Demon Knight

CHAPTER ONE

As he had expected, the sanctuary was busy. Even the streets outside were full of aimless people, as if Florence had been smitten with a plague of insomnia. He had dismounted and loosened the girths before one of the inevitable horse urchins appeared to hold his reins.

"Business is good tonight?" he asked.

"Sì, messer!" The lad tried to grin, and it became a yawn.

"His name is Smeòrach. He won't cause you trouble." He thought of adding, "And if I don't come back before dawn, he is yours," but of course no one would believe the boy. "He needs water."

He walked stiffly over to the door, feeling a huge load of fatigue settling on his shoulders. When the attack came, it would come from so many directions at once that he would be as bewildered as anyone. From then on there would be no central command, only terror and bloody struggle. He would have little more to do than try to die as bravely as other men. He had done everything he could do, and it would not be nearly enough.

The interior was a vast darkness, packed with unseen humanity, many of them singing along with the choir that stood before the altar at the end of the long nave. That was where the candles burned, illuminating the altar and the incarnation on the throne — which was a small child at the moment. The heady odor of incense could not hide the reek of too many people, suffocating heat, the palpable oppression of dread. Alas, poor Florence, doomed to join the ghostly ranks of cities Nevil had razed. Weep for her!

Men did not normally visit the sanctuary wearing swords and carrying steel helmets. He began to edge his way forward, trying not to frighten people or disturb their singing. Finding he was making little progress, he stopped, and quietly said, "Help?"

The elderly man in front of him turned around. "Is it not about time you asked our help?" He was stooped and toothless and ragged; he did not smell very pleasant, but the air around him had taken on a pearly shimmer.

"I have been busy, Holiness."

"We are well aware of what you have been doing. Come with us."

When the incarnation led him, the crowd parted unasked, people moving out of the way without realizing that they were doing so. They first went forward, toward the altar, and then over to one side. Above them the great dome soared unseen. Toby's guide halted at an insignificant door near the north entrance.

"Go up, Tobias, all the way to the top. We shall meet you again there."

He bowed, but the old man was already just an old man again, looking around in surprise. Toby began to climb the stairs.

It was a long climb for a man in full battle gear, and the night was sweltering. He was puffing hard when he emerged on the gallery around the lantern at the top of the great dome, fifty spans above the ground. Another incarnation was waiting there for him, an elderly woman. In the darkness, she was an indistinct, humped little shape.

The view was awe-inspiring. He could overlook everything — the dark and silent streets far below, the blank no-man's-land beyond the walls, and the whole valley of the Arno, which twinkled with myriad campfires as if half the stars of heaven had fallen. The cooks were already preparing breakfast so the troops could fight on full stomachs. Probably the guns would be ready by dawn to begin the brutal business of battering down the walls. It was surprising that the Fiend's demons had not begun their attack already.

He had never failed to take a city that defied him, nor had he ever shown mercy to the inhabitants.

"What are your plans, Captain-General?" asked the tutelary. "The damage so far has been serious but not unendurable. Tell me of the Allied forces that will arrive to lift the siege."

"Allies?" Toby laughed bitterly. "Milan's army is guarding Milan, Rome's guards Rome, Venice's Venice. They would not listen. They would not cooperate. Nevil will pluck them one by one. We are but the first."

"So this failure is as serious as it looks?"

Did the spirit expect him to deny the obvious?

"I see no hope at all. The fault is mine, and I accept the blame." He would not plead for mercy when he did not deserve it. He would not even beg for a quick death, for that would be too great a favor when everyone knew how the Fiend would treat the citizens after he took the city. Whatever form of execution the Florentines might decree for Toby Longdirk would be infinitely more merciful than anything the Fiend would do to him if he caught him. "I shall be surprised if the city lasts beyond sunset, Holiness."

The eastern sky was perceptibly lighter than the rest. Traitors were traditionally executed at dawn, but if the failed captain-general was to be subjected to some pretense of a trial, he would apparently live through this dawn and die another day. He wished the tutelary would just throw him in a cell and let him sleep, although that might mean he would fall into the Fiend's hands. It would be better to die on the battlements. Meanwhile, the responsibility was still his, so he ought to be down there on the walls, inspecting the sentries, guarding against one of Nevil's sneak dawn attacks like the Bloody Sunrise that had destroyed Nuremberg.

The incarnation had fallen silent, staring out motionless at the night as if the tutelary had gone away on other business and forgotten to summon the woman back to inhabit her own body. Toby paced restlessly off along the gallery, half-wishing the darkness would fade so he could see the enemy's deployments; wishing much more that it would never lift, that this one night would go on for ever and ever, preserving fair Florence in a bubble of time, a butterfly in amber eternally safe from the forces now poised to destroy her.

When he returned to his starting point, the woman had disappeared. The tutelary had made no farewells, pronounced no sentence, granted no forgiveness. He still did not know why it had summoned him to this aerie in the middle of the night, and he could not guess what he was supposed to do next — report to a dungeon in the palace of justice, or go off and lead the defense of the city through an endless day of fire and blood? The one option closed to him was sleep.

Puzzled and irritated, he walked around again. The eight ribs of the octagonal dome and the eight corners of the lantern joined across the gallery in stone arches. He counted them as he walked and at eight concluded he was now alone. There was no one else there — no one human, for a blur of white in the darkness and a breeze in his hair became an owl settling on his shoulder. Startled, he jumped. Then he reached up to stroke a finger over her downy breast. She made her odd little purring noise.

"Chabi! I'm glad you're back. I was afraid the Fiend's archers would get you." The Fiend's demons would be a greater threat. They must be all around the city now, like his army, and they would know she was more than merely owl.

A faint golden glow in the nearest arch heralded the return of the incarnation, apparently following him around the lantern. Why would a tutelary play childish tricks? "We hope you recognize the honor she pays you," said the tuneless voice. "For a shaman's familiar to befriend anyone else is close to a miracle."

"As long as she doesn't sick up a dead mouse in my ear, I don't mind her."

"Have you made progress, Holiness?" asked Sorghaghtani's voice from his other side. Where had she come from? She did not seem winded as if she had climbed all those interminable stairs. He was glad she was safe, too. Safe for the moment, at least. She was even smaller than the woman.

"None," the tutelary answered. "He has forgotten."

"Forgotten what?" Toby snapped. What were these two plotting? Shaman and tutelary? What an unholy combination! Or a too-holy combination. He had never considered this pair as likely partners, and the idea disturbed him.

"If you remembered you would not need to ask, Tobias. Why did the Fiend come to Florence? Why did he not start with Milan or Venice?"

"Isn't that obvious? Because of Blanche. Having the suzerain here must have tempted him, Nevil's wife and daughter even more so, but I suspect he could have ignored them if they had kept their heads down. Even when they were paraded around in public and Lisa was hailed as a queen, he might not have done very much. But when Blanche had the audacity to marry her daughter to the suzerain and name England as her dowry… even a demon can only stand so much."

CHAPTER TWO

It was almost dawn. Horizon showed all around the world, the stars were folding their tents, birds flitted over the rooftops of Florence, and roosters screeched in the yards far below him. Chabi sat contentedly on his left shoulder. He could see the incarnation clearly now — wrinkles and wisps of white hair dangling from under her headcloth, the back humped by a lifetime of toil. On his other side cryptic little Sorghaghtani sat cross-legged on the platform, all muffled in draperies, beads, and tufts of herbs. The camps of the foe were too far off for him to discern, but the bugles must be sounding there.

"What is to be done?" Sorghaghtani demanded angrily. "Can we not help him break the binding?"

"We must try," the tutelary answered. "For him to fail at the last minute would be tragedy for all Italy. But the dangers are extreme."

"Is he not a strong man, able to withstand what must break most others?"

"Undoubtedly, but even for him the shock may be mortal."

"Will you two stop that!" Toby roared, glaring from one to the other. "If you are going to put me to death, Holiness, then go ahead and do it. Otherwise, throw me in a cell where I can get some sleep. Or, best of all, let me go down there and die beside the men who trusted me, the men I have betrayed. But stop discussing me as if I'm a colicky horse!"

They ignored him.

"Great Spirit, will you not explain his error to him?"

"He cannot believe us, and there is no time. The forces are poised, and the word must be given before the sun rises. Sorghaghtani, daughter, bid Chabi take him to the spirit world and show him the truth."

The little shaman uttered a cry as shrill as a bat's. "Nay, Holiness, do you know what you ask? Is he not untrained? What has he done that you would destroy him so horribly?"

"Tobias, if you could save the city by laying down your life, what would be your choice?"

His knuckles were white on the railing. "Do you have to ask?"

"You have to answer."

"Take my life, then. Will it be quick?"

"No, and it may be a shameful death, but we have no more time. Send him, Sorghaghtani, send him."

The shaman's fingers awoke a gentle rumble from the drum on her lap.

"No!" Toby protested. "The hob! Do not rouse the hob!"

"It is time to rouse the hob," said the tutelary.

The beat became a muffled thunder, and then a roar of blood in his ears. A weight of worlds crushed him down. He folded to his knees and bowed even smaller, feeling as if he were shrinking under a merciless load — tiny and smaller still, no larger than Chabi. He spread his arms, for he could move nothing else, and his arms raised him. He soared, and Chabi went with him, together borne on the imperative of the drumming. The dome rocked and spun and vanished away in the wind. Like an autumn leaf he rode the tempest, spinning through shapes and shades of madness, lights, and colors no mortal eye could see. Chabi was with him.

At last he sank. The rushing slowed and tumult faded, leaving him in the stillness of a moonlit glade. The drumming was a distant background, a pulse in the world, a voice chanting far off. Deer slept in the long grass and thorny shrubs, does mostly prone, fawns curled small. The stag was on his feet, antlers held proud aloft as he stared at the newcomer, although if he could see Toby, it was more than Toby could. He had no sense of being there, neither in his own body nor any other. But the stag knew him and saw him, and there was sorrow in the great liquid eyes.

"You call from afar, shaman," the stag said, "very far from the worlds of the ancestors." He twitched his black nose inquiringly, seeking the missing scent. "We are not a fighting people. The wolf drives us in winter, and we must run."

Toby could not speak, but drumming spoke for him, and the stag seemed not to mind. It turned its magnificent head to look eastward. "Many have cried in distress to the fathers, but always they wanted us to fight for them, and we are not a fighting people. Thus say the ancestors to us: 'You shall not enter their battles. They must turn the pack themselves.'"

The beat lamented, then changed, growing more agitated, urgent. Forest shifted and blurred and reformed as walls of stone. Moonlight puddled silver on floorboards under narrow windows, its reflected rays sketching in the inner darkness a massive bed of finely carved woods and thick brocade. Through a gap in the draperies showed the slender whiteness of a girl asleep.

The herd had gone, leaving only the stag, and he looked to the west, sinews straining in his mighty neck as he supported the weight of his rack. "Your song is different. You ask us not to fight, but to run, and this we can do. Behold, I answer your call! I will go before the pack and run for you, shaman."

The drum's pulse rose in triumph, and the stag himself changed — fur melting, flesh flowing — until what stood before the moonlit windows was a young man, stocky and muscular, and yet his thick shoulders still bore the stag's head and antlers. A cloth tied loosely around his now-human loins was probably not normal wear but something taken up in a hurry. He looked to the north. "Show me the way. I am yours to command."

Still Toby could not reply, and again the voice of the drum answered for him, its beat slowing to a somber throb, a dirge, a funeral march, full of menace. The stag-man understood, for his shoulders sagged. He turned to the south, and his voice rose in complaint, a voice growing more and more familiar, just as the walls and the windows were aching at the edges of memory.

"You ask too much, shaman! To flee before the hunters is no shame when one is not sprung from a fighting people. But not to run, or to run in circles, or to cower in a hollow and watch the pack close, ah, but you ask too much!" His antlers were visibly melting and drooping. "Think you because I will not fight that I have no honor? That I forget the ancestors?" The wilted antlers hung over his chest like ropes; and all his pride was shame. He laid his human hands on the window ledge and belled a great note of despair to the starlit night and the sea. "This is what you do to me, shaman! I will have recompense. You will suffer for this."

Castel Capuano! It was Castel Capuano!

"I will suffer," Toby said aloud, and the scene shattered in a cacophony of drums.

He sprawled on the gallery with his arms outspread and the stonework cold under his face. "No!" he said. "No, no, no! I do not remember."

"More, Sorghaghtani!" said the toneless voice of the tutelary. "He will recover and thank you for it, or he will not return to reproach you. Even madness will be better than failure."

Again the drumming swept him up and whirled him into the spirit world.

CHAPTER THREE

A forest at sunset. He stood naked before a huge and ancient oak, staring up at a hole in the trunk and a squirrel that sat on the edge of the hole, gibbering at him as the rumble of the drum faded into the distance like a passing storm.

"Go away, go away!" the squirrel chattered. It was a very red little squirrel, and it wrapped its bushy tail around itself and peered down at him with eyes like angry bright beads. "Go, go, go! Go now! Go away! They are mine."

"I only want to borrow them," Toby said.

"No! No! No! No! They are mine. They are ours, not yours, shaman. Go! Go away! Mine! Mine! Mine!"

