apart from the dozen or so others assigned to him by other states — at times the gramarye in the air made the hob itch so much that Toby could hardly think. Hundreds of minor condottieri and would-be condottieri swarmed like mosquitoes, all trying to gain promotion by signing on with one of the major states or larger companies, while the Tartar officials and innumerable Italian politicians just kept getting in the way. It was a madhouse, worse than juggling beehives.

The meetings and conferences were all held in public. No one knew who was supposed to be included, so everyone turned up rather than insult the Khan's representatives. Neguder was brought all the way from Florence in a litter and carried back again three days later, having not sobered up once. He slept on a throne as his interpreter read his speech again, the same speech he had given in Florence, while all the senior soldiers in Italy and half the second-string politicians crouched with their noses on the floor.

On the second day there was almost a riot. Nevil would certainly be told about the two cardinals who turned up and were very nearly hanged on a tree by enraged mercenaries. The Don Ramon Company was far from alone in being short of hexers, but the College remained obdurate. Rome's own Captain-General Villari admitted that he lacked adequate spiritual protection and did not intend to move his forces far from the walls of the Eternal City itself.

Sartaq arrived about noon on that last day. He had sent no warning, so the sight of the long procession trotting up the slope to the villa with pennants flying and armor flashing threw the whole conference into panic. Fortunately Toby was one of the first to notice, and with Hamish's help he organized a makeshift guard of honor on the steps — military leaders on one side, politicians on the other. There was barely even time to argue about precedence. One portly priore did try to move closer to the top, but after Toby picked him up and carried him back down to where Hamish had put him there was no more trouble.

The grand parade halted; the prince dismounted. One of the Tartar courtiers had emerged from the villa to gabble hasty instructions. As Sartaq reached the start of the honor guard, everyone knelt and touched his face to the ground. Because Florence was hosting the conclave, Hamish had put the don at the top of the steps, with old Cecco de' Carisendi opposite him. Toby crouched beside the don for what seemed like a very long time as the prince paced up the steps, and he was hard put to contain a rising tide of anger. He could almost dream of giving in to his frustration and letting the hob go on a rampage, blasting and smiting everything in sight. All his work was being wasted, his efforts balked. Surely there had never been a more useless council of war in the history of war itself! Men who ought to be preparing for a terrible struggle were being humiliated to honor a stripling foreigner whose only qualification was that he claimed to be descended from some notable butchers three hundred years ago. The darughachi who had been sent to save Italy was destroying it, and Italy was letting it happen.

Temptation itched like nettle rash. The Don Ramon Company controlled the villa and would follow Longdirk's orders. He could put the prince under arrest and declare Italy free of the Khan's hegemony. At best the states would unite in the face of the Fiend's threat. At worst his coup would divide them worse than before and make Nevil's task easier. Republics like Florence might split wide open. Sartaq's Tartar bodyguard would certainly resist, and some of the delegations might side with them, so the bloodshed would start immediately.

It was an impossible dream. However bad the darughachi's leadership might be, it could not be replaced now. That was another mystery of power — it was almost indestructible.

The royal riding boots came to a halt in front of his nose; he heard a brief exchange in Tartar. Then the prince went indoors, and the honor guard could rise and hastily brush dust off their knees and hands before bowing to Sartaq's entourage as it came up the stairs after him. The drab, unimpressive figure in front was the Magnificent himself, Pietro Marradi.

He acknowledged them all with a small bow, a smile, and almost invariably a name — right, left, right, left… Once or twice he turned his ear to a chancellor at his back, who would whisper a name he had forgotten, and no doubt he had been provided with lists of all the more important guests, but it was still a masterly performance. His smile turned toward Toby — and vanished.

Toby paused halfway out of his bow, then straightened up more slowly. "Your Magnificence?"

"Messer Longdirk!" It was understood that Il Volpe never lost his composure and would continue to smile politely under any circumstances. But he had displayed anger in the piazza three weeks ago, and he was making no effort to hide it now. "You presume far, messer, when you keep secrets from me!"

"Me, Your Magnificence? Secrets?" What was going on now? Toby could think of nothing he had withheld that was of any significance. Bartolo submitted all the required reports to the dieci. "I can only assure—"

"Very significant secrets!"

"I cannot imagine to what Your Magnificence refers." Nor could he imagine why he had to be humiliated with this accusation before such an audience.

"Indeed?" Marradi sneered. "Does the name Blanche mean nothing to you?"

It felt like a punch in the kidneys. "What has happened?" Was Lisa in danger? Where was Hamish?… don't let Hamish do anything rash… Lisa!

His shock had shown on his face. The Magnificent smiled grimly at this evidence of guilt.

"What has happened is that your private conspiracy has been uncovered, messer. Fortunately the lady in question and her daughter have now been escorted to quarters fitting to their rank, where they will be much less at risk than in a camp full of mercenary rabble."

Demons! Lisa was in no immediate danger if she had been kidnapped by Marradi himself. For a moment Toby could think of nothing more except the scores of ears and eyes around them. Nevil must certainly have agents here in the villa, and would guess who Blanche was. Hamish. Was Hamish within earshot? How to keep Hamish out of trouble? He found his tongue.

"Your Magnificence, if we must discuss a lady, surely we can do so in private?" Betrayed! Who could have revealed the countess's true identity?

The Magnificent was seething. "There is no need to discuss the lady, messer. She and her daughter are quite safe now. What we shall need to discuss is your conduct in concealing them from us when your obvious duty was otherwise." The Magnificent stalked past the don and on into the villa.

Toby looked around anxiously for Hamish.

"How very extraordinary!" Villari remarked. "Do you always let him talk to you like that, Constable?"

Toby resisted an impulse to flatten the odious little man. Villari was a competent fighter when he had no choice in the matter. So was a rat.

The don snorted and charged to his deputy's defense. "He is only a moneylender — what do you expect? Which bawd is he pursuing, Constable?" The copper mustache curled in a smile; the mad blue eyes were raging.

"Not the one he thinks he is, signore. I fear there has been a most unfortunate mistake."

If that disclaimer convinced anyone at all, it was no one in Italy. The audience grinned from ear to ear, a hundred ears, one enormous multiple grin all the way around them, a forest of teeth.

"Perhaps it was you who mistook the name, messer Scotsman," Villari suggested loudly. "You may have misheard because her thighs were over your ears."

Pounding him into the ground would be too good for him. And there was Hamish in the background, staring at Toby with eyes like open wounds and white cheekbones showing through his tan as if it were varnish. Think of something, quickly, think of some reason to keep Hamish busy so he could not vault on Eachan and spur like a maniac to Florence. "Chancellor!" At least now there was no need to worry that Hamish might vanish in the night with Lisa and her mother en route to Malta. But, oh, Lisa! She was lost now. The great monster Politics had wrapped its tentacles around her, and she would never escape. A nightingale caught in a net. A sunbeam lost in fog. She had been under his protection. Whatever would they do to her? Hamish arrived.

"Lists?" Toby babbled. "You have some lists we have to go over. The seating for the banquet. Guard roster…"

Hamish looked at him as if he had taken leave of his senses, which perhaps he had. "They will have to wait." He switched to Gaelic. "Have you gone deaf? They are calling all senior military personnel to wait on the prince."

"Er, what?" He had not been listening…

"A council. Sober up, Toby!"

"Demons! You mean it's actually going to happen?"

"Of course." Hamish took him by his elbow, as if he were a child or a tottering geriatric and guided him into the villa, walking with the tide. "This way. But for spirits' sake keep your back to the wall."

Not only was Sartaq going to confer with the military, he had graciously stipulated that the meeting would be held in western fashion — meaning upright, not kneeling. As Toby strode into the hall and saw the senior condottieri and collaterale standing before the throne, he felt a flutter of hope for the first time in weeks. It wavered when he realized that they were far from alone, and more people were flooding in behind him. Did Sartaq truly intend to discuss strategy in public? The politicians were much in evidence already — Marradi and a group of Florentines, the Venetian commissioners, the Neapolitan ambassador, who was King Fredrico's bastard son. Seeing Ercole Abonio towering over the throng, Toby began pushing in his direction, and none too gently, but before he arrived at his destination he heard a chancellor thump his staff on the floor and had to stop where he was. The crowd hushed expectantly.

In happier times the brilliantly decorated hall must have been the site of fine banquets. The usual tables and benches had been removed for the conclave and replaced by a single chair of state. Even so, the prince's bodyguards had to push a path through the crowd for him. He advanced to the throne, but instead of sitting he just turned and stood in front of it, looking over the assembly, acknowledging the bows with a solemn nod. He was clad in Italian costume of tights, shirt, tunic, and a short cloak, all of somber browns and greens that had probably been carefully chosen to suit his coloring. He was short, but there was more than padding spreading the shoulders of his doublet, and his legs were impressive. It was the first time Toby had seen him at close quarters. He did not look like an idiot. His eyes were quick. Younger sons of Oriental potentates were traditionally sequestered at puberty with unlimited opportunities for debauchery so that they would rot their brains, ruin their health, and never become a threat to the succession. Sartaq did not look as if that had happened to him, but he was the product of a decayed system, so perhaps he had just never learned to think for himself.

His gaze came to rest on Toby. Toby stared right back. The men in front of him sidled out of the way, dissipating like morning dew.

"You are the one called Longdirk?"

Toby bowed. "Your Highness's most humble servant."

"You were in charge at the Battle of Trent." The accent was strange, but his Italian was better than Toby's, spoken without hesitation.

"I had that honor, Your Magnificence."

"If you were in command of all my father's armies in Italy now, what would you do to deal with the Fiend's invasion?"

The obvious answer began, "I would call a secret and intimate conclave of the leading soldiers…" But that was what he had done when the problem had been winning agreement between the five major states. Now the problem was different. The prince could command obedience.

The second most obvious answer began, "I certainly would not announce my plans with half the population taking notes." But that would be lèse-majesté and disaster.

Toby stepped forward, clear of the crowd. "Your Highness, we know that the traitor is mustering armies and moving them south. We assume, and must assume, that he plans to bring them over the Alps, but we do not yet know which pass or passes he will choose. Roughly, he can come by the Brenner Pass, which will lead him through Trent and Verona and pose an immediate threat to Venice." Let the spies test their memories on this — there was nothing in it that Nevil did not know already. "He may come by one of the central passes, such as the St. Gotthard, but the established route uses boats to traverse Lake Como and is not practicable for a great army. The western passes—"

"I have seen the maps, Constable. I asked what you would do."