"I will bring them back." He reached up to the hole and tried to push the squirrel aside. It bit his finger. He cried out at the pain and snatched his hand away to suck the wound. He could taste the blood.

The squirrel danced in fury now on the edge of the hole, jabbering, "Mine! Mine! Mine!" and "Ours! Ours! Ours!" and sometimes, "Go away! Go away!" It lashed its shiny tail around like a feather duster.

"I need them just for a little while. I will bring them back." He reached up to grab the brute. It ran up the trunk out of reach, clinging to the bark with its claws.

"There is nothing there, shaman. The hole is empty."

"Then you won't mind if I look?" He stretched as high as he could and felt inside the hole with his right hand. The squirrel jumped on his wrist and bit it. As he grabbed for it with his left hand, it dived into the hole, and suddenly he had both hands in the hole and they were caught there. He was trapped. Inevitably, the ground sank away under his toes then, leaving him hanging by his wrists. The tree bark was harsh and spiky against his skin. He knew what was going to happen now. This was Sergeant Mulliez's whipping post again.

The squirrel bit on his fingers a few times, then poked its head out between his hands to smile at him. "You must promise to bring them back!"

"I promise," he said.

The lash crashed across his shoulders and he gasped, but it was not quite a scream. He had made no sound before on the whipping post, and he would not now.

"Promise more faithfully!" sneered the squirrel. It was redder than ever, red as the blood he could feel streaming down his back.

"I promise!"

Crash! This time he had been ready for it.

"You are still lying. Swear, shaman!"

"I swear!"

Crash!

Someone was screaming.

"Stop that, Sorghie!" he said. "You won't get around me that way."

The roughness on his hands and face was stonework again. He was leaning against the wall with his arms over his head, still in his armor and soaked in sweat, not blood. His helmet had fallen off. He dropped his arms and turned around, but he continued to lean against the wall, for his legs were trembling. The shaman sat at his feet, doubled over her drum.

"Will nothing convince you?" she wailed.

"Not this. None of it makes any sense to me."

"Again!" commanded the tutelary. "This must be the last time. No matter what it does to him, leave him there until he stops struggling."

Toby started to say, "I've never admitted defeat in my life," but they didn't give him time to get the words out.

CHAPTER FOUR

He sat in darkness, a warm and cozy darkness smelling of loam and animal fur. He was listening to a tantalizingly familiar voice. It spoke in Italian, but slowly and clearly, a soft voice with steely undertones:

"…problem is trust. After so many centuries of disunity, cooperation is foreign to us. Even when we face a common foe, we cannot combine because no state can ever trust another. Alliances change too fast." The shape emerging from the darkness was not human. Human eyes were closer together and did not glow with that yellow light.

"Trent was a miracle, but it was a very brief miracle. One day's cooperation — yes, even Italians can agree for a single day when the enemy is in sight. But more than that…" The speaker sighed and smiled, animal teeth showing close below the eyes. "As soon as the sun sets we start conspiring again. To let another's army march across your contado is hard. To put your forces under another's command is almost unthinkable. To send them off to guard another city and leave your own vulnerable — that is an impossible concession."

The light creeping into the scene had the bluish tinge of daylight. The speaker was a fox, a very large red fox.

"Then we must plan accordingly," said another voice, one that Toby did not recognize. Nor could he see the speaker. "One day's cooperation, no marching through others' territory, no putting your forces under a stranger's command, no leaving your home city unguarded."

"If you can devise a strategy that satisfies all those conditions, then you are indeed a military genius." The fox was melting, shifting. The cave, too, was changing.

"It may be possible to come close, Your Magnificence."

Il Volpe pricked up his ears. "Indeed? How close?"

"Close enough, because no one makes alliances with the Fiend. You can trust your oldest enemy before you trust him."

"Some have tried." It… he… was becoming human, at least below the neck. The surroundings were beginning to look more like a room than a fox's earth, too, smelling less of loam and musk, more of polish, printer's ink, leather bindings, and wine.

"And lived to repent it, but not much longer. First, territory. Obviously someone will have to make a concession so that the separate states may bring their forces together. But this will not be a problem once the Fiend has already invaded, will it, messer? Any state will welcome its neighbors in if they come to drive Nevil away."

Who was this Unknown? He was using almost exactly the same words Toby himself had used many times. He was certainly no Italian.

The fox sipped from a stemmed goblet. "They may not agree so before it happens, but do continue."

"Command, then. You said yourself, that command can be relinquished for one day. It happened at Trent, it can happen again."

"One day?" The fox smiled. "That might be negotiable."

"Leaving the city unguarded — would you settle for sending your army out as long as it remained between you and the foe?"

The fox laughed. "You bargain with a gentle touch, messer! Tell me your plan." When did foxes ever concede anything? He was human from the neck down now, a fox-headed man covered with a red pelt, sitting back at his ease in a silk-upholstered chair. The earth was fast becoming a room, Pietro Marradi's little private office, which was a nook barely big enough for two, three at the most. It was lit by daylight but still dull, as if seen through smoked glass.

This was a distorted memory. The only time Toby had seen this room had been the morning when Marradi had summoned him in from Fiesole and announced that it was time to negotiate the condotta—meaning that all the sparring between Don Ramon and the dieci that had gone before was of no importance and the matter would now be settled by the principals, messer Marradi and messer Longdirk, man to man. Which is what they had proceeded to do. At the Carnival Ball that evening, the Magnificent had forced the dieci to accept the terms, then the next morning he had gone back on his word.

But it was a false memory. Sorghaghtani was weaving lies. Marradi had never had a fox's head, and Toby had never made the absurd promises the Unknown was making. This imposter with the barbaric accent must be the mysterious Shadow, the source of all the trouble, the one who had turned Marradi against Toby, tampered with Maestro Fischart's demons so that he died, betrayed Lisa — and even stolen that missing bag of gold.

"The Fiend must strike at Italy," the Unknown said, "can we doubt it? He rules his dominions by terror and cruelty, continually stamping out dissent. He cannot tolerate another defeat, for if he ever starts to seem vulnerable, all Europe will explode under his feet. He will come in the spring, and he will bring the hugest army he can raise. If he makes those mistakes, I can break him."

The fox narrowed its eyes suspiciously. "How? Why is size a mistake?" His fur was starting to look like clothes.

"Because a great army eats greatly and is clumsy to maneuver. If he waits for the harvest, my plan may not work, but if he comes in the spring, then he must either bring his provisions with him, which will slow his advance, or else guard his supply lines. Nevil likes to move very fast. He also tends to overextend himself. He has not been caught out yet, but one day he will be. Our strategy must be to encourage his overconfidence, draw him onward, lengthen those lines, lure him into a trap."

"And what will be the bait in this trap?"

"Florence, messer."

Toby wanted to scream and could not. He wanted to shout Stop! Stop! He tried to yell a warning: Stop, because whoever he is, you are being tricked. But he uttered no sound at all. Marradi remained unaware of the hidden watcher in his future. Even so, he was not pleased at the prospect being offered.

"You presume far, comandante! You expect me to stake out my city as a sacrificial lamb?"

"I see no other way of dealing with the threat, Your Magnificence. The Fiend will send his thousands and hundreds of thousands pouring over the Alps. He will devastate the north — Turin, Milan, Venice, Parma, Verona, and all the rest. You will be overwhelmed by starving refugees; he will follow slavering at their backs. Even if Rome and Naples try to come to your assistance, by then the roads will be full of refugees, the northern powers will have been destroyed, the price of food will be—"

"Stop, stop! You give me waking nightmares. Why Florence?"

"Geography, messer. We must tempt Nevil south before he sacks Milan or Venice, or very many of the smaller cities. He may bleed off some troops to guard his supply lines, which will help us, but the main point is that when he throws his siege works around Florence, he will be between the four great powers. Milan, Venice, Rome, and Naples can move in. The jaws of the trap close here."

The fox smiled skeptically and lifted the goblet to his muzzle. "I believe the beginning. I approve of the ending. It is the middle I distrust. What lure can you dangle to attract a demon?"

"Several things," said the Unknown. "I have already presumed to make a few preliminary arrangements."

"Oh, you have, have you?" Skepticism became open suspicion. "What arrangements?"

"In confidence, Magnificence?"

"You have my word."

"Well…" The Unknown hesitated. "After Trent, the Khan wrote to congratulate me. I wrote back and asked him to appoint you suzerain."

Marradi almost leaped from his chair in horror. "You what?" Lips curled back from the carnivore teeth.

Lies! Lies!

"You know how Nevil feels about suzerains?"

"I certainly do! He pickles their heads in jars of brine."

"He must catch them first. So if there is a new suzerain in Florence, he will be very tempted. And there is myself. I do not wish to sound immodest, but I have been a nuisance to him for longer than anyone, and at Trent I did nothing to win his affections."

Who was this demon-spawned fraud, this imposter with his glib falsehoods? Obviously Marradi thought he was speaking with Toby himself.

Now he stared at the Unknown with deadly intent. "I cannot imagine what he would do to you if he took you alive, messer. You would truly stay in the city while the Fiend closed in to besiege it?"

"I will. Throw me in jail if you don't trust me. I also have something he wants very much, the only thing he fears, a certain gem. He knows I have it. I also had the audacity to suggest to the Khan that he send a personal envoy. If he complies, then Florence will contain your noble self as suzerain, me, the amethyst, plus the Khan's envoy. If your Magnificence can think of any additional bait, then we should add it to the hook."

Lisa! Poor Lisa walked into this conspiracy that very night. It was Lisa and Blanche who brought the Fiend to Florence.

The fox steepled his fingers, seeming unconvinced. "You really think this will tempt him south, leaving enemy strongholds in his rear? I am no soldier, messer, but even I would not make that mistake."

"The deception will have to be carefully staged," the imposter conceded. "We must lull him into overconfidence. For example, he is well aware that Maestro Fischart, formerly Baron Oreste, is the most skilled hexer in all Europe. To him, in truth, belongs the credit for the victory at Trent."

"He did what you told him to, you mean?"

"What I asked, yes, but he achieved it. The maestro and I are devising a fatal accident for him. If we can somehow convince the Fiend that his old teacher has perished, he will be much less inclined to suspect treachery."

"How often do skilled hexers meet with fatal accidents?"

"Rarely, alas. It will take some thought."

But Hamish's encounter with Gonzaga in Siena had created a wonderful opportunity to fake a disaster — except that this Shadow, this Unknown, this imposter, had made it into a real one! Double cross. Triple cross!

"Speaking of gramarye, Your Magnificence," the villain continued, "may I have leave to appeal to your distinguished brother, His Eminence the cardinal? No amount of strategy and courage will save us if we cannot field adequate demon power."

The fox snarled. "I have discussed this with him already, believe me! He admits that the Holy Father is being very difficult. He… my brother, I mean… will be here in about a month. Will that be soon enough?"

"I fear the matter is too urgent to delay, messer. I have ways of making brief visits to Rome, if you could arrange a meeting place for us. It would have to be in the middle of the night, I am afraid."

Ha! Wrong! The real Toby Longdirk could not go on demon rides because the hob wouldn't tolerate gramarye.

Marradi clicked his fox teeth in amusement. "Indeed, messer? You would travel by gramarye to a meeting with a cardinal of the College? I admire your audacity, if not your judgment. Certainly I can write and ask him to grant you an audience. Whether he will and whether he will then cooperate, I do not know. He was much easier to handle when he was small and I could thump his ears. Since he gained his red hat, he has developed an unfortunate independence of mind."

The Unknown chuckled politely, as one does at the jokes of the great. "Your Magnificence is most gracious."

"And you are extraordinarily devious! I thought only Italians were capable of such chicanery. But I find it hard to believe that Nevil will willingly walk into your trap." Toby did not. It was a wonderful plan. He wished he had thought of it. "The Fiend, messer Longdirk, is not stupid, and he knows now that you are not."

"He knows, also, Your Magnificence, that I am only a penniless soldier of fortune. I would cheerfully disappear altogether, but that would be suspicious in itself. It seems to me that we should announce the generous terms for a condotta that you have granted me here this morning, and attempt to hammer together a union of the states, because that is what he will expect us to do. Then everything must appear to fall apart like a puffball — which is what we fear it will do. You will make it known that I am in disgrace, that you are overruling me. Block my efforts. Insult me in public. Nevil has spies everywhere. He will hear of all this and discount me."

"It will make you look like a fool!"

The Unknown laughed. "My feelings do not matter! I am not a prickly aristocrat like Don Ramon. I am not even, with respect, a burgher who must watch what his creditors think of his solvency. I have no family or close friends to suffer from my disgrace. The men of the Company know I can fight, and that is all they care about. I am a bastard peasant, the lowest of the low. Shame me all you will. In a worthy cause I can endure a few slights."

Easy for him to say, whoever he was! It was Toby himself who had suffered those months of humiliation and frustration, and apparently all that time Marradi had believed that he wanted such treatment?

The fox scratched the side of his muzzle. "You impress me with this offer, messer Tobias. I know of no other condottiere in all Italy who would submit to such an arrangement, and Nevil will never suspect that you are submitting to it voluntarily. I will not give you my unconditional acceptance now, but let us proceed with the condotta, for we must do that in any case. I shall write to my so-eminent brother on your behalf, while you go ahead and arrange that unfortunate accident to Maestro Fischart. If you can make that appear convincing, and if the College will arm you with the gramarye you need, then I may even agree to tie a noose around my city's neck as you request. Secrecy, above all, will be essential. Who else knows of this plot of yours?"

"Only Oreste and yourself, messer. The Khan knows I want to set a trap, but none of the details. His Eminence the cardinal will have to be told, and eventually the senior military leaders, men like Ercole Abonio and the various captains-general. Less than a dozen, I hope."

Unexpectedly, the fox chuckled. He rubbed his human hands and ran a long red tongue over his chops. "This is a wicked game you plan, comandante! I confess I enjoy such sport, and I am delighted to have misjudged you — as I hope the Fiend will misjudge you — for I confess I suspected your success at Trent was merely a fluke. Forgive me if I ask this, though. I have years of practice at such intrigue, but you strike me as a man more inclined to use his fists than his tongue. I shall keep your secret, I promise you, but are you sure that you can?"

"You mean, can I tell lies with a straight face?"

"I am afraid that skill will be an essential ingredient." The fox showed sharp teeth in a smile.

"No, I cannot. But I told you I have ways of traveling to Rome, messer. I can also invoke gramarye to prevent myself from giving the game away. I can even prevent myself from thinking about it or remembering it when I do not need to."

"This is dangerous, surely?"

"Life is dangerous, messer. The worst I risk is that I will completely forget the strategy someday when I need to remember it. If you ever think that has happened, Your Magnificence, then you will have to take me aside and remind—"

Toby screamed.

Out! Out! Sorghie, get me out of this!

CHAPTER FIVE

He reeled to his feet and stared out at a world made glorious by morning — the broad valley of the Arno brilliant green under the ethereal light of Tuscany, the lumpy hills in their rich garb of olive trees and mulberries, misty peaks beyond rolling off to infinity. He scowled at the disfiguring camps of the enemy ringing the city just out of cannon shot. Already the eastern sky was almost too bright to look upon, heralding the sun. The Allied armies were waiting under their masking gramarye. He had told everyone he would give them the signal before sunup — Ercole, Alfredo, all of them! If he did not appear in time, they would assume that something had gone awry and start withdrawing. Then all chance of a victory would be lost, the great surprise attack would become a panic retreat, disaster.

"You have remembered!" the tutelary said, and there was a sound very much like joy in the normally dead voice.

"Little One, it worked?" Sorghaghtani cried.

"It worked!" He bent to take up his helmet and put it on his head, then he lifted her into the air as he straightened. He kissed her and set her down. "Thank you! Holiness, thank you, also. Excuse me. I must be about my business."

He vaulted over the railing into the sky.

By rights he should have bounced three or four times down the steepening curve of the redbrick dome and ended as a disgusting mess on the roof of the nave. He didn't. At about the time he ought to have made his third impact, his boots hit the flagstones of the piazza a couple of spans away from Smeòrach, who jerked his head up and rolled his eyes, but who was well used by now to his owner's peculiar abilities. Several early-bird passersby jumped and peered in alarm, unwilling to believe what they had seen. The genuine early birds, the sparrows and pigeons, were less gullible and exploded upward in a wild flapping.

The boy had removed the saddle and laid it on the ground so he could sleep on it, with the reins tied around his wrist. Smeòrach's hard tug wakened him; he sat up, bleary-eyed. "Oh, messer, I am sorry…"

"You did well!" Toby said, untying the knot. "I don't have time for the saddle. Keep it. It's yours. And this." He dropped a gold coin, which rang on the stone. It was one of the last of the bagful he had stolen from the Company coffers to use as expense money on his secret journeys.

He vaulted on to Smeòrach's back, and Chabi settled on his arm in another whirring of wings. He tried to shake her off. "You think I'm going hawking? Be off! This is not safe for you!"

"Who is safe today?" she asked in Sorghaghtani's voice.

He had no time to argue with an owl. Hoping he could leave her behind, he kicked in his heels and sent Smeòrach bounding forward. The spectators saw the big spotted gelding take off across the piazza like an arrow, but after a very few strides horse, rider, and owl became smoky, transparent, then vanished altogether. The hoofbeats, some later asserted, could be heard for a few moments after that. Most of the good folk fled screaming into the sanctuary and were comforted by the spirit.

From Toby's viewpoint, and possibly Smeòrach's, they plunged into a faintly luminescent fog devoid of landmarks or scenery. Iron shoes rang on an endless shiny plain like a dark lake, and their reflection raced along below them.

"Hoo?" the owl screeched, digging talons into the padding on his arm. "Where is this?"

"Are you Chabi or Sorghaghtani?"

"Who? Do I look like Sorghaghtani? Do I sound like Chabi? What part of the spirit world is this?"

"No part, so far as I know. I call it the Unplace." He had settled on this as the least distracting dreamscape for his ghostly excursions — not properly demon rides, because Smeòrach was not demonized. Smeòrach was probably not necessary at all, but he was company, and his presence reassured the people Toby journeyed to meet in the real world. Better a demonized horse than a demonized commander.

He patted Smeòrach's neck. "Faster, lad, faster!" Their speed had nothing to do with him, of course, but the big oaf didn't understand Gaelic anyway. He seemed to enjoy the exercise on the endless flat surface.

"How can you stand it without a drum?" asked the owl-shaman. "How long must we stay?"

"I never know." Even the hob could not move him instantaneously. "I only hope I haven't left it too late."

Busily using claws and beak, she worked her way up his arm to his shoulder. "What went wrong, Little One?"

"I blundered. I think I was just too tired." He had ridden round to all the Allied camps the previous night, returning to Florence just before dawn to do a day's work before he went off to attend Lisa's wedding. As always he had closed off what he thought of as his hob memories, so that he would not need to tell lies to anyone, but in his haste and weariness he must have barred the door too well. He had failed to remember his other existence when he needed to.

Chabi turned her head around, scanning the Unplace. Sometimes she seemed to make complete revolutions with her neck, but that couldn't be right. "How long have you been coming here?"

"You are Sorghie, aren't you?"

"Who? Why don't you answer my question?"

"Who asks? Since just after Trent. In the middle of the battle, Nevil sent demons after me, and I fought them off. Not only demons, though — a couple of arrows seemed to veer away from me, and once I was charging straight at a cannon and their match went out when they tried to fire it. Later, when I had time to think, I decided I'd been using the hob's powers, but the hob hadn't gone on a rampage. Neither of us has gone insane since, so far as I can tell. The Fillan hob and I are pretty much one and the same now."

"Did you not tell us that you feared you would turn into a demon incarnate if that happened?" The familiar sounded annoyed, although Sorghie must have realized she was dealing with two separate Tobys, and the daytime version did not know the moonlight version existed.

"I do. It's my worst nightmare, but if this will help overthrow Nevil, I am willing to take the risk. I try not to use gramarye except when I must." He sighed. "Sometimes it just happens, like a blink happens if something comes too close to your eyes." Or like repelling Lucrezia's advances by dropping a statue across her path, or putting Hamish to sleep so he wouldn't notice the midnight comings and goings.

Smeòrach was flagging, and Toby resisted the urge to drive the big fellow faster. They would arrive when they arrived. Sometimes a jaunt from Florence to Fiesole took longer than a trek to Naples or Milan or Venice. The first time he had ventured on a nightmare ride like this had been his journey to Rome for the secret audience with Ricciardo Cardinal Marradi.

"In this horrible place, why are you laughing, Little One?"

"Who are you calling a Little One, chicken? I was remembering that fight I had with a squirrel in your spirit world, Sorghie dear. I just realized what memory you almost awoke."

His Eminence had stipulated that the meeting be held at Tivoli, in the hills east of the Eternal City, where he had a summer villa, but this was not summer, and Toby emerged from the Unplace into a chilly drizzle. He had not thought to bring a cloak. Obviously he had much to learn about his new abilities.

The Magnificent had given him directions beginning at the bridge, meaning he must first find the bridge in pitch-darkness without falling into the gorge. Just how he managed that he could not have explained, nor even how he followed the trail once he had located it, but eventually he rode up to the gates bearing the Marradi arms. He was well aware that he was mud-spattered and soaked, reeking of wet horse and wet man, and he towered four or five hands taller than the wizened old doorkeeper who answered his knock, but this ancient showed no sign of surprise or alarm at the mysterious night visitor. Having admitted him in complete silence and barred the door again, he took up his lantern and led the way through a building that seemed much more a mansion than a villa. The wan light flickered on marble and gilt, hinting at riches crouching in the shadows. By the time he was ushered into the great man's presence, Toby had almost stopped dripping a muddy trail for the servants to clean up.

The cardinal had obviously been napping over a book in a comfortable chair. He roused himself and strutted forward like a robin, offering his ring to be kissed, but holding it low enough to leave no doubt that Toby was expected to kneel first. So he knelt and was left shivering on his knees on a very cold marble floor while his host wandered back to stand in front of the hearth. The doorkeeper, having added a few more logs to the fire, had withdrawn, still silent, and no one had mentioned warm spiced wine. No one had said anything about hospitality for Smeòrach, either, but of course he was assumed to be demonized.

"State your case," the cardinal said. "You are wasting our time unless you have something new to say."

The noble acolyte was small, pudgy, and chinless in his grandiose red robes; and for his manners he deserved to be kicked very hard from Sicily to the Alps.

"I have defeated the Fiend in battle, Your Eminence. That is new. No other man can say as much."

The cardinal shrugged. "You bested one of his underlings, not Nevil himself. You did so by using gramarye, which decent men do not touch. Last week your arch-hexer died a deservedly horrible death in Siena, so now you come crawling to the… no?"

"With respect, Your Eminence, Baron Oreste remains in excellent health."

The little man scowled. "Carry on, then."

After that cool beginning, the audience waxed even frostier. His Eminence conceded that the College might possess a few immured demons that had not yet been destroyed, but not that it kept any great horde of them in the crypts of Rome. Even if some could be found and their names determined, the Holy Father was adamant that the College could never allow them to be used, nay not even to defend Italy from the Fiend. That would be a great evil.

Oreste believed that the College used its vast cache of confiscated demons to defend Rome itself. That, he had said, was why the cardinal had insisted on meeting Toby at Tivoli, because any attempt to ride a demonized horse closer to the city would be very quickly fatal. He also suspected that the present Holy Father was senile and the College was badly divided on the question of how far it could bend its principles in order to resist the Fiend.

"If the gramarye were to be strictly limited to defense?" Toby asked. His knees ached, and the cold of his wet tunic had soaked through to his bones.

The cardinal sniffed. "And what is defense, pray? A bowman shoots at you so you wipe out an entire army and call it defense? I see no point in continuing this conversation."

"I am trying to save your native city from total destruction, Your Eminence."

"It sounds to me as if you are exposing it to totally unnecessary risk. I can't imagine why my brother would waste a moment contemplating the wild plot you suggest. The Holy Father would be incensed if he heard that I was even discussing the use of gramarye. It is an evil that has perverted many fine adepts into hexers and so damned them."

"With respect, Your Eminence, the baron believes that he can find volunteers to handle the demons according to his instructions. They would not be jeopardizing their souls with forbidden knowledge."

The cardinal considered that offer, pouting. It was the first time he had hesitated. Oreste thought the arrangement would appeal to the College because it could more easily deny involvement if it supplied only the immured demons and not the adepts to handle them.

"I doubt that that is possible."

"Maestro Fischart will be more than willing to attend Your Eminence to explain how he can arrange this."

Marradi shook his dewlaps in refusal. "I had as soon turn my villa into a public brothel as consort with anyone so notorious. The solution is of very doubtful morality. Granted that war requires taking risks, these volunteers of his, by their innocence and ignorance, would be placed in grave danger from the very demons they expected to control."

It seemed that nothing would work. The cause was hopeless, and Toby was becoming increasingly worried about Smeòrach, shivering outside in the rain. He had only one last desperate plea left in his bag.

"If the use of the demons were strictly limited, Your Eminence? The heart of my plan is that the Allies encircle Nevil without his knowing. With sufficient gramarye, their armies could be concealed from his view until the trap had been closed. If this is evil, surely it is no more evil than resisting his invasion by the use of cold steel or black powder?"

The adept gathered his scarlet robes more tightly over his little paunch as he thought about that. "What guarantees would you give that the demons be used for that purpose only?" he asked suspiciously.

A gleam of hope flickered. "Any guarantees Your Eminence requires."

Heavy lids drooped over the fishy eyes. "And if I require you to pledge your life on it?" the cardinal asked softly.

"I will pledge."

"You will swear?"

"I will swear."

The little man's voice grew quieter yet. "Would you submit to a stronger charge than that?"

So much for the doctrine that the College never indulged in gramarye. Toby doubted that the hob would allow him to be hexed with a lethal conjuration, but if he breathed a word about the hob to this pompous little parasite, he would find himself with an iron blade through his heart in very short order.

"Anything Your Eminence requires." He hoped that the hob, if it did rebel, would begin by frying Ricciardo Cardinal Marradi in batter.

"Mm." The arch-acolyte seemed almost disappointed. "I shall discuss this proposal with my colleagues. Return in four days at the same hour, and I will let you know then of Their Eminences' decision. If it is favorable, I may even have some material for you to transport to your hexer, Fischart. I warn you that you will be the one pledged for their proper use and safe return."