Sweat! This was either his chance to win the post he craved or some horrible trap, and the fact that he had been given no warning made the trap explanation the more likely. He knew exactly what he would do if he were comandante. He was not going to reveal it here. He bowed again. "I crave Your Highness's pardon. In brief, I would prepare to relieve either Milan or Venice. The Fiend must protect his supply lines, or we can starve his army by wasting the country around him. He dare not leave Milan and Venice as threats in his rear. He might risk bypassing one of them, but never both. He must lay siege to one or the other, and that will be our chance to bring him to battle."

The prince rubbed his wispy mustache with a knuckle. "I did not ask for a lecture on the traitor's problems, messer. I asked for answers to mine. What will you do now—today and days following — if I reappoint you comandante?"

"Your Highness, the Fiend undoubtedly has spies in this hall."

"You refuse to answer my question?"

Sweat, sweat, sweat! "Signore… I would order the states to put their armies on twenty-four hours' notice to march. I would provision a rallying point at a suitable location." It would be at Piacenza, of course, north of the Apennines. All roads led to Piacenza, and Nevil must cross the Po there.

The hall was very quiet.

"You would do no more than that?" the boy demanded incredulously. "How long will it take King Fredrico's troops to march from Naples to this camp you have prepared for them, 'north of the Apennines?'"

"About a month, Your Highness."

"So you will allow the Fiend a clear month to lay waste my father's dominions! To loot and ravage unhindered. You hope that Milan or Venice can hold out against a siege for a month before you even muster your army to come to their aid?"

Of course not! It would take Nevil longer to bring his full strength over the Alps, so the other armies could be there to meet him. Meanwhile—

"We have heard you, messer," the prince said, silencing him with a wave of his fingers. "We have listened to youth. Now let us hear what age and experience can tell us. Monseigneur D'Anjou?"

Toby fell back a few steps and almost knocked over whoever was behind him, conscious of a chilling certainty that this charade had been planned in advance down to the last detail. In his darkest moments, he had feared that the haggard old French aristocrat now hobbling forward might be appointed suzerain. Making him comandante would be even worse.

D'Anjou had not been taken by surprise. He bowed low and spoke in French, but flatly, as if by rote. "Most Exalted Highness, there are only four or five passes by which the traitor Nevil can reasonably enter Italy. Another three or four are possible but unlikely. If you honor me with supreme command of our glorious Khan's armies in Italy, then of course I shall at once prepare to contest those passes. Why should we let him in without a fight? — to loot and ravage unhindered, as you so aptly put it a moment ago. I should also move all cavalry available to the plains of the Po, so that we may use their mobility to concentrate them against the Invader when he comes. I should order the Neapolitan and Roman forces to begin advancing north at once." The Chevalier bowed again. Then he flashed a predatory smile across at Toby, who had managed to catch only the gist of the speech.

He had made out enough to know that it was rubbish. When Nevil came, his army would be huge. He would bring it over several passes at the same time, so to contest its passage would be a criminal waste of men, serving no real purpose. To put all the Khan's forces in the field now, before there was even a threat, would produce problems in provisioning so bad that the plains of the Po might be looted and ravaged by their own defenders before the war even reached them. And the talk of cavalry just meant that D'Anjou had no faith in, or understanding of, infantry. He still thought a charge of mounted knights could settle anything.

The prince smiled approvingly — better an incompetent aristocrat, rightful King of France, than a peasant bastard from the barbarian ends of the world, however lucky the kid might have been last year.

"Chevalier, you are a man of courage and vision." He raised his head to scan the spectators. "Know you all that by virtue of the power invested in me by my beloved and puissant father, His Illustrious Majesty Ozberg Khan, I hereby appoint and name Louis, Duke of Anjou, supreme commander of all military forces in our father's dominions in Italy and charge him to take all necessary measures to repel the traitor Nevil. We likewise order all the said forces to obey his commands and all states and powers and dominions to cooperate with him in every way."

A moment's silence was followed by a ragged cheer.

The prince seated himself on the throne. The Chevalier advanced and knelt, obviously to perform the ceremony of obeisance. Toby's stomach churned. Disregarding all rules of protocol and courtesy to princes, he spun around and shoved his way through the crowd, heading for the door.

Since joining the Don Ramon Company, D'Anjou had never lost a battle. In the eleven years before that, he had never won one.

CHAPTER FOUR

In the field where the Company's mounts were picketed, Hamish was already saddling up Eachan, intent on heading back to Florence to locate Lisa. Toby fetched Smeòrach and joined him. He received a quizzical glance.

"Running away? Not like you."

Toby hauled on Smeòrach's girth a little harder than necessary. "Nothing more for me to do here."

"Stand still, lummox!" That remark was addressed to Eachan. "How can Sartaq expect D'Anjou to defend anything more valuable than a wheelbarrow?"

"Possibly because he's a degenerate, pampered, royal moron."

About to mount, Hamish paused and frowned as he did when he had a juicy puzzle to gnaw on. "Even so, there's something wrong, you know? D'Anjou's only qualification for anything is his royal blood. Militarily he's laughable. Logically, he should have been appointed suzerain and told to leave the fighting to you. That would have worked. There's something going on I can't see."

Toby snorted. "It's called stupidity. It's the national pastime."

"No. It's as if… You don't suppose Sartaq's actually working for the Fiend, do you?"

The thought was tempting. "It would explain a lot, wouldn't it? But they whipped him into the sanctuary smartly when he arrived. The spirit would have blown a bugle if he was a traitor. Now let's get out of here before our esteemed captain-general finds me."

The don would be incensed that his deputy had been insulted, appalled at the thought of serving under a commander so incompetent, and yet hopelessly trapped by his loyalty to the Khan and his conviction that aristocrats were invariably superior beings. Conflicts enough to unhinge the sanest of men would drive him into a gibbering frenzy. Let somebody else handle him this time.

"Do you feel," Hamish asked, as they rode off along the road, "that this conclave has achieved anything at all?"

Toby thought for a moment. There had to be some use in anything. "Yes. I think future historians will use it to date the fall of Italy."

They spoke very little. Hamish was calm but understandably bitter at the cruel blow fate had dealt him. Toby had only clammy comfort to offer. He mentioned the bereavements he had known — Granny Nan, Jeanne, friends in the Company — and of how all wounds must heal in time. But that was sometime, this was now.

"You always knew it could not be," he said. "You never expected to share her throne in Greenwich Palace. Could you have endured watching her washing clothes in the burn?"

Hamish gave him a sour look. "Do you think she wouldn't wash shirts for me, or I wouldn't dig fields for her? If the Don Ramon Company ever pays me what it owes me, I'll have enough to buy a farm, and farmers can afford servants. Or I could go back to Barcelona and work for Josep Brusi. He offered me as much to wield a pen as you pay me to risk my hide. I should have put Lisa on a horse and ridden off into the night. I should have taken her where the Fiend would never find us."

After a long silence, Toby said, "Yes, you probably should have."

He wondered what he would have done, had he been in Hamish's place. Had he been like other men.

They did not turn aside to Fiesole, but went on to Florence and the Marradi Palace. Even Hamish, who had made a point of befriending all the Magnificent's gatekeepers, could not gain admission that evening. He learned only that two golden-haired foreign ladies had arrived the day before and were staying on as guests. It was encouraging that their identity had not yet become public knowledge, but this could not be long delayed after Marradi's display of temper at Cafaggiolo.

They rode back to the villa to break the bad news and reassure Diaz that he had made the correct decision when he surrendered Lisa and her mother to the Magnificent. Then there was nothing else to do except clean up and eat and go on with the rest of their lives.

CHAPTER FIVE

"We call this the portrait gallery," Lucrezia said. "At the far end you will find some very imaginative impressions of what my forebears wished their forebears had looked like. At this end the art is more pleasing and probably more plausible. This one, for instance — Orpheus calming the waves. By Ruffolo."

Lisa said, "Charming."

"You prefer Apollo driving his chariot?"

"Bizarre."

The duchess eyed her guest thoughtfully, as might a hangman or taxidermist. "How about this one, Sisyphus rolling the boulder?"

"It is quite realistic." After an entire day in the Marradi palace, Lisa had not been tamed yet. She had a lot of fight left in her, although it was not likely to do her much good.

"The naked man or just the boulder?"

"Boulders are dull; they don't do anything. The man reminds me somewhat of High Constable Longdirk."

However well the courtesies were being observed, Lisa was a prisoner and the little smiling duchess her jailer. The Marradi Palace was a treasure-house of gorgeous things, but it was also a trap, a web shining in sunshine, and Lucrezia was the spider, the smiling spider. All of Lisa's struggles merely amused her. The one exception was Longdirk. He was the one topic that could cut through the woman's insufferable smugness. Any reference to the condottiere riled Lucrezia excessively. The man did have some uses, therefore, if he could bring a flush to Lucrezia's cheek and a flash to her eye.

As now. "I think you are indulging in wishful thinking, monna!"

Lisa attempted what she hoped was a cryptic, wouldn't-you-like-to-know smile. "About the calves, I mean. Have you never noticed those great bulges in Toby's hose? When he walks they run like rabbits up and down—"

"Come and sit here, Lisa." Mother had noticed the battle in progress. She was huddled on one of the gold-silk sofas as if she were freezing to death, although the gallery was hot and stuffy. She had aged twenty years since leaving Fiesole the previous day. Having spent her adult life staying one jump ahead of the hounds, she was convinced — as she had explained to Lisa fifty times in the night — that as soon as the two of them were identified in public the Fiend would catch them. Now it was about to happen.

Lisa ignored her. She turned her back on the Sisyphus anatomy lesson. "And what happens now, Your Grace?"

"Do please call me Lucrezia, Your Majesty."

Lisa smiled and waited.

Lucrezia smiled right back at her. "Now? Now we have a private little dinner party, just six of us. Tomorrow or the day after, there will be a banquet so the signory can welcome Queen Elizabeth of England and Queen Mother Blanche to fair Florence." Queen Mother Blanche moaned in the background, but the duchess ignored her. "You must excuse my brother for keeping you waiting like this. They only just got back from Cafaggiolo."