The College, or some powerful faction within the College, did accept the agreement. Even more surprising, the hob did not object to the binding, and Toby had returned from his second trip to Tivoli carrying the squirrel's horde, a sack of jewels so heavy that even he could barely lift it single-handed.

CHAPTER SIX

Without warning the mists wavered, and the hoofbeats lost their odd metallic note. Trees came into view, at first like wraiths and then more distinct. A wall, a gate… reality returned at the wooded uphill edge of the muddy, disfigured slope where the Don Ramon Company had camped for half a year.

Smeòrach rarely made a fuss entering the Unplace, but coming out of it was another matter. There were dangers in the real world, in this case shrubbery, walls, many men on horses, and a foul reek of burning. He brayed, bucked, and kicked up his heels. Toby was no Don Ramon. He was an adequate horseman at best, and he had no saddle. He hit the real world with a crack that blew all the air out of his lungs. Chabi went in search of a tree. Demons! That was not exactly a dignified way to begin a war. His linen armor had saved him from serious hurt, but he needed a moment to let the sky and branches stop spinning.

A banner bearing the winged lion of Venice came into view, being carried by a puzzled-looking young gonfalonier on a white horse. A knight in full armor on an armored destrier appeared beside him.

"Hawking with an owl?" inquired the mocking tones of Captain-General Alfredo. "In daylight? How many mice today, messer?"

Ignoring the scorn for the moment, Toby sat up and took stock. The villa had been sacked the previous morning — he had seen the smoke then, and now he could smell it and view the charred remains. But the Fiend's troops had moved on, and in the night Alfredo's had come, the army of Venice that had been treading on Nevil's heels all the way from Bologna. The wood was full of knights and their warhorses, and there would be companies of infantry behind them. This was a small host compared to Nevil's multitude, although it included men of Padua, Verona, Ferrara, and many humbler towns. Even villages and hamlets had sent their youth to Florence to fight the Fiend.

To his left, the dozen or so hooded figures in white robes were Maestro Fischart and his hexers. Downslope, Smeòrach was still playing the fool, and no one had dared to go after him because they all thought he was demonized. Toby put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The first edge of the sun blazed on the horizon, but there was still time, for Fiesole was very high. Dawn would come later down on the plain, where Florence glowed pink in the morning light, with no sign of war yet. Two hundred thousand men — it was a shock to realize that Nevil himself must be down there, too. For the first time in his life, Toby Longdirk was within reach of his implacable foe.

The Fiend had walked into his trap. That felt very good.

Feeling ready to face Stiletto's mockery, he scrambled to his feet. "Good day to you, Captain-General. Last night the darughachi appointed me comandante of the armies of Italy."

A careful smile appeared under Alfredo's visor. "Officially at last? Congratulations! Well earned. And what orders have you for us today, Your Excellency?" As if he did not know.

"Just one, messer." Toby pointed to the enemy. "Kill!"

Alfredo's grin became more convincing. He raised his silver baton in salute. "It shall be done, comandante. Drummer, sound the Prepare to Advance!"

Toby turned to give Smeòrach a pat, then heaved himself onto the big oaf's sweat-slick back. Chabi wheeled down to his shoulder as he rode over to the waiting hexers. Volunteers they all were, officially, and he had not asked where Fischart had found them, but he was confident that most of them were skilled adepts, so he had already bent his oath to the cardinal very badly. He intended to break it into tiny fragments shortly. Four of the thirteen were women, and two of the others seemed barely more than boys. Most were keeping their hands out of sight inside their sleeves, but he knew that their fingers were weighted with rings, and they had chains of assorted gems hung around their necks under their robes. With this huge spiritual artillery they had concealed an army of more than fifty thousand from the Fiend's demons.

Fischart hurried forward to meet him, white robe swirling around his ankles. For once the grim old man was smiling, if that wolflike snarl could be called a smile. Nothing in his world mattered except fighting the Fiend, and he was about to inflict on that monster the worst shock he had ever had.

"Success!" he shouted as he approached. "We did it! Not a sign of alarm. No gramarye yet."

Drums were beating, bugles sounding, as the army of Venice prepared to move out down the hill.

"Magnificent! My congratulations to your associates. Lift the shield when the sun is one fingerswidth above the hills."

"The men won't be in contact with the enemy by then."

"You heard my order. Use no more gramarye until battle is joined or the enemy looses his demons."

Still panting from his run, the hexer scowled up at him. "You are hiding things from me!"

"I am comandante. I'll hide anything I want from anyone." Including, reasonably enough, himself. "I don't explain orders on battlefields, Maestro. I trust you to obey and do your best." He saluted the line of hexers, wheeled Smeòrach, and urged him forward into the Unplace.

After the morning light, the Unplace seemed like a fog at midnight. Smeòrach's trotting hooves rang in a steady refrain.

"How do you know where you are going without a guide?" asked Sorghie's voice.

"I don't know. Don't know how I know, I mean. I seem to be my own familiar."

"And what secrets are you keeping from the man in the white robe?"

"The same ones I am keeping from you."

His helmet saved him from suffering a bitten ear at that point. Instead, the owl leaned under the brim and nipped his nose, which was no improvement.

"Stop that!"

"Will you tell me now, or must I hurt you more?"

"Well. It's a long story," he said. He did not know what the truth of it was. The cardinal had no reason except personal spite to want him dead. The hob probably would not have tolerated a real death hex. Enchantments on people faded quickly, and it was more than two months since his second trip to Tivoli — although Marradi might have renewed the gramarye when he was in Florence in March.

Before he had to answer, Smeòrach left the Unplace, trotting out of the mists onto green pasture. This time Toby calmed him and kept him under control, although he could no more have explained how he did it than he understood his own navigation. It seemed his wishes were commands now.

They were on the north bank of the Arno, a league or so downstream from Nevil's invading army — less than a league, for he could make out individual tents in the Fiend's camp. But vision could be deceptive here, for when he looked around, he was only a bowshot away from another army, already advancing at a slow march to the beat of a drum, and obviously the enemy had not seen it, nor the camp behind it. He turned Smeòrach and cantered to meet the vanguard. His appearance had coincided with the moment when the first sliver of the sun's disk peeked over the ridge, and a great cheer went up to greet him.

Wonderful, wonderful sight! This was to be Longdirk's day even if it killed him, as it might do very shortly. Here was an army larger than the one he had led at Trent, yet still merely a quarter of the forces he was now sending into battle. Even if he lost, he would be remembered for having achieved one of the greatest surprises in military history, while if he won… Time enough to think about that when he did.

He was surprised that Ercole had put his cavalry squadrons on the right and the infantry marching in six battles on the left. He would have placed the men-at-arms on the other wing, so the river would protect their flank, but doubtless the old warrior had his reasons. Out in front rumbled the carroccio, a flat-bottomed, rectangular cart, garishly painted and drawn by two armored oxen. Traditionally the hexers rode in this absurd battle wagon, but it was also a mobile headquarters and a symbol of sovereignty. The finest troops in the army would guard the carroccio and perish to the last man around it if need be. Above it floated the serpent banner of Milan.

There were other banners in the background — Savoy and Genoa, Pisa and Lucca, others, too. All the ancient rivalries had been set aside, and for that Toby could claim no credit. Well, perhaps a little bit. They had rallied to the standard he had raised.

Ercole Abonio was riding forward to meet him, accompanied by a knight whose surcoat bore the blazon of the Black Lances and who must therefore be di Gramasci. Two of the finest military leaders in Europe roared a welcome as soon as they were within earshot. In the far distance, cannons rumbled a reply. He glanced around, but it was too soon to discern smoke. He hoped it signified only Florence's defenders warning off an attack, not the battery on San Miniato opening fire on the city.

"I was getting worried!" Ercole shouted.

"I couldn't find a clean shirt!"

He halted, and they reined in on either side of him, eyeing the owl on his shoulder with surprise and noting the curious absence of a saddle, but the terror-thrill of upcoming battle was making them beam like children under their raised visors. On closer inspection their faces also showed the wear and tear of the long forced march, although less on the condottiere's, for he was the younger. Abonio had visibly aged since the conclave at Cafaggiolo, a month ago. No matter, Nevil's army had come farther and would be even wearier.

"You're late," the old collaterale said. "Trouble?"

"No trouble." The comandante just forgot what he was doing, that was all. "That's a truly dainty army you gentlemen have brought. Why don't you go and do something useful with it now?"

"We await only your word, Sir Tobiaso." Di Gramasci was not normally pompous. Did even these seasoned veterans suffer from battle nerves?

"Then here it is: Destroy the enemy! Have your hexers drop their shielding when the carroccio reaches that tree. Tell them to do nothing more until the fighting starts. That's important."

The two men exchanged puzzled glances, but did not argue.

Di Gramasci raised his baton in salute. "As you command, signore!"

But Ercole hesitated. "Forgive me if I ask one last time, lad. Must it still be no quarter?"

He was a good man, Abonio, an honorable soldier who had been loyal to his cousin the duke all his adult life. This savage new warfare was foreign to him, hard to take. Even Toby's heart twisted at the thought of the orders he had given, the suffering he must now cause. The two of them had argued this through most of the night at one of their secret midnight meetings in Milan, but Toby's view had prevailed in the end and must prevail now.

"You know what quarter the Fiend gives. Your orders are to show no mercy whatsoever. Announce that any man doing so is to be shot. Let the burden be on my soul."

He turned Smeòrach away and rode off into the Unplace.

The mists had hardly swallowed them before Chabi asked, "Why must there be no quarter?"

"Because it must." Did she think he could not feel pity? She did not see the visions he saw, of thousands and tens of thousands of Nevil's troops surviving as lordless fugitives, starving outlaws, rabid dog packs overrunning Italy. There was no way to imprison so many, no money nor organization to escort them back to their own lands.

"Why is it important that the hexers do nothing before the fighting starts?"

"Because it is." What had he forgotten, or overlooked? If the cardinal's hex killed him soon, as it well might, could the alliance forge ahead to victory without him?

After a moment the shaman — or her familiar, or perhaps it was both of them — tried again. "Why did you suffer when we took you into the spirit world? Where did the pain come from?"

"An old memory." Perhaps he should have designated a deputy to take over if he fell, but it would probably have been a fruitless exercise. The coming carnage would be so confused and catastrophic that each of the six armies in the coalition would have to fend for itself. With the Magnificent dead, Sartaq would try to take more power into his own hands. He might even succeed, for he was a very shrewd and devious young…

Talons digging into his jerkin, the owl flapped her wings and screeched, much too close to his ear, even with the steel helmet between them. "Why do you not trust me? Did I not help you find your lost self? Where would you be now, who would you be without my help? What would have happened to your war?"

Women! And birds, for that matter. But Sorghaghtani did have a claim on him today.

"The demons the hexers are using were loaned to me by the College. I swore a solemn oath that they would be used only to make the armies invisible while they were assembling. They are not to be used for any other purpose, not even to heal wounded. I agreed to this because I had to, but I did not tell Maestro Fischart of the terms, so he has prepared his minions to take part in the battle."

Smeòrach's hooves rang in the silence for what seemed like a long time before the owl said, "You will break your solemn oath?"

"It has been broken. I have no way to stop the hexers now, and they would not obey me if I tried. You think they would stand by and watch Nevil's demons destroy living men? Or watch men bleed to death when they can be healed? That is a greater evil."

Chabi shifted feet on his shoulder. "Does the College not know this?"

"Yes, but the cardinal who provided the demons probably did so without proper authority. His crime can remain a secret only if I limit their use as he required. But I am not going to, so he will be exposed, and important people will discover that he broke his oath."

"How does that explain the orders you gave? Why should it matter if your oath is seen to be broken now or in a little while from now?"

Before he could think of suitable words to explain about the death hex, Smeòrach trotted out into sunlight. Now they were on the hills south of the city, on the downstream side, not half a league from the Porta San Giorgio, and the cannon fire was an almost continuous rumble. As far as he could see, all the smoke was rising from the gun towers on the walls of Florence, so it was still defensive fire. Nothing showed yet on the crest of San Miniato.

The Roman contingent was small but so well supported by its own hexer auxiliaries that Villari had dared to pitch camp almost on top of the enemy. Whatever his personal faults, the abrasive captain-general was a fighting cock. He had not waited for Toby's signal. His infantry was advancing with band playing, and his cavalry was already down in among the Fiend's baggage train, silencing a ragged rattle of arquebus fire. The cats were out of the bag, and Toby could wish he was back on the dome of the sanctuary hearing the excited screams of the Florentines as their deliverance poured into view from all directions.

Or in the fight, even better.

It would be even nicer to hear what King Nevil was saying at the moment. He had arranged his whole gigantic army facing inward to assault Florence and now had the impossible problem of turning it inside out to face an attack from the rear while it was already under fire. He would not panic, but his mortal minions must be in chaos already.

The Romans had shared their camp with lesser bands from Siena and Perugia, and the lion rampant banner of Florence still fluttered over Don Ramon and his cavalry. He probably would not have restrained himself more than another few minutes, but he did not have to. The ground trembled as he brought the monstrous armored Brutus galloping across the field to meet Toby. Excitement flashed in his blue eyes as bright as dawn on his shining armor.