So the conclave was over. Longdirk would have returned to Fiesole and learned that his guests had been abducted — or rather that his prisoners had been stolen, because Lisa had no doubts that she had been just as much a prisoner in the villa as she was here. A prison with Hamish in it had much more appeal, though. Could even Longdirk do anything against the Magnificent? Did he want to? Had the goods been stolen or sold?

"Do tell me what happened at Cafaggiolo. I know that Constable Longdirk held few hopes of the conclave."

Lucrezia's smile had triumph all through it like the gold thread in her gown. "Then he would not have been surprised. Disappointed, yes, of course. The prince has appointed a comandante in capo, and it is not Longdirk."

Hamish had made no secret of the fact that Toby had wanted that title, but evidently he had not bought it with Lisa, which was encouraging. "I do hope Florence does not feel slighted. And who is the new champion?"

"You will meet him shortly."

"Oh. And who else?" Lisa realized she might be facing a long evening.

Lucrezia's smile confirmed that supposition. "Just the prince. You can ask him yourself why he did not choose your lover to be comandante."

"My who?"

Another catlike smile. "So it was wishful thinking!"

"If there is any wishful thinking, it is more on his part than mine." Lisa would not admit that she and Longdirk detested each other, snarling like cats every time their paths crossed. But she was in retreat now, like an outclassed fencer, and Lucrezia's rapier was flashing, drawing blood with every stroke—

"Then he will not be further disappointed when he learns of your betrothal?"

Squeak! "My what?"

"Dear child, what do you expect? The royal houses of Europe have been decimated and must be rebuilt. You have a lifetime's work ahead of you."

"You make me sound like a broodmare!" Lisa very nearly stamped her foot.

The duchess shrugged. "Call it what you will, I am sure the darughachi will want to br — will have plans for your early marriage. You can ask him that, too."

"I have no dowry!"

"You bring all England as your dowry, child." Oh, how Lucrezia was enjoying herself! Now it was Lisa who was outranked.

"Not very easy to collect."

"An interesting challenge. You are prime marriage material. The greatest houses in Europe would accept such a bride, even in normal times. Now, if necessary, you can be used to confer royalty on some man of lesser rank."

The footmen stationed outside the door opened it and bowed in the Magnificent, who in turn bowed to Lisa and then her mother.

"Your Majesties, my house continues to be honored by your presence. I trust that your comfort lacks nothing?"

Insignificant, unimpressive, he was yet a dangerously clever, foxy man. Lisa did not trust him even as far as she trusted Longdirk, which was no distance, but she had to admit that Marradi was charming, with manners sweet as honey. And Lucrezia was enemy enough for now.

"I feel I have been invited to stay in Olympus, Your Magnificence! Everyone has been most kind." Lisa heard her mother babble something similar.

He frowned and turned to his sister. "Is madonna Elizabeth dressed as becomes her rank? Could you not have—"

"We tried!" Lucrezia said. "She chose the style and fabric herself. Her coiffure, also. I offered to lend her pearls and jewels. She prefers to dress like this." Like a clerk's daughter, said the smile.

Her brother shrugged. "Then we honor your decision, monna. In truth, the lily needs no gilding."

That was very annoying of him, because Lisa had been trying to establish some independence by insisting on the simplest possible dress. Now he had turned her defiance into a virtue. Before she could comment, the door opened again. She braced herself for new battles.

Two men. The young one with the slanty eyes, squidgy nose, and stringy mustache must be the prince. Any son of the Khan took precedence over her and would do so even if she had been crowned queen in the sanctuary at Westminster. She sank into a full curtsey.

"Elizabeth! By the spirits, rise, rise!" Sartaq stretched out both hands to her. "Messer Marradi was raving so about your beauty that my thought was he was exaggerating. Reticent he was."

She rose and returned his smile as well as she could. "Your Highness is most gracious." Not exactly. He was shorter than she was. He had bad teeth and those slit eyes — even Longdirk's battlement features were better-looking. She also knew he already had two wives, and if he decided to add her to his collection, then no one in all Europe could stop him. Smile!

She expected him to release her and turn to receive Mother, who was waiting to be told to rise — it was a grim sign that she now ranked behind her own daughter. But the prince let go only Lisa's left hand and turned the other way, to the third man.

The third man was the ancient Chevalier D'Anjou, and suddenly she knew he was the new comandante. Hamish never had a good word to say about him. His nose had been shattered so often that he had almost no nose left. He stood as if his back hurt and held his head cocked sideways as he leered at her with a mouth that had lost most of its teeth. He had a grizzled beard, damp near his mouth. He made even Sartaq seem handsome.

The prince laughed. "Duchessa? Advise me. Your western etiquette for me makes a puzzle. Do I present the Queen of England to the King of France or the other way?"

CHAPTER SIX

Toby had gone to bed just after the sun did, expecting to sleep well for a change — he had done his best, and events were out of his hands now. When he realized he was awake the angle of moonbeams from the window told him it was not yet midnight. For a while he lay and cursed, certain he would not go back to sleep. He began to worry about Sorghaghtani. She had not been in the adytum, and no one could recall seeing her for two or three days. Unlike Sartaq, she was a problem he could do something about. He sat up and reached for his shirt.

"Where are you going?" Hamish was lying on his back with his arms under his head, alert and brooding.

"For a walk."

"Why don't you sleep? You've been yawning for weeks."

"I'm not very good at giving up."

"You've never tried. It's time you learned how."

Toby stuffed his feet in his hose and rose to pull them on, crouching to avoid banging his head on the rafters. "I'll try. Go to sleep."

Hamish sighed and closed his eyes and said nothing more.

The hob raised no hackles when he approached the adytum. He tapped and tried the door; it opened. The tinderbox was still in the nook where Fischart had kept it. He lit a candle, and its dancing light confirmed that there was no one there.

He walked around the big room without finding anything to tell him where Sorghaghtani had gone or when she had left. Indeed, he saw almost nothing to indicate that she had ever been there, except that the place was tidier than it had been in Fischart's time. In his torment of guilt the hexer had slept on the floor and used his bed for storage. Sorghie had covered it with straw and a blanket. Otherwise, the little shaman might never have existed. The water jar was empty.

Toby blew out the candle, replaced it where he had found it, and went for a walk in the moonlight.

He found no answers in the night. It was doubtful that Don Ramon would ever put the Company under D'Anjou's orders, and Ercole would certainly not cooperate. He might ask his duke to contribute a few lances, no more. In Florence the signory would doubtless pay lip service to the new order as long as Sartaq remained in the city, but the moment he left it would be business as usual, which was Florence first and everybody else nowhere. No, any army the new comandante raised would fly apart at the first sign of trouble. He would fail.

Toby Longdirk had already failed.

It was not far short of dawn when he was summoned. He was giving Smeòrach a rubdown by moonlight in the stable yard when a white ghost swooped over his head and cried, "Hoo!" An instant later she came again, this time lower so that he felt the wind of her passing. He had no doubt that it was Chabi. "Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!"

He opened the stable door and slapped Smeòrach's rump. "Go to bed, big fellow!" With a snort the gelding lumbered inside, heading for his stall. Toby took off at a run, with the owl plunging and swooping over his head as if pleading for haste. Even when he reached the narrow path through the cypresses, she stayed with him. He thumped on the door and hauled it open at the same time, but pulled it shut behind him before the owl could follow, knowing Sorghaghtani rarely allowed Chabi inside.

"Sorghaghtani? Sorghaghtani! Sorghie?"

The cypresses were shadowing all the windows, but something had changed in the darkness. His hands shook as he fumbled with the tinderbox. Fortunately the first spark caught, and he breathed it up into a flame for the candle. The darkness lifted then, showing her sprawled on her side in the middle of the floor, one arm stretched out as if trying to reach her drum, which lay just beyond her fingers. Her headdress had fallen off, her dress was ripped in several places.

Setting the candle on the floor for safety, he lifted her and carried her over to the bed, marveling once again at how little she weighed. He could see no injuries except a few faint scratches on her face, arms, and one of her tiny breasts. There was no blood anywhere, and her breathing sounded peaceful. Her lips were crusted and her tongue swollen. Water? He would have to leave her and run for water, for the jar had been empty. It was worth a second look, though, so he took a second look and was relieved to see that he had been mistaken the first time. There was a small amount left in the bottom. He filled a beaker and took it to her.

All the time, he was saying, "Sorghie! Sorghie!"

He wet a finger and laved her lips. Her tongue moved. He sat beside her, raised her up, held the beaker to her mouth. "Sorghie! Sorghie! Wake up, Sorghie! It's Toby." Her straight black hair was crudely hacked short, like a boy's, and she smelled of fresh hay. She was even younger than he had guessed and might have been pretty had she not been horribly mutilated. Where her eyelids should be there was only white scar tissue, hideous and sunken, apparently burns. Tongue moved, lips moved, and in a moment she swallowed.

"You'll be all right," he said, over and over, although he had not the slightest idea what was wrong. Her injuries — the scratches and ripped clothes — might have come from falling into a gorse bush, but he wondered if she had dropped through some cypress trees. It made no sense, it just seemed to fit. If evil men had maltreated her, they would have done much worse. The loss of her sight, whether atrocity or accident, had happened years ago.

"Toby?" The single word was both a croak and a whisper, but very welcome.

"Yes. What do you need?" He was still supporting her in the crook of his arm.

She did not answer for a while. Then her tiny hands pulled her dress closed over her miniature breasts. "Were you looking?"

"Yes. Very pretty."

She smiled at that. "Why do you not open the door so I can see?"

"I'll have to lay you down."

She struggled feebly. "Cannot I sit?"

He eased her back so she could lean against the headboard, then went and opened the door. Chabi came in with a rush, circled the room, and soared up to a rafter. Toby scooped up the fallen hat and blindfold and went back to kneel beside the bed and offer them to the shaman. "Feeling better?"

She hastened to cover her ruined eyes, but he took the chance to run fingers through her hair. Short though it was, it was thick, and its coarseness made it heavy and somehow sensuous. She smiled at him.

"Why do you look so worried?" She was flattered by his concern.

"Are you not my friend? Should I not then be worried?"

"Are you learning bad habits from me, answering questions with questions?"

"Probably. But since we are friends, will you not tell me the truth now? The prince did not send you. He's never heard of you, has he?"

She shook her head, apparently looking down at her knees.