"Comandante! At last!" He ignored the owl.

"Senor! All is as planned, except that the guns are on wheels. If they manage to turn them on you before you get there, you will be in grave danger."

The don's brief scowl brightened. "But then when we take them, we can turn them on the Fiend!"

"I hope you do. I ordered the sortie to aid you, and it will include cannoneers. Good luck, Captain-General."

"San Miniato is yours, comandante!" Don Ramon wheeled the great warhorse and cantered back to his command.

That left only the big Neapolitan contingent two hills over. Poor Paride Mezzo had stayed home, sending word that he would be less trouble to everyone if he died in his own bed, and the king had appointed Desjardins captain-general. That pugnacious warrior would almost certainly be on his way to join the battle by now, but he should still be given the signal promised. Toby kicked Smeòrach into a canter that took him back into the Unplace.

There was a sixth force in the Allied army, but it was far away…

"Why are you laughing, Little One?"

"Did I laugh? I was remembering the Swiss contingent arriving at the conclave, that's all. I hadn't taken old Beltramo into my confidence at that point. When I told him he was not welcome, the expression on his face was most wonderful to behold!" The crusty old soldier had worked miracles to wring agreement out of the cantons and hammer together the combined delegation, but when he arrived unexpectedly at Cafaggiolo, Toby's first reaction had been less than tactful. Of course the situation had been clarified at that night's secret session — shielded from spies by Maestro Fischart — and the Swiss had enthusiastically agreed to join the deception. They had stormed off in feigned disgust the next morning, and undoubtedly Nevil's agents had informed him that he need not fear Swiss intervention. So today his lines of communication and the garrisons he had left to hold the Alpine passes would be chewed to rags. If he did manage to pull his forces loose from the Florentine trap, he would find the door locked behind him and no way home.

"So you have won?" asked the owl.

"Won? Won? No! Not yet. We've hardly started. We're still badly outnumbered, and Nevil has beaten long odds before now. But if the don can seize the guns on the hill, then Florence is safe. If the Milanese and the Neapolitans can take the Fiend's bridges, we'll have cut his army in half. In an hour or so we'll know the shape of the battle and who needs help. Why do you only speak in the Unplace?"

"Is this not part of the spirit world?"

Somewhere a demon was loosed. The hex struck. Toby screamed and fell off Smeòrach's back.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lisa awoke with her mother having hysterics beside her left ear because guns were firing and that meant the Fiend was coming to get them. Possibly so, but a screaming panic seemed an entirely inappropriate reaction, at least when there was no sturdy Hamish around to apply the treatment of choice. Grabbing Blanche by the shoulders, she administered a thorough shaking. Had this treatment not worked, she would probably have worked up to face-slapping, but that proved unnecessary. Silence fell.

There were cannons firing, and that was scary. "Let us get dressed," she said, "and go down and find out what's happening." She scrambled out of bed and rang for help, although she suspected it might not appear. "Come, Mother!"

There was only room in her life for so many emergencies, and she had not finished dealing with yesterday's yet. Was she or was she not married? The contract had been publicly signed and sealed, which ought to mean yes she was. But the, um, private parts of the arrangement had not been completed, and probably that meant no she wasn't. She rummaged through a chest in search of fresh linen.

"I hope we can find out today," she said as she tossed her findings in her mother's direction, "whether I am a guest in this place — and if so who our host is — or if I own it."

"I just hope it doesn't get burned down before sundown," Blanche retorted, struggling to dress herself without the assistance she had enjoyed all her life. The guns were growing louder.

Had any Queen of England ever been tortured to death by her own father?

Presentable, if not quite as well groomed as was their wont, they descended the great staircase hand in hand and were greeted by a low bow from Prince Sartaq, who was wearing riding boots and had just handed his cloak off to an attendant. His two villainous-looking shamans and half a dozen of his Tartar guards skulked in the background.

"Greetings, ladies! I trust you rested well after yesterday's harrowing experiences?"

"What news?" Blanche demanded.

His smiles made his eyes disappear altogether. "Good news! Excellent news. The Fiend has been dealt such a blow as he never dreamed of. Come, let us together break our fast, and I will tell you all about this miracle."

Lisa was still not sure whether she liked the Khan's son or not. She had been prejudiced against him by Hamish, who had foamed at the mouth when denouncing the prince's meddling. An idiot, he had said — a libertine who wantoned with loose women when he should be attending to business, a procrastinating popinjay who claimed the right to make all the decisions and then refused to make them or made stupid ones, and so on, with other complaints fortunately being expressed in languages she did not comprehend. Now she had lived in the same palace as Sartaq for almost a month, and he did not seem so contemptible. He had insisted they adopt the royal habit of addressing each other as "cousin" to avoid awkward considerations of precedence. He could be witty and even charming once you got used to his horse-stepped-on-it face. From the neck down he was impressive. Although Mother had mumbled some embarrassed warnings, and the chambermaids had told very scandalous stories, he had behaved like a perfect gentleman to Lisa. Despite his lack of years, he had more self-esteem than a peacock and could brandish his father's authority like a battle-ax when he chose. He had taken charge of the whole palace after Pietro's death and evidently still retained it.

Now he commandeered a minor dining room and demanded fast service. While waiting for results, he explained: "The Fiend has fallen into a brilliantly planned trap. Yesterday he brought his two armies together at Florence. This morning he was taken by surprise when comandante Longdirk attacked. The battle still rages, but I am confident that Nevil is doomed to a major defeat."

"Praise to the spirits!" Blanche cried, dramatically clasping hands under her chin.

"So the big man really is a military genius?" Lisa inquired uneasily. "Did he burn any forests this time?"

Sartaq glanced at her inscrutably. "No, Cousin, but he conceived one of the greatest deceptions in the history of warfare, and then managed to pull it off. With a certain amount of assistance, I add in all modesty. Let us sit here, Aunt. We have still found no trace of Lucrezia the wicked. Perchance we never shall. No one knows who will succeed to leadership of the family and city. I expect the cardinal will make the final decision. This need no longer concern us, for Florence has served its purpose."

As soon as food had been laid out, he shooed the servants away. "I shall myself wait upon you, ladies," he declared, "for I have secrets to impart unheard. Red wine or white?"

When he had poured wine for everyone, he settled on the other side of the table. "A toast! I am confident that the threat to Italy is over. Nevil has met his match at last." He raised his goblet in salute. "To his fall and destruction!"

"To the fall and destruction of Rhym." Blanche had recovered much of her color, although she was not yet about to smile at anything.

"Ah, true! Forgive me. If your unfortunate husband can be restored, then we shall all applaud that outcome. However…" Seemingly quite unabashed by his slip, he looked thoughtfully at Lisa.

She dropped her eyes and noticed the basket of rolls in front of her. One day she had told Pietro how much she had enjoyed the French-style rolls she had met in Savoy, and they had appeared on every table since, fresh baked. She would not pretend she had ever loved him, but he had been a considerate host and a generous fiance. She had grown accustomed to the prospect of being married to him, comfortable with it. He had not deserved that shameful death. She knew she might yet do a great deal worse in the husband market than Pietro Marradi.

The prince was still appraising her like a dealer at a horse fair.

"Am I now a widow, Cousin?"

Sartaq chuckled. "You mean can you claim a share of the Marradi fortune? I doubt it very much. Even if there is a way for a woman to own property in this city, which I doubt, and if you can hire a skilled advocate to take your case, which I doubt even more, to expect any Florentine court to rule in your favor would be optimism verging on fatuity. Whatever gifts the Magnificent gave you will still be yours, I expect, and you can probably extract a generous settlement if you just promise to go away and stay away, so you are a wealthy woman by most standards. Without even counting your claim to England, I mean."

"But it is my claim to England that is chained around my ankle, isn't it?"

"Lisa!"

"It's true, Mother. There are men dying out there, so let us not play games in here. You are already wondering who to marry me off to, aren't you, Cousin?"

The prince acknowledged her argument with an amused nod and reached into the fruit bowl. "Not exactly."

"You've already decided?" Her heart sank. No, it dived under the table and tried to creep out of the room unnoticed.

"The choice is very limited." He popped a date in his mouth. "Fair lady, I would most eagerly marry you myself. That solution creates new problems, though, because I gave my father and certain significant brothers my most solemn oath that I would neither name myself suzerain nor otherwise attempt to seize power. This condition they insisted on before they would approve my meddling in the affairs of Europe. It is written into my accreditation, and I am fairly sure they also hexed me so that I will drop dead or my head will fall off if I break my word. Trust" — he turned his face to spit out the pit—"is not a prominent trait in my family.

"The situation let me explain, Cousin. My mother was my honored father's third wife, one of those chosen for political reasons, and of his sons I am seventh born. I am not sure how many of us there were at last count, but enough for any reputable purpose. In recent centuries it has become customary for the succession to pass to the Khan's eldest son by his principal wife. Eldest surviving, that is, for mortality has always been fairly high among the leading candidates to rule the Golden Horde. Nevertheless a run of six misfortunes — accidents, sudden fevers, or suicides — is not reasonably to be expected. I seemed foredoomed to limit my interests to falconry and camel racing."

Lisa had not heard him discuss himself or the royal family before. She was not at all sure she wanted to. "You are being cynical."

His slit eyes narrowed in what might have been a smile. "I enjoy the chance to speak freely, Cousin. In Sarois these remarks would be suicidal, even within the family. Especially within the family. Where was I? Oh, yes. We have known for many generations that the Horde is not what it was. The descendants of fanatic steppe warriors have become fat cattle, indolent and timorous, who will one day be conquered and enslaved just as our ancestors enslaved the known world. Nor were we at all surprised to see Europe rise up against our rule. Our claim to overlordship has been largely a fiction for at least a century, although we did provide a useful service by maintaining the balance of power. If any ruler grew too powerful, the Khanate would assign the suzerainship to whomever seemed most likely to bleed him back to health, but such dominion must ultimately rest on the power to enforce it, and Nevil exposed our bluff for all the world to see. We regretfully concluded that our hegemony had ended.

"A confession: In my youth, being somewhat ambitious — within the limits of my loyalty to my dear Brother Kublai, of course — I always harbored a secret dream of striking some dramatic blow to bring the rebel lands back into the fold, and even had hope that such a demonstration of martial prowess might win me advancement."

Lisa raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"That and a couple of murders," Sartaq agreed, helping himself to a pastry.

"Including Prince Kublai's?"

"Especially Kublai's, definitely. When news came that Nevil had finally lost a battle, I ventured to write and congratulate the young unknown who had achieved this feat. In my father's name I wrote. He replied, a most interesting message. Over the previous dozen years, appeals have poured into Sarois by the hundred, all of them saying, in effect, 'Send help! Come and fight for us! Send men, guns, horses.' This one was different. It said, 'I can defeat Nevil, but it would be advantageous if Your Majesty would send an envoy.' He did not say very clearly why or how, and he admitted that the man in question should be expendable." He chuckled. "My brothers were all in favor of sending me. Especially Kublai. So here I am."

The general direction of this conversation was highly unsatisfying! Not Longdirk? Surely not marry Longdirk! Lisa's fingers were systematically crumbling a roll to dust. "I did not realize you came to Italy to assist Sir Tobias."

He noted her tone and paused. "I have just explained that my intention was to use him. Why are you surprised?"

"Well…" she said. Not Longdirk! He must not marry her to Longdirk! "Do please understand that he never discussed such matters in my presence, but the general chitchat around the camp was that he found your actions to be somewhat at cross-purposes with his own."

Sartaq did not take offense. Indeed, he chuckled and refilled his goblet. "If that was the worst you heard, then I failed utterly. My first encounter with that human bull came a few nights after my arrival in Naples. He turned up at Castel Capuano in the middle of the night and won admittance to my bedchamber — which was a hair-raising achievement in itself. Having dragged me from my bed, as it were, he explained to me just how he intended to set a trap for King Nevil. You understand, I had come on this wild escapade in the hope of winning renown? Longdirk wanted me for bait. He was setting a trap, right here in Florence, and needed every minnow he could find on his hooks, with the Khan's son as an especially juicy morsel. He also—"

"And a Queen of England as another?"

Sartaq sighed and reached for more dates. He was watching her reaction, though. "I am afraid so, Cousin. He told me that the Fiend's wife and daughter had fallen into his hands two days earlier, quite unexpectedly, and when the time was ripe, he would… dangle you before the bull, I think was how he put it. He used some curious Spanish imagery."

"How can this be?" Blanche demanded, her fingers fidgeting nervously on the cloth. "I admit I was not at my best then, but I am sure Constable Longdirk was never absent from the villa long enough to make a journey to Naples."

"He did not travel by lawful means, Aunt."

"It is true, then, that he is possessed by a demon?" Lisa asked. Perhaps she would get a straight answer at last.

Sartaq heaved his big shoulders in a shrug. "He is possessed by something, certainly. It does not seem to be a demon, not a true demon, or perhaps not yet a demon, but he wields powers honest men do not."

"Oh, no!" Blanche said. "We were in the clutches of an incarnate?" She eyed Lisa in alarm, as if wondering what damage she might have overlooked. "You say it was he who revealed our identities?"