"Then where did you come from?"

Her tiny hand tried to close on his huge one and settled for squeezing one finger. "How well do you know the Caucasus, Little One?"

"Only that it… er, they… they are very far away." He could ask Hamish. "How did you come?"

"When I arrived, was I not limping?"

"You walked? How long did it take you? Who sent you?"

She seemed willing to tell him her story now, but her inability to speak anything other than questions made the process difficult. As far as he could tell, she had walked for the best part of two years to reach Florence — or to reach him, for it seemed that he had been her goal. She must have set out about the time he arrived in Italy to become a soldier of fortune, and she had certainly been only a child then. Why? Because the spirits had called her, of course. Hamish had mentioned that shamans were always called; the spirits gave them no choice. Of her family or what had happened to her eyes she did not speak, and he did not ask.

"You must rest now," he said. "But one more question. Tonight you traveled in the spirit world. What did you find there?"

Her mouth twisted as if in pain. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Know you anthills, Little Boy? Myriads and myriads of ants? By a lake, do you see?" She moaned and swayed. He sat on the edge of the bed again and held her. She leaned into his bulk, seeking comfort. "You know Lemanus and the Mount of Jove, Little One?"

"No."

She made a sound like a sob. "What else can we do? Am I not trying my best?"

"You are doing your best, and it is more than enough. I know who will tell me of those names. Now you must sleep, Sorghie. Will you eat first? Drink more?"

"Drink?" she murmured, and he gave her the beaker to sip again. He kissed her cheek and stood up.

She demanded her drum and insisted she wanted nothing more. When he opened the door to leave, Chabi hurtled by him and vanished into the dawn. He sprinted for the villa and returned with water, and bread, and oil, but she was already asleep, clutching the drum and sucking her thumb like a child.

Hamish lay on his pallet in exactly the same position as before, head on arms, snoring like a water mill. He was going to have horrible pins and needles. Toby poked him.

"Hamish! The Mount of Jove — where is it? Hamish, wake up! Lemanus! Where is the Mount of Jove? And a lake. Lake Garda? Como? Maggiore?"

He grunted a series of, "Who? What?" noises. His eyes opened, wavering. He tried to move an arm and grimaced.

"Where is the Mount of Jove?" Toby shouted.

"Uh? What's the matter?" Hamish brought his eyes into focus like an archer aiming an arrow. "Toby? What time is it? Demons, my shoulders! Go roll in the honey pits."

"Answer me! Where is the Mount of Jove? And Lemanus?"

"Mount of Jove is the pass of Gran San Bernardo. And the road goes by Lacus Lemanus, Lake Geneva. Why the Latin? Why are you asking?"

Toby sank back on his haunches with a sigh. "Because that's how he's coming — the Fiend. He's on his way." It was to be Turin and Milan.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Before the city roosters fell silent, Toby was in Florence, beating on doors. The don, the Chevalier, the Magnificent, Prince Sartaq, even doddery old Carisendi, chairman of the Ten — he tried to warn all of them that the Fiend was on his way. Not one of them would believe that any shaman or hexer could see as far as the Great Saint Bernard Pass, let alone Lake Geneva. They all seemed much more interested in the grand public reception that was to be held for the young Queen of England.

When it was duly held, three days later, it was a very elaborate affair indeed. No one actually said that it might be the last one ever to be held in the Palace of the Signory, but that implication overhung it like a rain cloud heading for a picnic. The don wore his silver helmet and was almost ignored. Every flunky and officeholder and his wife crammed into the banquet hall, and most of them delivered speeches. All the rest of Florence turned out just to catch a glimpse of the two English queens arriving in their coach and then to shed a tear over their dramatic and tragic tale — and perhaps also to savor a frisson of dread that with the terrible Fiend poised to invade Italy at any moment here were his wife and daughter in the flesh. It was a stunning civic triumph, and it took all day.

Captain-General Don Ramon and his deputy had been standing in a packed and suffocatingly stuffy hall for almost two hours before they even caught a glimpse of the guests of honor, to whom in due course they would have a chance to pay their respects. Blanche looked like a well-decorated corpse, or a puppet on strings. Lisa was… was Lisa. Someone with exquisite taste had robed her in torrents of pale blue silk and sprinkled jewels all over her, and any man would have cheerfully fallen at her feet. Knowing her as he did, Toby could tell that she was nervous and upset, but she was hiding it with an aplomb far beyond her years, smiling, acknowledging, thanking. She was displaying a truly royal grace he had not seen in her before — was that an inherited trait she had never bothered to reveal, or was she just enjoying being the center of attention? This was not the spoiled, self-centered brat he had known for the last two months. She was barely a woman, still some days short of sixteen, and yet her aura filled the hall. Had Hamish been present, he would have died of longing.

The don, never patient, was fretful but would control his temper because he was waiting on royalty. Mostly he passed the time accepting adulation from lesser folk brought into his proximity by the slow shuffle of the line as it wound snakelike about the hall, but once he turned to Toby and demanded:

"Have you established yet who betrayed our guests?"

Until the scene at Cafaggiolo, he had believed like everyone else that Lisa was Hamish's sister. Toby had expected him to raise a tempest over that deception, but this was the first time he had mentioned the subject.

"No, senor. When I do, I will break every bone in his body."

Don Ramon smiled. "Let me know in advance. I shall enjoy watching."

"Sì, senor. Do you wish me to save you a rib or two?"

"No. I would not hinder you in any way." After a moment he added, "But I was constantly amazed that we were able to keep the secret as long as we did."

To which the only possible reply was, "Sì, senor."

Eventually protocol delivered them to the royal guests — the two queens and Sartaq, who was acting as host, liege lord of the city. When the presentation was over there would be time for only a couple of quick sentences. Toby had been agonizing over what he would say to Lisa, but even when he was bowing to the prince he had not decided.

Sartaq looked extremely pleased with himself. "Constable!" He dropped his voice to a whisper, and spoke — surprisingly — in English. "We leave out Scotland after all!"

"Your Highness?"

"Not wanting to hurt your feelings!" With a chuckle and a twinkle that seemed almost a wink, the Khan's son turned to the next in line.

Toby managed not to say, "After what you did to me at Cafaggiolo you are worried about my feelings, you young idiot?"

His family was hopelessly inbred, of course, given to congenital insanity.

Now Lisa! She acknowledged Toby's bow with a nod, but her royal composure wavered as she glanced at the line behind him — looking for Hamish and not finding him.

Toby blurted out the message, still wondering if it was a cruelty in the circumstances. "He said to tell you he will never forget."

"Tell him…" She swallowed hard. "Tell him to try. We shall never forget your kindness, Sir Tobias. Do you know who…?"

"No, ma'am. When I find out, I will kill him for you."

"Kill him again for Hamish," Lisa said bitterly.

Then he had to move on.

Queen Blanche gave him a skeletal smile. "You tried, Constable. Whatever happens it will not be your fault."

He mumbled some suitable reply. It would be his fault, of course. Had he wanted, he could have put Blanche and her daughter on a ship to Malta. He wondered why he had not. Could his reluctance to lose Hamish have been the whole reason?

The finale of the ceremony saw Lisa doing homage to the darughachi for England, Wales, Ireland, Aquitaine, and a few assorted other possessions of the English crown. Nevil had long since been branded traitor and declared deposed, of course, but this was the first time the Khanate had recognized a successor. The palace rang with cheers, which were undoubtedly mostly for the lovely madonna Elizabeth. No man would have received such an ovation.

So Sartaq had not been entirely joking about Scotland, although Toby was certain that whatever the reason it had been left off the list, his personal feelings had not been involved. He was not even sure who his rightful king was since Fergan had been caught and murdered. He made a mental note to ask Hamish when he returned to the villa.

"You know," the don remarked quietly, twirling his mustache, "Nevil is certain to hear of this. It should feel as good as fleas in his armor."

"I'm glad I don't have to break the news to him," Toby agreed. The only silver lining he could see in it all was that Lisa must now be under Sartaq's protection. He would be ringed with defenses against demon attacks, and he certainly would not hang around Italy if the Fiend seemed likely to overrun it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The following morning, couriers arrived with news that the Fiend's horde had been sighted in the pass. His advance scouts had come down into the plains two days after Sorghaghtani's questing, and this was duly reported a few days later in Florence. D'Anjou's grand plan was ashes already. Toby could take no joy of that. He had predicted a month. It would be April, blood on the lilacs. Had he been put in charge, he would have moved faster, but he still would not have had time to organize a united defense. The delays caused by Sartaq's meddling had made disaster inevitable. Nevil would be in Naples before the end of June.

The Chevalier summoned all the armies of Italy to muster at Piacenza, then rode north to take charge. The Fiend's forces poured into Savoy. The duke and his family fled Turin, which seemed certain to be the first target.

Next came word that a second army, even larger, was crossing the Brenner Pass and menacing Trent, the city Toby had saved the previous fall. That news made him grind his teeth in frustration, for had he been able to establish a base at Piacenza as he had wanted, he would have been able to strike at the two columns separately, before they could unite. Meanwhile he worked day and night preparing the army of Florence to ride out. The Don Ramon Company was ready, but too many of the other units were still in a state of muddle. He set the eighth as the day of departure.

On the seventh he and the don were summoned to a meeting of the dieci. Doddering old Cecco de' Carisendi, who usually gave the impression that he might have been someone of note in the silk weavers' guild early in the previous century, was that day surprisingly clear spoken and effectual. He stood erect with his nine fellow councillors at his back in the gloomy, paneled chamber, and he minced no words. There would be no march north. The army of Florence was to remain in Florence.

The don roared like an artillery barrage. Wars were not won by defense, he declared. This was cowardice, betrayal, and folly. The Fiend would like nothing better. After he had repeated everything twice, he fell silent, glaring. He had not quite threatened to take the Company north anyway, but he was obviously considering it. All eyes turned to Toby.

"Am I correct in assuming that His Highness has left the city?" He tried not to let the question sound like a sneer.

Carisendi shook his head and blinked his bleary eyes. "No, indeed, messer. I saw the prince not an hour ago. He is preparing a… He has no plans to leave Florence yet."

That was a surprise, if true. "And he approves of this action?"

"That is not your concern, Constable. Under the condotta, you are bound by the directives of the dieci della guerra."

"I am well aware of this. Why do you buy a guard dog and then chain it?"