It must be. Sartaq had arranged this entire conversation just so he could make that indictment.

"Absolutely," he said regretfully. "He told the Magnificent and me about you early on. Toby planned everything, including your betrothal to Marradi. He persuaded me to name Marradi suzerain, he told Marradi to let slip your existence by deliberate accident during the conclave, when we could be certain Nevil had spies in place. And so on. He brewed his plans with gramarye in secret and in public faked a monstrous disorder."

"But…" Blanche protested. "When the Magnificent named him comandante last night at the wedding, I was watching his face, and I am certain he was taken by surprise."

"No, dear Aunt," Sartaq said with exaggerated patience. "He had ordered the Magnificent to do that. He had ordered me to approve it. He is an incredible actor. At Cafaggiolo I had to play court fool by naming the incompetent D'Anjou to the post — absolute idiocy! It was all Longdirk's idea, and he had given me detailed instructions on the matter the previous night, yet when I made the announcement he turned scarlet with anger, as if he had been taken completely by surprise.

"You see now why I so disliked his proposal when he explained it at Castel Capuano? I had come west hoping to be a hero. I could just accept the notion of being bait, for there is a certain cachet in offering one's breast to the sword. But he also required me to play the fool, to act as an incompetent. The more we could make it seem that my intervention had tangled the traces, the more likely Nevil was to swallow the lure. Very few people knew what was happening."

Hamish had not been one of them! That was something to hold on to in all this terrible litany of deception and betrayal. Hamish had been honest. He would not have tolerated Longdirk's treachery.

"This churl…" The prince's bantering tone was wearing thin. "The first thing the nursery eunuchs taught me was to recite my ancestry back fourteen generations to Genghis, yet this baseborn serf cast himself in the role of Savior and me as Lord High Bungler! I could hear my brothers' laughter already. When it comes, it will be audible all the way from Sarois."

"But you did cooperate?" Blanche said. "You went along with his deception?"

Sartaq spat out another date pit. "I had no choice, Aunt. There was no other plan in sight, and I was certainly not capable of organizing one. When I asked people — King Fredrico, the cardinals, condottieri, anyone — who would make the best comandante, the only name I ever heard was Longdirk. He had ensnared me with that single letter, months before. I had to cooperate or slink home with my ears down. I confess that the opportunities he gave me to slight him in public have been the most enjoyable parts of my visit."

He chewed for a moment, then said with a reluctant smile, "There is something almost noble in the way he endured it. By day, we spat in his beard. By night, when we met, he would thank us! Small wonder that Nevil discounted him."

"And you will force me to marry this snake, Cousin? This churl, this betrayer, this demon incarnate?"

Sartaq turned to Lisa, looking startled.

"Forgive me. I express myself poorly in this language. I am aware that your heart draws you to this man, but—"

"With respect, Cousin, it does nothing of the sort! Far from it! Disregard any such rumor."

"Oh?" He laughed. "Then this is easier. What I am trying to tell you is that the last man in Europe I will let you marry is Toby Longdirk. He has worked wonders. He may even destroy Nevil completely before this day is out. But is he an improvement? Where does his loyalty lie? I do not know. Nor do I know if he planned this, but because we excluded him from all the ceremonies, he has never performed the ritual of obeisance! Not even when he was appointed comandante yesterday."

Lisa gasped, and a moment later her mother gulped.

"Are you telling us, Cousin, that Longdirk deliberately murdered my husband to avoid having to swear allegiance to the Khan?"

Sartaq shrugged and drew his knife to cut a slice of meat from the cold lamb. "I don't think so." He seemed reluctant to make that admission. "We had not planned to include the obeisance in the middle of the wedding. My advisors believe that the murder was aimed at Longdirk, and his spiritual defenses deflected it. But it is worrisome. If this battle goes Longdirk's way, as I expect it will, then there will be no stopping him. Don't be surprised if his men turn up at the door to take you into, um… 'protective custody' is the usual expression, I believe."

CHAPTER EIGHT

He could see nothing. He could hear. He could smell sweat, taste blood, and he most certainly could feel.

The drum beat its slow refrain—tap—pause—tap—and after each tap the cat-o'-nine-tails crashed against his back, and the whole world exploded in fire. He was back on Mulliez's whipping post, hanging by his wrists, being beaten to bloody shreds.

tap—pause—"Neuf!"

But this was wrong. He could not think because of—

crash!—

— the pain, but this could not be happening. This was gramarye and—

tap—pause—"Dix!"

he ought to be able to deal with it, if he could just find—

crash!—

— oh, demons! — the answer. This was not real. This was gramarye. Hex.

tap—pause—"Onze!"

— the cardinal! Hob! Help! Sorghie!—

crash!—

— oh, spirits! Help me, Sorghie! I've never called for help in my—

tap—pause—"Douze!"

— life before, but I need you, need you, need you…

In a dark sky on a dark field a white owl swoops low and, snatching up its quarry, is gone on wings of silence…

He had his clothes on. There was no blood in his mouth or on his back. He was lying on rough ground with his head in Sorghaghtani's lap, and she was sobbing hysterically, weeping without tears. Sunlight through branches dappled the sky.

"Sorghie! Sorghie?"

She gasped, barely able to breathe. "Little One?"

"It's all right, Sorghie. Thank you, oh, thank you!" He found her hand and squeezed it. Trees, early-morning sky, a few birds singing… No sign of Chabi. "How did you get here?"

"Did you not need me?"

"I needed someone, yes!" He would probably have managed without her, eventually, but the sooner the better in that sort of trap. Marradi! That nasty, small-minded—

She choked a few times. Her absurd shaman hat lay discarded on the grass, and sunlight glinted highlights in her thick black hair. Her eyes were still bandaged. "What happened, Little One?"

"A very spiteful man, that's all." Ricciardo Cardinal Accursed Marradi.

"He was going to kill you?"

Toby heaved himself up to a sitting position. His head swam a bit, but he was basically unharmed. One day, when he had time, he would try to work out what had happened. "Maybe. I don't think so. I think he laid a death hex on me so he could tell his friends he had, but he knew I had some gramarye and could break it." No way to be sure, though. He wasn't even sure he could have broken it without Sorghie's help. It had been a close call.

"You broke your oath now?"

"Let's go and see." The sun was still very low through the trees, but that distant rumble was the mudded-up sound of guns and thousands of hooves, war cries and dying screams, drums and bugles — the noise of battle that could inspire a man to wild killer frenzy and simultaneously make him want to crawl under a bush and hide. It could not have been going on very long yet. He rearranged himself to rise, and somehow the movement put his face closer to hers, and then it was quite natural to take her in his arms and kiss her.

She was as tiny as a doll. She returned the kiss eagerly, moaning with delight, seeming willing to let it go on forever, child trying to become instant woman. He wanted to crush her and certainly could if he tried, while her embrace was barely perceptible through his armored jerkin.

Breaking loose was surprisingly difficult. "Oh, Sorghie! That cannot be."

She buried her face in his neck, snuffling like a puppy. "We helped, didn't we?"

"You didn't just help. Without you and Chabi it would have been impossible. I would not have remembered to give the signal, and the armies would not have attacked."

"Our walk was not for nothing then?"

"No." He kissed her again. He did not fear the hob with Sorghie. She was so tiny in his arms that his body was not taking her seriously. Given time, though… He eased his lips away from hers. She smiled and also sighed.

"All over?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Come along."

Smeòrach had tangled his reins in a bush not far off and was resolutely trying to eat with the bit still in his mouth, which would just plain ruin his digestion. Toby climbed aboard and pulled the blind shaman up beside him. Then he rode off into the Unplace.

Only two reserve battles of infantry remained near the Neapolitan camp. Voices were raised in alarm when the unknown horse materialized nearby, but a glance showed him that the war was not here, and he did not linger.

Smeòrach's hooves clattered on paving, and he neighed in alarm to find himself in the crowded street outside Giovanni's Inn. But this was home at the moment. It had oats. He neighed again, more hopefully. Other horses and even some people neighed back at him, alarmed at his mysterious materialization.

"Toby!" Hamish came plowing through the crowd like a mad bull. "Where have you been? Do you know what's happening out there?"

Toby lifted Sorghaghtani and more or less dropped her into Hamish's arms, then slid off Smeòrach's back. A wagonload of fatigue seemed to land on his shoulders, making his knees tremble. Hamish was never going to forgive him for keeping him in the dark so long.

"More or less. Is Diaz ready at the Porta San Miniato?"

"He says you were babbling about a suicide sortie."

"Well, it shouldn't be suicide now. The don's about to take the hill. Round up all the reserves we've got and get them over to Porta San Miniato to help. Tell Diaz he'll need… No, look after these two, and I'll tell him." Thrusting Sorghie at Hamish with one hand and the reins with the other, Toby turned and ran.

He had never tried the Unplace on foot before. The shiny surface was oddly bouncy and yet slippery, the mists more menacing, but in a few moments he returned to reality just inside the Porta San Miniato. Even from the street he could see that there was a battle in progress on the hill as the don tried to seize the guns and the Fiend's troops defended them. Diaz already had the gate open and was leading the infantry out at the double. Toby squeezed into the column and went with them, laughing at his neighbors' astonishment, shouting encouragement and promises that the Fiend was heading for defeat. Once outside the walls, he stepped aside and surveyed the scene. Things seemed to be going well, as was to be expected with the don and Antonio in charge. He could leave it to them, and the army of Florence would win its share of the battle.

A riderless horse came galloping down the slope in terror. It was not one of the armored chargers the knights rode, but its trappings were too grand for the nags that archers and pikemen rode to the field. Most likely it was an infantry officer's mount. It responded to his whistle — accompanied by some of this strange unconscious gramarye he could call upon now — and he sprang onto its back, not even waiting to lengthen the stirrups.

"Onward, Orphan!" he said, and rode into the Unplace.

CHAPTER NINE

Nevil had moved much less than half his forces across the Arno, so the battle would be decided on the north bank, where he had the advantage of numbers. Toby headed downstream again, to Ercole and his Milanese.

Set-piece encounters might last all day or several days while the opposing commanders maneuvered and countermaneuvered, and some condottieri were notorious for never coming to grips at all. Toby had broken the rules yet again by involving almost all of the forces right from the start, and furthermore most of the men and horses on both sides had just completed prolonged forced marches. The battle of the Field of Florence was likely to be brief, with one side or the other collapsing from exhaustion.

He emerged from the Unplace close behind the Milanese carroccio, which had come to a halt. No one even noticed him. The whole army had come to a halt, infantry and cavalry alike drawn up in battle order, cheering and roaring approval as the famous Genoese and Pisan crossbowmen poured arrows into the plunging chaos of the Fiend's forces. His infantry had been advancing to assault the city walls; his cavalry had apparently been caught napping or at breakfast, still in quarters. Now knights were struggling to don armor, squires were trying to saddle up horses, about thirty thousand noncombatants were milling around in panic, and the men-at-arms were fighting their way through the camp to face the threat from their rear — while all the time that deadly hail fell from the sky.

The archers would run out of ammunition very soon at the rate they were going, but the terrain here was flat and open, perfect for the cavalry charge Ercole was about to launch. The effort to imagine what would happen when that hit the massed disorder was enough to raise Toby's flesh in goosebumps. Obviously this part of the battle was proceeding satisfactorily, meaning there was going to be a massacre. With a shudder, he rode back into the Unplace.

Next port of call must be the upstream north bank, where Alfredo's Venetians were seriously outnumbered, but Orphan was not Smeòrach. Disapproving of the ringing mirrored surface, the pearly mists, and the looming darkness behind them, he was skittish and unruly, more inclined to go sideways than forward. Toby was so intent on controlling his mount that it took him a moment to realize that they were not alone. Something was tracking them, several somethings. The hob knew them better than he did — dark, low shapes bounding along, closing rapidly. He kicked Orphan into a gallop. Idiot! He should have remembered the Fiend's enormous stable of demons. He had been detected.

At least six of them. He sensed fangs and claws, giant nightmare weasels with eyes glowing green. Orphan had seen them, too, and needed no encouragement now, but his best turn of speed was not going to be enough. The monsters were closing in, claws skittering on the shiny dreamscape.

Spirits! How did one get out of the Unplace in a hurry? Even if he knew some way to jump back to reality, he might land himself in the middle of Nevil's army. Time was unrelated to distance, so changing his destination now might merely prolong his danger. Orphan was going flat out and had already worked up a fine lather, his eyes wide with terror, yet still the monsters drew closer — coming in on the left, where Toby could not get at them with his sword, even if a blade would be any use against discarnate demons. Or perhaps they were trying to drive him to the right. Right, left, front, or back all seemed exactly the same here, but he strongly suspected that once he let them choose the direction they could also choose the destination and force him to emerge where they wanted him to emerge, which might be right in front of Nevil himself.

Water! If the shiny surface were water, it ought to hinder those low-slung horrors more than it would hamper Orphan. He called for water. Orphan's hooves began throwing up splashes, and the surface rippled wildly. Deeper, make it deeper, up to Orphan's knees… Now the weasel-things were floundering, splashing, slowing down. But water had its own dangers. It continued to grow deeper of its own accord, and he could not stop it. Orphan broke out of his gallop, to a canter, then a trot, and the dark tide was washing at Toby's boots. The weasels had vanished. Something else was raising ripples behind him and drawing closer on his left. Water had not been a good idea. If he did not reach Fiesole soon, he wasn't going to reach it at all.