Ten hapless burghers twitched and fidgeted; they scratched and shuffled their feet, and few of them could meet his eye. They all knew that what they were demanding was wrong. He wondered who was twisting their cords — the Magnificent? or Sartaq? or perhaps it was the Fiend himself.

"You must understand," Carisendi bleated, "that the forces of Rome and Naples have not yet made their way north. Florence cannot denude herself of defenders while two great armies are due to pass through Tuscany. Once they have gone by, then the matter will be reviewed. Your advice will be solicited at that time, Captain-General; yours also, of course, Constable."

That was never. Bruno Villari had repeated loud and often that unless the College provided more spiritual protection — meaning hexers well supplied with demons — he would refuse to move his men out of sight of the city walls. Conversely, while Rome retained its potential for attack, King Fredrico would not strip Naples' defenses. Nobody was coming north.

"You can expect a large influx of refugees, Your Magnificence," Toby said. "I haven't heard any news today, but I imagine Trent and Turin have both burned by now. Verona will fall tomorrow or the day after. If Nevil sees no sign of organized opposition, he may even tackle Venice and Milan at the same time before—"

"I have not finished issuing you your instructions, messer. Effective immediately, you are to post guards on all gates to prevent any mass exodus."

"So we are not your defenders? We are jailers?"

The chairman scowled. "Certainly not. You will allow people to pass freely, but not carry away their household possessions. Trade must continue, but panic could be extremely deleterious. And henceforth you will concentrate all your energies on preparing Florence to withstand a siege."

Somehow even this ultimate stupidity was not a surprise. "Florence cannot withstand a siege. Your walls are two hundred years old, and while they may have been adequate when they were built, cannons have made them obsolete. The Fiend will set up his artillery on the hill of San Miniato and blast you to fragments."

"We have cannons!"

"But they cannot throw a shot high enough to reach the hilltop."

The dieci exchanged shocked glances.

"Cannot you extend the walls to include the hill?" Carisendi asked weakly.

"I can try," Toby said. If the citizens were to be held in the city at sword point, they would be happier being kept busy building walls. "The timing will be very tight, but if Milan manages to hold out for a month or so, the Fiend won't get here before the middle or end of June."

The old man sighed. "Take whatever steps you can, messer. Your written instructions will be delivered by noon." He looked very frail as he returned the two mercenaries' bows.

Side by side they marched across to the door.

"Absolute insanity!" the don barked, even before he was outside the chamber. "This is what we get for prostituting our honor to a stinking gang of dyers and weavers!"

For once Toby was inclined to agree with him. He had signed the condotta, so he was bound to obey orders. In the past he had always contracted to perform a specific deed and retained some freedom to choose how he would do it. He had not seen that Florence's terms were different. Too late now, for he could not march away in a snit, leaving the city with no defenders.

No cities had ever successfully resisted the Fiend — they surrendered or they fell. Unlike the great Genghis, Nevil rarely showed mercy to those who submitted to him, because the demon in him enjoyed the cruelty too much. Even if he left one of his two armies in the north, the other could crush the defenses in a matter of days. He had too many demons, too many guns, too many men.

The only hope was another appeal to the Cardinal College. If it would supply the hexers needed, if it would send Villars north, if Naples would then cooperate, if there was enough time… then Toby might be able to organize a line of defense in the Apennines. Milan and perhaps Venice were lost now, and all the lesser cities of the Po Valley, but it was still just possible that the war could be kept away from Florence.

As the two mercenaries crossed the antechamber, Hamish stepped into their path and one glance at his face was enough.

Toby said, "I bet my bad news is worse than your bad news."

"I doubt that." Hamish never smiled now.

"Tell us!" the don snapped.

"The prince has appointed a suzerain. The edict has just been proclaimed."

"It's a tie," Toby said. "We all know what the Fiend does to suzerains. Who is the lucky man?"

Hamish pulled a face as if the words had a foul taste. "The King of England."

His listeners exchanged perplexed glances.

"No, Hamish. The king of England is the one we're fighting. You've got your flags mixed up."

"Pietro Marradi, the Magnificent. As of this morning he is suzerain of the Khan in Europe. He's going to marry Lisa, and then he will be officially recognized as King of England." It was the wedding, not the appointment, that was sickening Hamish.

Toby's first thought was that Sartaq had made a very shrewd choice — an amazing choice! He had done the unthinkable, appointed a commoner, but Marradi's infinite political skill was just what the Khanate needed if it was ever to outmaneuver the Fiend. Even if he was more than twice Lisa's age, he was still young enough to take a second wife. She was marrying the richest man in Europe…

His second thought came just as the don put it into words: "I wonder what the Fiend will think of this?"

CHAPTER NINE

It was done. The ink stain on her finger was evidence enough to damn her. She, Blanche, dowager Queen of England, had signed the contract betrothing her royal daughter to an Italian banker. Would future generations scorn her and heap curses on her head, or would they praise the brilliance of her acumen as madonna Lucrezia predicted? Would they laud Prince Sartaq as brilliant strategist or condemn him as merciless tyrant? A bully, certainly. Had she listened to Lisa, the pair of them would even now be locked up in a dungeon in the palace of justice, indicted for defying a direct order from the Khan's darughachi. He had not been bluffing, she was certain.

The verdict of history not yet being available, Blanche was pacing the chamber she shared with Lisa, back and forth, to and fro, hither and yon. It was a spacious and elegant room, but it had not been designed for pacing and was cluttered with chairs, chests, wardrobes, and dressing tables. Lisa had hurled herself bodily into the feather mattress and, as far as it was possible to slam curtains, had slammed the curtains behind her. Periodically muffled signs of sobbing came through the heavy material. Blanche had reasoned, pleaded, and remonstrated, to no avail. All Lisa would say was that she was going to kill herself at the first opportunity.

"Kill me first," Blanche said miserably, and received no reply. After all these years… For a while, a little while, a brief two precious months while she had been Longdirk's guest at the villa, the nightmares had stopped. After all these years! For some reason she had trusted that large young man as she had trusted no one since the demon ate her husband, and her sleep had been untroubled. And now it was all back — nights of torment, hands shaking, stomach writhing at the sight of food. Now she was known. She was exposed, like the nightmare where all her clothes fell off in the middle of a busy street. She was trapped, like the nightmare of the cage and the rising tide. Now — today — she had, just maybe, found a new way out. She had betrothed her daughter to one of the richest men in the world, who was now one of the most powerful, the Khan's suzerain. He would not let his young wife and his mother-in-law fall into the Fiend's talons, would he?

The record of suzerains' survival was not very encouraging, but their families had done somewhat better. The nightmare of the skinning knife was perhaps the worst of all. What choice had she had? None. Sartaq was overlord, and Lisa was his ward. It was no more than courtesy on his part to ask Blanche's consent.

A scarcely audible tap on the door barely preceded its opening, and in strode the duchess of Ferrara, magnificently attired in scarlet and emeralds. Perhaps no one so petite could be described as striding, but her habitual no-nonsense air was even more marked than usual. She eyed the anonymous bed curtains, then looked inquiringly to Blanche.

"She is still a little upset, Your Grace."

Lucrezia shrugged her elegant little shoulders. "You can see why our Florentine laws leave marriage entirely to parental judgment. When I threw tantrums as a child, I was birched. My husbands were all amused by the scars. I should have thought Her Majesty was a little old for that, but I can certainly arrange to have it done now if you wish, monna."

"Oh, no!" Blanche said hurriedly. "I am sure that once the shock wears off she will be restored to her usual self." Was Lisa's usual self adequate for the present situation?

"Well, by all means let us give her another five minutes." The duchess settled on a chair, arranging her skirts. "My brother is a patient man, but even he cannot tolerate a wife who throws hysterics. I know he chastised Filomena a few times when they were first married. Now his friends are pouring in and will naturally wish to congratulate the future bride."

"Just a few minutes." Blanche wanted to sit down also, but her body refused. She took a few more paces, turned, paced again… Like the nightmare of the snakes…

"I cannot see," said the duchess, "how we can possibly have everything ready by the end of the month. Normally it takes two years to arrange a Marradi wedding. Lisa? Are you likely to be bleeding around the thirtieth?"

There was no reply.

Lucrezia looked to Blanche, who felt herself blush.

"I believe that date will be acceptable." Lisa was quite right — this wonderfully delicate, suave, civilized duchess was also a ruthless and callous bitch. Her brother, Blanche's future son-in-law, was known as the Fox, and vixens were vicious.

"Lisa, dear," Lucrezia said, raising her voice to address the four-poster, "you realize that you are making a terrible fuss to avoid something that you will be absolutely begging your husband for once you have tried it?"

The bed uttered an audible wail.

A ruthless, callous, and vulgar bitch.

Lucrezia tutted in annoyance. "By her age I had experienced two husbands and several lovers. There wasn't anything about men I didn't know. Is she really a virgin?"

"Certainly!" Blanche had gone so far as to ask, and Lisa never lied to her.

"Amazing!" Lucrezia studied the bed curtains with amusement. "So her previous romances have all been pure and platonic?"

"What previous romances? This is slander, madonna!"

"You are not going to tell me that a woman of Lisa's age has had no male friends whatsoever?" Lucrezia's smile flowed into a simper. "Have you not noticed how frequently she mentions Constable Longdirk?"

"Oh. Well, she is young, and he is an impressive figure of a man."

"Only if your taste runs to blacksmiths and quarry workers. So there was a, shall we say, friendship between them? Nothing improper, of course, but a… an interest?"

Cornered as in the nightmare of the giant cat, Blanche conceded the possibility. "If you imply no more than that, well, yes I do believe that Lisa and Constable Longdirk were, um, attracted to each other."

Lisa uttered a wordless howl of protest from behind the curtains.

Lucrezia laughed. "Stubborn, isn't she? I do hope you explained the impossibility of such a match?"

Blanche nodded, although she recalled that she had once brought up the subject with Lisa, and it had not seemed so impossible then.

"And what were Longdirk's feelings?"

"He behaved perfectly. But you could see by the way he looked at her that he was… drawn."

Lucrezia sighed and smiled again. "So tragic a tale! We must give some thought to the guest list. Normally the families… I do hope, madonna, that you are not planning to invite your husband!" She trilled a laugh.

"Of course not!" Vulgar, ruthless, callous, and heartless bitch.