A spinning ball of flame soared in out of the mists ahead and plunged into the water barely a span from his left foot. Something huge and dark reared up, burst into flames, and screamed. Orphan plunged forward in terror. Another ball of flame, then more, all hurtling overhead to smite the unseen pursuers. When he glanced back, he saw six pillars of fire roaring in the water, boiling up columns of steam.

Orphan stumbled out of the Unplace onto grass, and came to a shivering halt, frozen by gramarye, with his eyes wildly rolling.

"That was excessively stupid, even for you!" Maestro Fischart had to shout over the shrieking wind that was thrashing his white robe around. The dozen or so adepts gathered behind him were similarly being roiled and buffeted, staggering as the gusts changed direction. The sky overhead loomed low, black clouds hiding the sun, but the storm was local, confined to the area between Fiesole and the river.

"What's happening?" Toby demanded. He had no time for recrimination or even thanks. The nightmares he would enjoy later, when he had leisure. And he could see what was happening. Alfredo's initial attack had been repulsed. Now his Venetians were being driven back toward Fiesole by sheer weight of numbers. He had dismounted his cavalry, making the knights fight on foot, two men to a lance. Nevil had done the same, but he had three times the numbers, and his advantage in standard infantry might be even more than that. The speed with which his forces here had rallied from their surprise suggested that Nevil himself was in charge of this sector.

"We're holding him in demons," Fischart shouted. "But we need more helmets." Lightning flashed overhead, thunder boomed painfully close.

"I'll see what I can do." In the end, all battles came down to the basics of steel and flesh.

"Wait! You need a guard." The hexer turned to his remaining supporters and shouted orders.

Toby did not wait. They could catch him. He urged Orphan forward, feeling the calming enchantment lift at his order. But he dipped only briefly through the Unplace, emerging alongside Alfredo, where he sat his horse with half a dozen officers and mounted squires around him. They were surveying the battle, and the faces showing under their raised visors were grim.

Toby gave them a big smile. "Stiletto! Are you enjoying this fine morning?"

Alfredo's return grin was strained. "It's good exercise! You want to bring some friends to join the party? We can make room for more."

"I'll round some up. How long can you hang on here?"

If the Venetian captain-general shrugged, his steel breastplate hid the gesture. "An hour at most. Fifteen minutes would be healthier."

"Don't go away!" Toby vanished.

Now the Unplace was populated. He rode within an escort. There seemed to be at least a score of them, but they were shadowy and indistinct, mostly mounted knights with their visors down, riding in silence on either side of him. Some of them — or perhaps all of them some of the time — had other shapes: centaurs with lion heads, dragon monsters with wings above their backs, even giant scorpions. He paid no attention. He had seen demons before, and what they looked like was immaterial. All that mattered was that they were conjured to defend him.

He crossed the river to join up with the Neapolitan forces, and there he found himself in a full cavalry charge, riding alongside Jules Desjardins, the captain-general. That was no place for a man without a lance and a complete suit of steel mail, but he had a few seconds before the thundering line met its approaching counterpart. He bellowed over the din.

"Captain-General! It's me, Longdirk."

The steel-clad figure showed no reaction, but that was hardly surprising. His hands were fully occupied with lance and reins. He could not move his helm, and he had very little lateral vision inside it. His opinion of Toby's timing for a chat was best left to the imagination.

"We need to reinforce Alfredo," Toby yelled. "I'm going to take Gioberti." The two lines of cavalry were closing fast. He had to leave or die.

He left.

Egano Gioberti was Desjardins's deputy. Busily regrouping two battles of infantry, preparing for a second assault, he looked up in astonishment as Orphan emerged from empty air beside him and shuddered to a halt. Toby barked orders: The Fiend's bridge was still standing, and if Gioberti could seize that, then he could start moving troops over the river to relieve the Venetians. He might not get very many across, and they might be slaughtered when he did, but he would at least distract the Fiend and relieve pressure on Alfredo. Gioberti was an experienced condottiere. He understood at once and began shouting orders of his own.

Florence was out of danger because its own army had taken the summit of San Miniato hill. Now the don was expertly supervising the hunting down and butchery of survivors and at the same time redirecting the guns to fire at the Fiend's forces. They were at the extreme limit of range, but a few balls bouncing along into their backs ought to distract them a little, enough to make Desjardins's work easier.

Master of Gunnery Calvalcante was there, too, chortling over the newfangled cannons. Nobody needed Toby's help. He left them all to it.

That left Bruno Villars and the Romans. The fight in the southwest was almost over, and Villars had enhanced even his reputation. Perhaps if he were a more pleasant person, he would not be so demons-take-it good at fighting. He had driven the Fiend's forces into the angle between the river and the city wall and was slaughtering them. Revolted by the sight, although it was what he had ordered, Toby went on without stopping.

Ercole Abonio again…

A score of the Milanese knights were standing around, or sitting on the ground, recovering from their exertions while squires fussed around them, tending them and their horses. One or two were being tended by medics. The old collaterale had removed his helmet and was seated on a low stone wall. His face was still flushed from the heat inside his armor; he had a wineskin in his hands. There was blood all over his surcoat, and his thinning salt-and-pepper hair was streaked by sweat, but he grinned when he saw who had arrived.

Toby leaned down from the saddle. "Can you spare a mouthful?"

"Only if you're sure you've earned it." He passed over the wineskin. A boyish squire came running with another.

"That isn't your blood, is it?"

"Isn't even human, I'm afraid. Horse."

Toby took a drink and surveyed the field. The makeshift bridge was a smoking ruin, but since the Allies were obviously winning on both banks on this downstream side, that was not overly serious. Now he could appreciate why Ercole had stationed his infantry on the left. Having broken the opposition with his archers and cavalry, he had deployed the foot soldiers to close off any possible retreat to the hills. Like Villars, he had pinned the Fiend's forces between the river and the city wall. He just had not reached the butchery part yet, and there was a lot of arquebus firing going on.

"How is the struggle going elsewhere, comandante?" asked a sweat-soaked face from inside a helm, a young knight Toby did not know.

"Very well on the left bank. Upstream, the Venetians are in serious trouble. Ercole? Can you—"

The old warrior brightened. "Certainly! Luigi, Giovanni — help me up. We can leave the infantry to clean up here, Tobias. If I take the cavalry around, will that be enough?"

Toby almost laughed aloud with relief. "You'd probably be enough all by yourself, you old scoundrel. Yes! By all means. But be as quick as you can."

Ercole opened his mouth and pealed like a thunderstorm over the noise of battle: "Fresh horses! Drummer, sound the Prepare to Advance!"

Toby went off to tell Alfredo that relief was on its way.

The Fiend's Brenner Pass army was pressing Alfredo hard when Abonio brought the Milanese knights around the city to attack on its left. Shortly after that, Gioberti fell on its rear. The Venetians took new heart and counterattacked. Even so, the fighting continued to rage under the howling demonic storm clouds. It seemed incredible that men could continue to fight for so long without dropping dead of exhaustion. Toby lost all track of time. More than once he found himself in the lines, fighting alongside Tyroleans, then mercenaries wearing Neapolitan insignia, finally Venetians. Later he discovered blood on his sword and had very little memory of how it got there. (The legends that grew up later had him fighting in a hundred places all over the battlefield, rallying defeated troops with rousing speeches, leading charges, slaying famous warriors in single combat, but the truth had to be much less that that.) Three times he was attacked by demons, but each time his demonic bodyguards drove off the assault.

The end came suddenly, when a fiery apparition in the shape of a phoenix swirled up from the knoll where Nevil's standard flew and sped away to the north. Everywhere Allied troops raised a mighty cheer, knowing that the Fiend himself had quit the field with his attendant demons. Then Maestro Fischart and his assistants were able to break the enemy forces' spiritual bindings. Their resistance collapsed at once; they threw down their weapons and fell on their knees.

"No Quarter" was the order of the day, and most of the officers made efforts to enforce it. They failed. With few exceptions, Italian rank and file flatly refused to slaughter their defeated opponents. This minor mutiny had begun even before Nevil departed, and it spread rapidly over the entire battlefield, in a strange and spontaneous demonstration of mercy. If the invaders groveled convincingly and were willing to swear loyalty to Toby Longdirk, then their lives were spared. No one knew where that second condition came from, but possibly it was simply the most obvious way to dispose of the problem. No right-thinking Italian wanted his city to undertake the expense of maintaining a defeated army, but equally he did not want any of its neighbors to own it either, so he decided to give it to that young foreigner everyone seemed to trust. Let the comandante take it far away.

By the end of the day, the nightmare Toby had foreseen had come true, and almost seventy thousand of Nevil's troops were still alive. What he had not foreseen was that they had all sworn allegiance to him. They were all going to want to eat.

CHAPTER TEN

The continual booms and rattling of gunfire were apparently mere celebration. All the bells of Florence had been ringing for hours, while bonfires blazed in the night, and drunken mobs teemed through the streets. Even within the Marradi Palace, the few servants still around were unsteady on their feet and inclined to leer at their betters in ways that would not normally be tolerated. No family members were in evidence. Sartaq had advised Lisa and her mother to remain in their room and keep the door locked. Whether he was doing the same, they did not know, but he at least had a bodyguard and a couple of tame shamans around to look after him. The Fiend's defeat, in other words, was turning out to be little less frightening than his success might have been. It was after midnight when Lisa, supperless but exhausted, decided she might as well go to bed. Before she could say so, a thunderous knocking on the door almost sent her mother back into hysterics.

Lisa bent to shout through the keyhole. "Who's there?"

A blurred male voice said something about a lettera.

Even she could understand that word. "Um, sotto il porta!"

Not understanding her Italian, he just pushed the letter under the door and went away. It was brief, written in a poor hand.

He must have written it himself.

Blanche, reading over her shoulder, uttered a squeak like a pierced cat. "He's coming to get you!"

"Nonsense, Mother. I'm too young for…" Her voice wavered into silence. "Oh, Mother!"

The two of them fell into each other's arms.

To the victor belongs the loot. King Longdirk the First.

The summons did not come for at least two hours, far beyond the limit of time even two royal ladies could spend making each other ready for an important audience. The street racket remained as raucous as ever, but when the tap on the door came, it was more courteous than before.

"Who's there?"

"Colin McPhail, Your Majesty."

Ah! Half of Lisa shuddered in horror at the realization that Longdirk really had come for her, and the other half acknowledged that she knew Colin McPhail and he was a decent young man. She unlocked the door.

McPhail had a Marradi flunky with him as a guide, but also half a dozen pikemen, which seemed an excessive bodyguard for a journey downstairs in a palace. Perhaps he knew more than she did. By the time they reached the top of the staircase, Lisa was grateful for their support, or at least for the lanterns they carried. The great mansion was dark and deserted, even the street noises barely penetrating its walls. Statuary loomed like guardian spirits, the pictures were mysterious splodges — although she noted that the ones she liked best by daylight were still the most interesting in near darkness. She wondered if Pietro's wraith haunted his ancestral home, and quickly decided that he had not been evil, and the tutelary would cherish his soul. Lucrezia was another matter altogether. Where had she gone?

The hall was a cube of black emptiness whose lower surface was sprinkled with a few candle flames like fallen stars. At least a score of men were standing in the middle, but the buzz of conversation ceased as she approached. She recognized Guilo Marradi, and Sartaq, and Longdirk by his size, but almost no one else. Most of the men were soldiers — all swords, boots, armored jerkins, steel helmets.

Sartaq stepped forward. She curtseyed.

"Rise, Cousin," he croaked in his harsh accent, "and Aunt, too. I am happy to tell you that comandante Longdirk has just been reporting how he destroyed the Fiend's army, as instructed. Hence I have the pleasure to assure you that your royal persons are no longer in peril. Italy is saved."

Lisa curtseyed to him again, not to Longdirk. "That is indeed wonderful news, Your Highness. Sir Tobias is large, but I assume he had some assistance?"

"Indeed he had. Allow me to present: first comandante Longdirk, the hero of the day. You know Captain-General Don Ramon…"

As each man in turn stepped forward and bowed, she noticed that the two shamans were standing in the gloom at the edge of the group, but so also was Maestro Fischart, who was supposed to have died in Siena. So Longdirk's gramarye probably outweighed Sartaq's, and the prince was certainly outmatched in sheer muscle and steel if all these mercenaries were on Longdirk's side.

Then she saw Hamish in the background and forgot everything else. He was standing behind a small table that bore a gold candlestick, so his face was lit from below, making his expression eerie and hard to discern, but he was certainly staring very hard at her, and she was hard put not to stare back instead of going through the necessary absurdities of acknowledging the soldiers' bows. Oh, Hamish, don't just stand there! Take me away from all this madness. Drag me onto your horse and ride for the hills.

When the stupid rigmarole was ended, she was left standing between Sartaq and her mother and could no longer deny to herself that she would not be here if she were not the subject of the meeting. Marriage? Couldn't it wait until tomorrow? Even in the dancing, uncertain candlelight she could tell that everyone there was exhausted. Longdirk looked the worst, as if he were close to unconscious on his feet. Servants were doing something at the far end of the hall, laying out a meal, perhaps.