"Perhaps some of the English exiles," the duchess said, "to balance the parties. Let us decide tomorrow." She rose. "Come out now, Lisa, and prepare to meet the visitors, or I'll have you dragged out."

Like the nightmare of the sealed tomb.

CHAPTER TEN

Toby had little time to worry about Hamish's broken heart or Lisa's sword-point marriage. He had a year's work to do and only days to do it in — days and nights, for he never seemed to sleep now.

The most urgent need was to enclose the hill of San Miniato within the city walls. He tossed the problem to Hamish, telling him it would help him forget his lust for another man's betrothed. Whether this was true or not, Hamish went to work with his usual zeal.

The don looked like the next most trouble. The dieci's written instructions forbade both him and Toby to leave the city, but he never read the edict, and Toby forgot to mention that clause. He sent the captain-general off with a hundred lances to scout the roads through the Apennines. The Company itself had to be brought into the city, a move that raised rumbles of mutiny because the only thing less popular than storming a city was being trapped inside one during a siege. Fortunately there were many green areas within the walls to pitch tents.

Those were all obvious problems. A thousand lesser matters swarmed like midges — livestock and fodder, setting up guns, tearing down every building and uprooting every tree and shrub within a mile of the walls, stockpiling human food and fuel, hanging chains across the river, organizing hospitals and firefighting, establishing a new casa, drilling the citizenry — a clerk or wool carder could drop a rock off a battlement as well as a knight could. Days went by in a blur of questions, demands, and protests. He made each decision in turn and went on to the next. There were many evenings when he could not remember having been off his feet since dawn.

Antonio Diaz, for example, looming out of the morning confusion and raising his voice almost to a shout: "Another five hundred!" Toby had never seen him so agitated.

"Another five hundred what?"

"Gone!"

It took a few questions to establish that the cavalry was absconding, vanishing into the night, but it was going by squadrons, not just deserting in a rabble. The don had not been seen since he went off to the north. There was a connection there somewhere. The don would never run away from battle, but he would prefer to pick his own ground.

"Fewer mouths to feed," Toby said. "The only use we're going to have for cavalry is as a source of steak. Let's just keep this under our helmets."

"We can't draw pay for units we can't locate!"

"What good will gold do the Florentines when the Fiend arrives?"

Diaz harrumphed and stalked away in outrage. The poor man had too many morals for his own good.

Behind all this surface frenzy, the war continued along its own relentless track, always a few days ahead of the news so that every report had to be extrapolated: "If they were there then, they must be about here now…" The vast tide of refugees Toby had feared did not appear, because most people just dived into the nearest town and slammed the gates, hoping the war would go elsewhere.

Turin had burned. Trent had burned. He had predicted both of those. There had been a minor battle outside Turin, and the Chevalier had been wounded, but no one knew how badly.

Milan and Verona ought to be next, but after the middle of the month the picture shimmered and steadied again like a reflection on a pool. Nevil had not laid siege to Milan. He had not turned aside to Venice. He was not even trying to link up his two columns — he did not need to, because no serious opposition had taken the field against him. His western army was apparently heading for Genoa. The eastern force had bypassed Verona, headed straight south to the Po, and then halted to build a bridge where there had never been one before.

Toby found Hamish on the hill of San Miniato bellowing at a work gang who had unloaded a wagonload of stone in the wrong place. He was using half a dozen languages, but his meaning was quite clear.

Toby thumped a hand on his shoulder. "This isn't going to work, my lad. You don't have time to finish the wall, and half a wall is as much use as half a head. Pay them off and send them home to their wives."

Hamish gave him a hard stare. "News?"

"Bad news. Nevil is still busy building his bridge. Work is going very slowly. His western column has bypassed Genoa."

"This is absolutely crazy! Has he lost his mind?"

"No," Toby said. "He's defined his objectives."

It was amusing to watch the gears turning, the rising incredulity as Hamish worked it out. "The western army is heading down the coast at a forced march?"

"Looks like it. And when it reaches Lucca, it will turn inland. By that time, of course, the eastern army will have crossed the Po and sacked Bologna. I estimate he'll be here by the first week of May."

Hamish grimaced as if he were being racked. "We've got to get Lisa out of the city!"

"Oh, that would not be courteous," Toby said sourly. "She's the reason her daddy's coming to call."

There was little satisfaction in being right. The only surprise in those waning days of April was that the Tartars stayed on in the city, with Sartaq making himself visible, delivering speeches, and generally behaving as a prince should, usually in the company of the new suzerain and his future bride. The Florentines drew comfort from their leaders' courage and resolution, not dreaming that their city had become the Fiend's primary objective. There was no word of Don Ramon and the Company cavalry, but the dieci never asked why he had disobeyed orders.

Under the best conditions, seven leagues a day would grind down the toughest, best-trained army very quickly. Nevil was famous for forced marches that left a trail of dead men and horses by the roadside. When his western army reached Lucca and turned aside to advance up the Arno, he struck with the eastern force down the old Roman road through the Apennines. Toby had been wrong on only one detail — the Fiend did not destroy Bologna. In his haste to close the trap around Florence, he left it intact.

The Chevalier was reported to have died of his wounds in Milan, but he had never been relevant. Sartaq made no move to replace him.

As the last day of April dawned, Toby came limping back to Giovanni's inn, which now acted as the Company's casa. From long habit he shared a room with Hamish, and let him have the bed. He himself seemed to have no time for sleep at all anymore. He had been up all night and most of the previous night, supervising the final preparations. As he stripped and began organizing a shave, he was so tired that the world would not stay in focus.

Hamish duly sat up and rubbed his eyes. "I've seen you before somewhere, haven't I?"

"Not recently. Do you happen to remember my name? It seems to have slipped my mind."

"Genghis Caesar." Hamish yawned, stretched, scratched, and reached for his shirt. "Don't throw away that water. Anything happen in the night?"

"Half a dozen scouts disappeared. Got too close and were eaten by demons, I expect. He'll be here before noon." Razor in hand, Toby turned to peer at his friend. "As of half an hour ago, the Siena road is still open. Nevil's trying to cut it; he's got a column of light cavalry heading across country to San Gimignano. He thinks they're masked by gramarye, but Sorghie found them. They're not there yet, so why don't you go while the going's good? I'm sure Sartaq will make a break for it and take Lisa with him."

Hamish leaned back on his elbows and studied his friend with a curious expression. "Do you think I'd do that?"

"No. But I wish you would."

"Well I won't. And I don't think Sartaq will, either. Or Marradi. You've got the people convinced that Florence can hold out indefinitely. You're the famous Longdirk, who's never been beaten. Everyone's persuaded you have something up your sleeve, that Naples and Milan and the others are marching to the rescue."

Nauseated, Toby went back to shaving. "I never told anyone that! It's Sartaq, spirits forgive him! Keeping up morale is one thing, but holding people here for no real purpose when the city is doomed — that's criminal!"

"Have you said that to anyone but me?" Hamish pulled on his hose.

"Of course not. It would cause a panic. But I don't tell lies, either." He couldn't if he tried. His face would never deceive a blind horse.

Hamish chuckled. "Doomed, you say?"

"Doomed. I don't lie to you, friend."

"Toby!" Hamish had to be very excited for his voice to squeak like that. "Be serious! You do have something up your sleeve, don't you? It's the amethyst, isn't it? You've learned Rhym's true name!"

Toby forced himself to turn and look him in the eye. "No. No true name. Nothing up my sleeve. I swear."

Dawning belief made Hamish's lips curl back in horror. "You must have! I've never known you to obey stupid orders before!"

"I'd never promised to obey them before. This time I did. I have no choice." Toby went back to shaving, having to stare at that failure peering at him out of the mirror.

"Toby!" Even squeakier. "We've been friends for years. You can trust me!"

"I do trust you. Hamish, I swear I have no secret plans. I can see no way out of this. Nevil is going to sack Florence. We are going to die. That is the honest truth, upon my soul. I'd prefer you didn't tell anyone else, please."

After a moment's silence, Hamish said, "I won't breathe a word until after the wedding."

Toby almost chopped off his nose. "That's still on?" He had forgotten. This must be the last day of April.

"Yes, it's still on. And we're both invited."

"Well!" Toby said. "Why not?"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Toby Longdirk was a military genius, but he had some curious limitations. For weeks he had been striding around Florence, organizing the defenses to resist a siege, grinning all the time as if this were tremendous fun, laughing away fears, winking knowingly when asked what was going to happen. Then he professed surprise that people trusted him to work a miracle! He had complained to Hamish a thousand times that he was a lousy liar, when in fact his face was less scrutable than a badly eroded Etruscan terra-cotta funeral monument.

But he did have something up his sleeve. He must have something up his sleeve! Hamish could not believe otherwise.

Now he insisted that Lisa's wedding had to be a diversion, a decoy. The Marradis, he said, having made grandiose preparations for a royal marriage and convinced the whole city that it would go ahead as planned, would vanish before the first guests arrived. Sartaq would flee with them, and it was just to be hoped that they would have the grace to take Lisa and her mother and not abandon them to the Fiend's ghastly spite.

Hamish disagreed adamantly. He had been prying, as was his wont, and although all his efforts had failed to win him a single word with Lisa, he was personally convinced that the Magnificent was going to do exactly what he said he would do — marry Lisa and remain in Florence. Prince Sartaq was not going to sneak out any back doors either. Nor were the priori. The truth was that all those men were just as much under Longdirk's spell as the lowliest weaver. If comandante Longdirk was not worried, then neither were they. Toby had an astonishing air of permanence, an indestructibility that inspired absolute faith. The Fiend's armies were closing in on the town — by nightfall they would have it in their grip — and Pietro Marradi was going to get married regardless.

Hamish was not going to miss the wedding. This would be his last chance ever to speak to Lisa, probably his last chance ever to see her. The Fiend and all his horrors were not going to stop that.

"You'd better catch some sleep," he said. "You look as if you haven't shut your eyes in days. You're out on your feet."

Toby shrugged. "I'll sleep some other year. Food and then duty — but if nothing goes horribly wrong, I'll come to the wedding, I promise."

After they had eaten, they went their separate ways.

Just before noon, the Fiend's army came to Florence with bugles and drumbeats, dust and glitter, men and horses streaming down from the hills. Fiesole was burning, and the city gates had been closed. Another column of dust to the west showed where the army from Lucca was hastening up the Arno to join in the siege. The mood in the streets was one of shock and denial. No one had expected this, or not so soon. Even Hamish, who had been privy to all the intelligence reports, had trouble believing that it was really happening.

When he went back to the inn to change, he found Toby there already, having another shave. If he opened his eyes wide he would bleed to death, but apparently he intended to keep his promise.

What could be more reassuring to the citizens than seeing their betters whooping up a celebration and ignoring the nonsense outside the walls?

Nothing provoked Italians to ostentation like a wedding. Weddings were political and had very little to do with love or procreation. A marriage was a treaty with an exchange of hostages, and the two families involved were honor-bound to squander money to insanity. In this case the bride's family had no money at all, so the groom's must spend enough for both. Thus it was that, while Nevil's armies gathered like hyenas around Florence, inside the walls the inhabitants held carnival, gala, fiesta, and revelry. Bands played in the piazzas, floats displaying classical themes were dragged through the streets, wine flowed from fountains. The crowds outside the Marradi Palace were being regaled with free wine, food, and music — small wonder they cheered themselves hoarse when condottiere Longdirk arrived in his carriage. They would have cheered the Fiend himself.

Within the grim-faced block, Hamish found a less exuberant mood. Oh, the bunting and decorations were breathtaking, the women's gowns astounding, their jewels celestial, and the orchestra Elysian. No conceivable extravagance had been overlooked. Each guest on entering was presented with a medallion displaying the Marradi arms impaled with the lion rampant of England, all set in gems. Other rich gifts would undoubtedly be distributed several times during the course of the celebration, and the meal would include twenty or more courses, each with its own wine. A hundred artists had labored on grotesque conceits around the courtyard, heraldic animals and mythological beasts taller than a man.

All the same, the attendance was small, perhaps forty, and most of the revelers were the innermost of the innermost circle, the Marradi family en masse. They knew that all was not well. They were going to deny it for a few hours, but they must know that the next party they attended might be hosted by the Fiend, who had gruesome ways of entertaining important captives. Their jollity had a brittle ring to it.

Lisa? Hamish peered anxiously around the courtyard, but there was as yet no sign of the bride or her mother.

The Magnificent welcomed each arriving guest with smiles and laughter, and for once he was dressed as a dandy in multicolored splendor. Give him his due, he did not look forty. That did not mean he looked young enough to marry Lisa. He greeted Toby as "comandante," then smiled as if that had been a slip of the tongue. "We are especially overjoyed by your noble presence, for it confirms that you have already taken all the steps necessary to secure the safety of the city."

Toby's Italian still made the natives wince, but it no longer reduced them to tears. "I left everyone enough work to keep them busy for an hour or two, Your Magnificence. You will excuse my rudeness if duty calls me away before the end of the festivities?"

Sartaq was close to upstaging Marradi, garbed like a peacock and chattering in urgent Italian, hands swooping like summer swallows. His mustache had disappeared some weeks ago, so only his eyes and the color of his skin seemed in any way alien. Judging by the pride of lionesses around him, he was still making husbands nervous.

And Lucrezia of course. She triumphed over her years and, in the absence of Lisa, was a clear first in the courtyard for beauty. Toby bowed low to kiss her fingers. She did not wait to acknowledge Hamish at his side before flashing her spite like a rapier.

"Welcome, Sir Tobias. It is kind of you to put aside your personal sorrows and join our celebration."

Toby's puzzled expression made him seem close to half-witted. "Sorrows, madonna? My only sorrow is that it is so long since I have had the pleasure of looking upon your glorious self."

The funny thing was that the great lummox genuinely thought he didn't know how to handle women. Most of them fell on their knees as he went by, and he could knock the rest over with a smile.

Lucrezia was not quite so easy, though. She smiled disbelievingly. "I confess that the lady still speaks of you often, but I'm sure she will grow out of that once she has a husband to comfort her."

Hamish quelled a murderous impulse. Toby just smiled blandly.

"Not even a rightful-born queen could ask for a nobler husband than your magnificent brother, duchessa." His eyes were innocent as owls'.

A puzzled frown disturbed the baby smoothness of Lucrezia's brow. "And you must just learn to live with a broken heart!"

"You shattered it the first day we met, madonna."

Then it happened. A trumpet brayed. Sartaq, having left the courtyard unseen, made a grand return entrance, escorting Lisa and her mother. By cruel chance, the door they used was right where Lucrezia and the two mercenaries were standing and partially blocked by an enormous phoenix of fabric and paper. Lisa came around the beast and face-to-face with Hamish. She halted so suddenly that the prince stumbled and her mother almost ran into her.

He dreamed of her every night and thought of her from dawn till dusk. He knew every eyelash, the two tiny moles by her lips, the little fleck of silver in her right eye, and yet in a month he had forgotten how beautiful she was. In her wedding gown she was unbelievably, epically gorgeous. The famous Marradi rubies burned at her throat like arterial blood.

They stared at each other for an age, a blink, a thousand years, a trice.

"Oh, madonna!" he said. "Will you topple the towers of Troy again?"

"Master Campbell…" Then she was walking on with the prince and her mother, and the moment had ended.

As Hamish returned to reality he realized that the Duchess of Ferrara was staring at him with a look that made his whole body cringe. "You?" she said, and the flames in her regard might be disbelief or incipient murder or both.

Toby was laughing! "Of course him! You didn't think she hankered after me, did you, monna? Great clumsy me?"

No! Hamish thought. No, Toby! Whatever you do, don't ever laugh at Lucrezia Marradi! Better to poke your finger in a lion's eye.

But the damage, whatever it might be, was already done.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Toby was seated between young Guilo Marradi and one of the token English guests, Sir John Whitemouth, who had been knighted on the field of Rioz by Lisa's great-grandfather. He was certainly the deafest man north of Sicily, and his conversational skills were further restricted by a total lack of teeth. Hamish was at the far end of the long table, while Sartaq held place of honor in the center. The bridegroom had a chair at the ladies' table, with his back to the men's.

Lisa in white shone with an ethereal beauty like pearls or moonlight, which was accentuated by the blood fire of her rubies. She was putting on a fine performance, chattering glibly with her neighbors — Marradi across the table, her mother and Lucrezia flanking her — as if she had been married a dozen times. Blanche looked as if she had died of some wasting sickness and found her smiles in the charnel house. Lucrezia kept staring at Toby and glancing away quickly every time he noticed, so he was certainly not back in her good books, if she had any.

The two long, white-damasked tables were separated by a gap wide enough for the double line of servants who paraded in with every course. The meal began with wine, antipasto, and speeches. The first orations had been assigned to junior Marradis. Guilo went second and did a workmanlike job, invoking so many classical authorities to bless the union that Toby understood barely a word of it. Important people would speak later. An orchestra tuned up and began. He swallowed a yawn and an olive and turned to bellow something trivial in Whitemouth's ancient ear.

Course followed course, armies of footmen parading in to place a golden bowl in front of each diner simultaneously. Toby had met this conceit before at banquets and considered it needlessly embarrassing, because it forced everyone to eat roughly the same amount. With his appetite, he preferred the standard custom where each diner ladled out whatever he needed from a common dish onto a trencher of hard bread. Gold tableware made the food cold before it even arrived, and he could not wipe his fingers on it.

Whitemouth passed him the goblet, a servant filled it with wine, he drained it, and passed the goblet on to Guilo. In a little while it came around again. Servants removed one course, offered washing water and towels for sticky hands, brought another. After the carp, each guest was presented with an enameled rose; after the capon, a silver inkstand bearing the entwined insignia of the bride and groom.

Then a steward brought in a splendid golden chalice inset with jewels and paraded it along each table in turn. The Magnificent filled it with wine and carried it across to the men's table to present to the prince. Sartaq rose and drank while the company applauded.

A few moments later Marradi performed the same ceremony with another goblet, this time giving it to his bride. After the roast swan, all the guests were presented with fur-trimmed cloaks. And so it went: food, wine, speeches, gifts, and music, followed by more food, wine, speeches, gifts, and music. Toby wondered how large a sack he would have to carry away with him and what he would do with the stuff.

Tomorrow the war.

The marriage was not forgotten. A nervous notary read out the betrothal agreement, and the couple acknowledged that they had confirmed their intentions before the tutelary in the sanctuary. An hour or so later the marriage contract was read and then signed, with the prince standing in for Lisa's father. Toby was glad he could not see Hamish.

Lucrezia was still lobbing calculating glares in his direction. He should not have laughed at her. Had her misapprehension been encouraged by Lisa? A girl who could tell her mother that Hamish was the son of an earl was capable of just about anything.

He would really enjoy eight hours' solid sleep. A tiled floor like this one would do.

More toasts, more costly goblets.

More food, wine, speeches, gifts.

Sir John, who drank better than he could eat, launched into a long, damp dissertation on the evils of guns and how they had ruined warfare. His English was less intelligible than Guilo's Italian.

Then came a brief ceremony in which the groom placed a ring on Lisa's finger. Oh, poor Hamish!

"Is that the end?" Toby asked. "Are they married now?" He ought to be out on the battlements watching the disaster unfold, except that he had already done everything he possibly could.

"Not quite," Guilo said. "We see them to the chamber door. As soon it shuts, they're considered married."

"Seems a little hasty. He'll need at least fifteen minutes at his age."

Guilo had been drinking heavily. He found that remark so hilarious that he had a coughing fit, and then had to whisper the joke to his other neighbor. While it was going on down the table, he turned back to Toby to explain how the bride and groom would complete the ceremonies by visiting the sanctuary next morning as husband and wife. In this case, that would be when the prince would recognize Cousin Pietro as King of England, Ireland, and other barbarous places.

Assuming Nevil's ghouls had not broken through the gates by then.

Toby fidgeted, wondering how the war was going. The sun no longer shone into the courtyard. Servants removed the canopies over the tables. He should return to duty, although there was no reasonable chance that Nevil would be in a position to attack before tomorrow at the earliest. Sartaq would undoubtedly speak at some point in the evening. He should wait for that.