"So what exactly is your proposal, comandante?" Sartaq said. "Start at the beginning again, for we are all very tired. Start, in fact, by explaining why the matter cannot wait a few days and must be discussed in the middle of the night."

The big man squared his shoulders with a visible effort, as if he carried an ox on them. "Logistics, Your Highness. We have sixty thousand prisoners or more outside the city and Allied armies three times that size. Tuscany will be eaten to the roots if we wait. Nevil must not be given time to raise another army. We must start moving out right away."

"Orders," said a quiet voice from the wings. A few heads turned to scowl at Hamish, who was the prompter.

"Yes, orders," Longdirk mumbled. "Orders. Someone has to be able to give the necessary orders, and I have fulfilled the mandate…" His voice tailed away.

"Two hundred thousand bodies," Sartaq said. "You need a few days to bury those… But carry on."

Longdirk seemed to sway. He turned his head. "Chancellor?"

Hamish spoke from where he stood. "These noble knights, Your Highness, your officers, petition you to appoint comandante Longdirk to the post of suzerain, replacing the deeply lamented Pietro Marradi." Hamish paused. Lisa thought he drew a deep breath. "Subject to your gracious consent to this appointment and to confirm his status, he humbly petitions the hand in marriage of your ward, Elizabeth, lawful born Queen of England and diverse other realms."

She managed not to shudder too visibly, but shudder she did. So Longdirk wanted her as a trophy of war, did he? And England, too. Not a bad prize for a ditch-born Highland bastard. He was having a good day.

Sartaq let the silence lengthen. Clearly this delegation was by way of being a mutiny. The Khan's armies were encamped all around Florence and their leaders had just given him an ultimatum. He was hunting for a way out. Lisa did not think he was going to find one.

"And you expect me to make this decision now, on the spot?"

"There is a movement afoot…" said a younger man. "It would not be seemly, but the danger is… The men are already hailing him as suzerain, Your Highness."

Pause. Then another man remarked to no one in particular, "And the liberated troops have all sworn allegiance to him personally."

This time the pause was ominous. One of the other mercenaries spoke up, a man almost as big as Longdirk, although older.

"Would it not be an appropriate and generous gesture to complete a day so magnificent, Your Highness?"

"I think this is tomorrow already, messer Abonio," Sartaq grumbled. "And we like to decide for ourselves when to demonstrate our generosity." Lisa thought he might turn his head and ask her what she thought of the match, but he didn't. Nobody cared what she thought of the match, nobody except Hamish, and he was a field mouse in a pride of lions. "If I approve this appointment, comandante, I presume you will make the usual obeisance and pledge loyalty to the Khan?"

Longdirk blinked as if his eyes would not stay open. "Is there an option? I thought obeisance was obligatory."

"So it is," Sartaq said thoughtfully. "And you will do homage for the realm of England?"

"Chancellor?"

This time Hamish left the table he was guarding and walked closer to the center. "Your Highness, English common law permits an heiress to do homage for her estate, as Queen Elizabeth already has, to Your Grace in your personification as the darughachi of His Majesty Ozberg Khan. The proposed marriage contract specifies that she will appoint her husband King Consort but will retain in her person and sole right all honors of England, Wales, Ireland, et cetera. As dowry, she brings to her husband merely a quitclaim of any rights professed by her forebears to the throne of Scotland, plus a grant of certain lands within the Duchy of Lancaster providing an income of—"

"Spare us the jackdaw chatter," Sartaq growled. "I require that he do homage for the throne of England, whether it is the throne matrimonial or not. And he will do homage as suzerain also."

"That requires no change in the marriage contract," Hamish said. "Sir Toby, you have no objections?"

"Hmm?" Longdirk seemed to focus one eye at a time, like a bird. "Objections? No objections."

Sartaq muttered something under his breath. "Aunt, it seems that we shall have to concede."

"I don't suppose," Blanche squeaked, going shrill as she always did at moments of stress, "that anyone could think of asking my daughter's opinion in this matter?"

"Ah, your quaint western customs," Sartaq said. "Very well. Cousin?"

Lisa looked in despair to Hamish.

Hamish had started back to the table. He glanced around briefly — and nodded to her, very urgently: Say yes! Then he turned his head again quickly, and continued as if that had never happened.

"Your High…" She stammered, unsure of what she had seen, unable to believe he would betray her now.

Again he glanced around and signaled, Yes! Say yes!

Was no one true to her? She heard her own voice respond. "I shall be obedient to Your Highness's wishes."

Sartaq shrugged. "Very well. Let us set the date and—"

"We have the marriage contract here," Hamish said. "The notary has advised us that the betrothal may be waived."

"Time is short, Your Highness," boomed the big Abonio man. "Sir Toby will have to lead his troops north in a day or two at the latest. Naturally he is impatient, yes? Seeing the bride, can any of us blame him?" The other men guffawed crudely.

This was obscene! Betrothed and married in ten minutes? Lisa wanted to scream a protest, but Hamish had taken up position behind his little table again and was definitely signaling to her. Beside the single candlestick stood an inkwell with a quill in it.

"If I am to be married at a gallop, then by all means let us get it over with!" Lisa declared, and swept across the floor to Hamish. She hoped he would explain.

His eyes gleamed inhumanly bright, reflecting the dancing flame. On the table, between candle and inkwell lay several pages of vellum covered in minute, cramped, handwriting. "If Your Majesty would just sign here. And here… Don't say a word," he added in a whisper, not moving his lips. "Trust me."

Tears made the vellum swim into a blur. Trust him? What was he going to do — abduct her from her husband's bed in the nick of time?

"Sign here!" Hamish insisted.

Lisa took up the quill and signed her name. Twice, three times. A tear splashed on the vellum.

"Now, Your Highness," he said loudly, "as de jure guardian, and the bride's mother as — Oops!" Clumsy Hamish had knocked over the candlestick. He stamped on it before it could damage the priceless Cathay rug. "Sign, er, here, Your Highness…"

So the contract was signed — Lisa and Longdirk, the prince and her mother, Guilo and Hamish as witnesses.

"The Magnificent Guilo," Hamish announced loudly, "has most generously provided a wedding breakfast — if Your Honors would come this way."

Longdirk offered Lisa his arm to walk half the length of the room. The prince and Blanche and the mercenaries trailed after.

"You smiled at your last wedding," her husband said. He had been riding and fighting all day in the hot Tuscan sun. Horse and man and gunpowder and worse. How very romantic!

"I liked my last bridegroom."

"He had money, but he was very small."

"You have none and are far too big."

"I think we are in for a very interesting married life."

"I don't."

They reached the table the servants had spread, and the grinning guests hastily lined up to congratulate the happy couple. There were no chairs or stools. This was to be a wedding feast on the hoof. Legal rape was what this was, and yet Hamish had told her to submit, to acquiesce. Had she misjudged even Hamish? Had he betrayed her to trick her into marriage with his longtime friend?

Yesterday the banquet and then, whoops! the groom just died, wait a minute, here's another, carry on where we left off…

Longdirk offered her a goblet of wine. She noticed again that he was almost out on his feet. Whatever else her wedding night might offer, romance was not on the playbill.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The wedding feast lasted seven or eight minutes, while the mercenary leaders bowed to her, offered leering congratulations, and thumped her husband on the back. And made crass remarks.

Such as: "Are you sure you're capable of this tonight, Big One?"

Longdirk responded vaguely: "Capable of what?" or "I'm told it isn't difficult."

She was very hungry and managed to snatch a mouthful or two before she found herself on her husband's arm being escorted out of the hall by all the guests, carrying lanterns. Hamish was leading the way. Hamish, Hamish! Had she misjudged Hamish? What had he meant by those cryptic words and mysterious glances…?

"Magnificent Guilo," Longdirk mumbled, "been kind, enough, put a room at our, our, er… Sorry. Not usual sparkling self."

The wedding ended, she recalled, when the bride and groom withdrew behind closed doors.

"I am curious," she said. "Did you murder my last bridegroom?"

"Hope not. Couldn't have pulled off the fraud without him."

"Another thing I always like to know about my husbands. Are you possessed by a demon?"

They walked up ten or twelve steps before he answered. "Two days ago would have said no."

"That's not quite the comfort I was hoping for. Now you say yes?"

"Now not quite so sure." He stumbled and recovered.

"When did you last sleep?"

"Don' 'member. Weeks."

"Well, you can have a nice, long, quiet night tonight."

At the end of a corridor she had not visited before, Hamish opened a door. There was a very large four-poster bed in it, a table with some refreshments, chairs and chests, another door leading perhaps to a dressing room. There was more crude humor. The door closed. There was silence. She had been left with one candle and one useless husband. She slid the bolt.

Longdirk walked across to the bed and laid a shoulder against the nearest post. He leaned, arms dangling limply, and the whole great bed creaked in alarm.

"Demons!" he muttered. "I… have… never… so tired. In my life."

Lisa fought for a grip on her temper. This was her second marriage in two days. Her first husband had been murdered in front of her eyes, her second was a physical wreck, and she was chained for the rest of her days to a lowborn bastard serf she despised and detested.

She had done nothing to deserve this!

"I am not going to undress you. You stink. Take your boots off and lie down. And stay away from me until you're respectable."

He peered around the post at her, struggling to make his eyes focus. "You compre… comp… un'ershtand… have just witnessed one of the great sleight of hands of all times?"

Carrying the candle, Lisa went across to inspect the other room. There was nothing in it whatsoever, just bare floor. She came back out again and closed the door. Longdirk was still on his feet, but barely so, propped up by the bed.

" 'S Hamish," he mumbled. "Mashermind the whole think."

"If you're not going to go to bed, will you please turn your back while I undress? I am not accustomed to an audience."

"Should hope… hope not. Have to keep secret. 'S part of the deal, understand? Not even your mother."

No, she did not understand. He did not smell of wine — everything else but not wine — so he must be just stupefied by fatigue. If she blew out the candle, he might fall down and go to sleep on the floor. She was tired. She wanted to sleep, and if she had to be married, then she would rather deal with the implications tomorrow.

Now he had twisted farther round, wrapped on the post like a gigantic vine, and he was peering blearily at the outer door. "Who lock it?"

"What?"

" 'Snot right!" the new suzerain announced. He pointed a finger.

The bolt slid aside.

Lisa choked back a scream. Gramarye!

" 'S betterer!" he announced, and yawned ferociously. "Can't wait," he mumbled. "Congratulations, Queenie. Wish you ever' happiness." He straightened up with a huge effort and staggered over to the other door.

"That doesn't go anywhere," she said.

Ignoring her, he went in and closed it behind him.

She waited for him to emerge.

The outer door clicked shut, making her spin around.

"Hamish!"

He slid the bolt again, laid down his lantern, crossed the room, gathered her into his arms, and choked off her protests by putting her mouth to other uses. Her ribs creaked in his embrace, her back would break, his body was hard against hers; it was like being roped to a tree trunk. The world spun madly. Lips and tongues. She pawed at the back of his head as if to make him kiss harder yet.

"Married!" she muttered when he let her speak. "Mustn't! I'm a married woman. Must not! Oh, Hamish, Hamish!" If he let go, she would fall in a heap. If he didn't, she would weep in his arms.

He pulled his head back so they were nose-to-nose instead of mouth-to-mouth. "You didn't look!" he said in delight.

"Look at what?"

He was too close to see properly, but why was he grinning like that? "Look at what you were signing, you muffin! I didn't knock over the candle until… You didn't look, did you?"

"Don't you dare laugh at me!" she shouted. "Why are you laughing? My husband's in there, and he'll be out again in a—"

"No, he won't. No, he isn't."

He kissed her again, even longer. She melted. He squeezed harder. She melted more. Oh, Hamish!

"Oh, Hamish!"

"Toby doesn't need a bed. He always sleeps on the floor. And he's not your husband anyway. You didn't read the contract, you silly duckling. You didn't watch who signed where!"

She was trying to kiss him again, but he turned his face away until the importance of what he had said sank in.

"Urk?"

"…except in public. You must not tell anyone, ever, promise? It won't be easy. He needs your public persona, but he can't marry you, Lisa, because the hob, his demon… Well, he can't." Apparently Hamish meant this, for his face was all earnest angles and sharp planes.

"He only wants me so he can claim to be King of England!"

Hamish snorted, still holding her so tight she could barely breathe. "That's what I meant."

"Isn't that using me, politically? What you said he never would do?"

"You want to be my wife or not?"

"Yes, but—"

When he released her mouth the next time, she mumbled, "Will Longdirk make obeisance to the prince tomorrow?"

"I doubt it. If he does, he won't mean it. He's going to pack Sartaq off back to Sarois very promptly. He's been useful, but we don't need him anymore."

"So I'm not the only one he uses? And you?" She refused another kiss, struggling to see Hamish's eyes when he answered.

"Yes, me. He used me, too. But he offers fair payment. You made Toby King of England tonight, darling, but he's going to make you Queen of Europe before winter. When you have children, make sure they look like you."

"What?" That was too much too soon. "Queen of Europe? But… But… Who did I marry tonight?"

"I'll show you who!"

With an unexpected move, Hamish tumbled them onto the bed together.