Another glittering goblet was paraded along the tables. Who was going to be the lucky one this time? Marradi took the goblet, filled it, and rose to his feet. He was pinker than usual, but so was everyone after all the food and wine. "Your Highness, my lords…"

Obviously it was to be Toby himself. He gritted his teeth, wondering what he could possibly say in his response. A few words of thanks were customary, but they would want more than that from him. What was there to say — that he was sorry? That they had entrusted their city to the wrong man? That he would have tried to do better next time but there wasn't going to be a next time? Try to lay the blame on Marradi himself and the Khan's son?

Now the Magnificent walked across, but he did not at once give Toby the goblet. Smiling, he looked around to include the ladies, then spoke to the men. "This is an unusual announcement at a wedding, friends, but in this case a very appropriate one. You all know that the Chevalier D'Anjou was wounded in battle and is now reported to have died, although that has not been confirmed. In his place, with the permission and enthusiastic agreement of His Highness, in my capacity of suzerain for His Majesty Ozberg Khan the Glorious, I name Sir Tobias Longdirk comandante in capo of all loyal armies in Italy, and charge him to drive the rebel forces from the land!"

What a good idea! It came three months too late, though.

Loud applause. One or two of the men were drunk enough to cheer. Toby rose and leaned across the table to accept the gift. It was heavier than he expected, his fingers were still greasy from the lamb ragout… or perhaps he felt a prickle of warning from the hob. Whatever the reason, he dropped the cup. It hit the board between him and Marradi and exploded rich red wine all over the Magnificent. He fell back with a cry of anger.

Somebody screamed very shrilly.

Marradi wiped his eyes with a sleeve, waving his other hand for a towel as servants came running to assist. He dropped his arms and gaped incredulously at Toby… slid limply to his knees… toppled facedown… and lay there, motionless.

Many people screamed then. Guilo and even old Whitemouth leaped to their feet, knocking over their stools in their haste to get as far as possible from the scarlet stains on the white cloth. Prince Sartaq vaulted nimbly over the table and was the first to reach the corpse. He knelt to see, but he did not touch it. Several Tartar guards came roaring into the courtyard, with two shamans at their backs. Screaming, shouting, and hysteria.

Toby said nothing, did nothing. That was more than poison. That wine had been hexed. That was supposed to be him lying there.

"Silence!" Sartaq was on his feet, and his bellow echoed over the tumult. Despite his youth, his voice had a royal resonance that compelled respect. He pointed at the women, who were all on their feet by now. "Which of you screamed first? Who was it?"

In the icy moment of horror while the accusation gelled, all faces turned to face one face.

"Lucrezia!" Lisa shouted, backing away.

"Lucrezia!" said another.

Lucrezia shrank as if she were arching her back like a cat. She raised a clawed hand to her mouth, gabbled a command, and was gone, vanished as she had vanished when the statue fell on the night of the Carnival Ball. More screams. Women swooned. Men rushed around the ends of the tables to reach them and comfort them. The shamans began thumping their drums, either exorcising the poison or trying to locate the culprit. An ashen-faced Hamish had his arms around the widow, who was clinging to him fiercely and sobbing on his chest. That was not going to reduce the scandal any.

The Magnificent was dead. Florence had no ruler.

The suzerain was dead.

The Fiend was outside the walls.

"Longdirk!" Sartaq roared.

"Your Highness?"

"Did you mean to do that?"

"No, Your Grace. I didn't know. It slipped through my fingers." Was that true? Had he been incredibly lucky or had the hob saved him?

The prince stared very hard at him, as if trying to read his thoughts. "Very well. Your appointment stands, comandante. Go and attend to your duties. Go and save the city."

Where had this vibrant royal leader come from? Why hadn't he appeared months ago, when there had still been time to save the city?

Hamish was still consoling Lisa.

Toby bowed and hurried from the courtyard.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

He commandeered a Marradi horse and galloped through streets darkened by evening shadows but still breathlessly hot. An ominous hush had settled over Florence. The revelers had dispersed — many to the sanctuary to pray, no doubt, and others to the walls or bell towers to watch the Fiend's armies digging in. The shock of the Magnificent's death was still to come.

In the stable yard he hit the ground running, yelling for Smeòrach to be made ready even as he dived through the low door into the inn itself. Brother Bartolo was holding court there at a table littered with papers and several abacuses; clerks and pages were streaming in and out the front door like ants provisioning their nest. "Report!" Toby roared, and went up the stairs at a rush, which risked breaking an ankle or stunning himself on the beams, but he made it to the top safely and ran along the gallery, hauling off his doublet. Shirt and hose followed it as soon as he was in his room; he grabbed up the fighting garments he had left there ready: shirt, breeches, padded jerkin.

Floorboards creaked outside, then Bartolo's great bulk filled the doorway. His normally rubicund face was pale as parchment.

"Well?" Toby demanded, stamping his feet into riding boots.

"Two hundred and three thousand. Still coming."

"From Lucca, too? Well, they won't be much good for a few days." Nevil's fondness for exhausting his armies with inhuman marches would betray him sooner or later — but not this time, because there was no enemy to oppose him. "You can stop counting now. Did you organize the bell towers?"

"We have reliable watchers in every campanile, and a sharp-eyed youngster as well. If they try any sort of sneak attack anywhere, the nearest bells will start ringing. The guards on the walls have been told how to use the bells to call for help."

"Good work. Put the criers into the streets right away — I've been appointed comandante in capo."

The friar beamed. "Well, that is certainly the best—"

Toby buckled on his sword. "And the Magnificent is dead."

Bartolo's gurgle of horror was a fair warning of how Florentines would react. Florence without a Marradi to run it was unthinkable, and there was no obvious heir ready to take over.

"What? How?"

"Murdered. Announce my appointment first!" Toby squeezed around him to reach the door. "Keep the other thing under your" — he ran along the gallery—"cowl!" He avalanched down the stairs. Clerks scattered out of his way like chickens.

He rode first to the Porta al Prato, near the stadium, which was an obvious site for an attack and close to where he guessed the army from Lucca would have pitched camp. The myriad campfires starting to shine in the gathering dusk showed him that his instincts had been correct. Nor was he alone in his inferences, for there he found Antonio Diaz.

The Catalan was haggard with exhaustion, but his dogged confidence had inspired his troops. The cheers with which they greeted Toby were both gratifying and appalling, so he did not know whether to weep or clap his hands over his ears and scream. Instead of doing either, he made a rousing speech from Smeòrach's back. What lies he told hardly mattered, because he kept twisting his head around to speak to everyone, and also his horse was very restless, clattering hooves on the cobbles all the time. Besides, his accent was so bad that no one would be able to catch much of what he said, but they cheered him again anyway, even louder. It was bad enough that he was condemning most of these men to die, but far worse that he must deceive them into thinking their deaths would serve some useful purpose.

Before leaving, he drew Diaz aside. "San Miniato is going to kill us. We'll have to sortie at dawn, before they're ready to open fire. Spike the guns at worst, drag them into town at best."

The Catalan nodded resignedly. "I know. And I know they'll be waiting for us to try just that. You want me to lead it?"

"Please. I'll join you if I can."

"No. You're too valuable."

"I have never felt more worthless," Toby said, but he knew there was truth in what Diaz was saying. A commander who threw his life away on a suicidal mission at the opening of the battle was not serving his cause. He ordered Diaz to get some sleep and rode away, despising himself from the bottom of his heart.

That was only the beginning. The night became a repeating nightmare of torch-lit faces. He circled around the city walls, crossing and recrossing the Arno, inspecting, approving, encouraging. Everywhere he found men of the Don Ramon Company and the Florentine militia together — gnarled veterans husbanding their strength for the morrow in among peach-faced apprentices shivering with excitement. All of them seemed glad to see him, cheering and jesting. Not even the crabbiest old trooper showed doubts or threw angry questions at him: Why have you locked us up here to die? What difference can we make? How will anyone benefit from our deaths? No one asked. He would have had no answers if they had. They all stood a little straighter when he left.

The Fiend had bridged the river both upstream and downstream from the city, just beyond cannon range. That was a very efficient piece of work, considering how long he had taken to span the Po, and the forces that had crossed already had completely surrounded the city. Lisa would not escape to Siena. Nor would Toby Longdirk, although he had never intended to try.

He found Arnaud Villars making his own tour of inspection, checking on stocks of arrows and missiles and powder and shot and grappling hooks and all the other thousands of items that might be needed at dawn. Toby ordered him to get some sleep. The attack might not come for days yet.

He even ran into desiccated Alberto Calvalcante the gunner, working on a few last adjustments to some of the defenders' cannons. He, too, looked as if he had not slept in weeks.

"You were right, Sir Tobias," he growled. "They do have guns on wheels, what I said were impossible. Saw them being dragged up to San Miniato. Don't know they'll work good, of course," he added grumpily.

"I knew it ought to be possible, and I'd heard the Fiend emplaced his artillery very quickly at Trent. Did you see how they do it?"

"Lugs, messer! They cast the cannon with a lug on each side of the barrel to make a pivot."

So then the guns could be tilted to the correct elevation and wouldn't blow themselves out of the mobile cradles. Simple! "Can you melt down all our cannon and recast them by dawn?"

Calvalcante spat. "Certainly, but those lazy carpenters can't make me the carriages I'd need." The listeners laughed, which was good, and Toby — feeling like a parrot now — told him to get some sleep.

He rode off to the next tower, the next gate, the next cluster of men around a lantern or brazier, the next lying speech telling them to hold firm if they were attacked, that help would come. Dying in battle was not such a terrible death, but dying with so many lies on his conscience was going to be. Strange that there was no sign of the don anywhere! Toby had expected him to return before the siege began, but perhaps the man just wanted to die in the open. A charge of a few hundred lances against tens of thousands might appeal to him as a worthy death.

The night was breathless and steaming hot. Eventually he realized that he had worn himself out, and his poor horse, too. If he went back to the inn, could he take his own advice and enjoy a few hours' sleep? More likely he would just toss and worry, but he turned Smeòrach in that direction, or as close to it as he could, for he was in the old Roman quarter, with its grid of narrow ways. A shutter opened above him.

"Sir Tobias?" It sounded like a child, but it might be a woman.

He reined in and peered up at the window, seeing only the faintest blur of a face. "I am, but how did you know?"

"The spirit wants you. Go to the sanctuary."

Ah! He could deceive the men of a thousand lances, but never the tutelary. His crimes had caught up with him.

"I will. May it send you good rest in return for this service."

He turned Smeòrach again and nudged him into a weary trot.