Demon Sword

CHAPTER ONE

In the gathering gloom of a fall evening, The Maid of Arran lay against the pier of the royal burgh of Dumbarton. Geese were trailing overhead, a few lights glimmered amid the buildings, and sounds of wheels and horses and voices drifted through the dusk.

Toby leaned on the rail, having trouble finding unbruised forearm for the purpose. He brooded. He had spent most of two days in the hold, healing… being seasick… getting steadily more hungry, too, for he still had trouble eating. In all that time, he had spoken with his new liege lord only once. Fergan had come to see how he was faring, but he had not dallied long in that smelly hold. Toby had asked how he might serve his king, while feeling that he was incapable of cleaning out a fireplace at the moment.

"First, we must solve this mystery of your superhuman powers, lad. Father Lachlan is sorely perplexed by you. So you will go to the sanctuary, and there you should be safe from the vigilantes, too. After that, we shall see. Don't worry, I'll find a use for you!"

The sorry vassal was supposed to be comforted by that, but he was not deceived. Men who would scorn a reward to betray their king would jump at the same money for turning in the corpse of a demonic husk. Even the two or three men on board who were fully in Fergan's confidence had eyed him narrowly. There was one called Kenneth Kennedy, a wizened, scrawny man, who seemed to be the senior. He had asked many questions and answered none.

Hamish had spent the entire voyage pestering the sailors. Now he was advancing his friend's education by describing The Maid of Arran in great detail. "She's a cog of a hundred tuns! That means she can carry a hundred barrels of wine. Of course she's bearing hides, now, bound for Portugal. Hides are one of Scotland's biggest exports. Just think — there may even be some from Fillan on board!"

Toby's nose had told him what the cargo was even before he had boarded.

The king had already departed. His hired demon would disembark under cover of darkness. Toby was even more conspicuous than usual, with his bruises at their ripest. His arms and chest were swollen in yellow and purple. What his face must look like, he could not imagine. A layer of stubble would not be improving it. He did not even have proper town clothes to wear yet, only his plaid.

"There's more than four hundred houses in Dumbarton!" Hamish declaimed. "They all crowd into the middle to be as close to the sanctuary as possible. Biggest port on the west coast. Glasgow's even bigger, because its tutelary is… um, better known."

If he was wondering whether the Dumbarton tutelary could know what he was saying, out here at the end of the pier, then he was right to wonder. It probably could. Toby could detect it.

"Can't sail to Glasgow, of course, because the river's too shallow. Pa took me there in a coach! That's the castle."

Of course that was the castle. And the spire in the center of the burgh must be the sanctuary, because there was something there. It wasn't visible, unlike the Fillan hob, or the specter Toby had seen in the hills, but he could sense it somehow, even at this distance. He wondered if it knew of him already. It gave him goosebumps.

And there was another something off to the west, either just outside the burgh or just inside. Valda? Baron Oreste?

Thirdly, there was Toby himself, with his mysterious guardian. Superhuman powers were gathering in Dumbarton.

"Ah, there you are!" Father Lachlan arrived, a flustered little ghost in his white robe. Hamish's flood of statistics came to a merciful end. "Almost dark enough now."

"Father?" Toby said. "Have you any idea why Master Stringer wants me?" The only real orders he had been given so far had come from Kennedy: never, ever, mention Fergan by name, and speak only English to him. Yes, the sailors were trustworthy, but…

"He is a very shrewd judge of men, that's why!" The acolyte chuckled, tugging his robe tighter against the evening chill. "You are strong, hardy, courageous, and — I hope — loyal. I am sure you are loyal, because you are not the sort of man who breaks his word. You have no distracting ties to clan or family. I think Master Stringer is rightly congratulating himself on acquiring a most valuable follower!"

"But I am a danger to him!"

"Do you mean a demonic danger or a mortal danger?"

"Not demonic!" Hamish protested. "If Toby had wanted to kill him, he could have broken his neck easily by now. Couldn't you have, Toby?"

Toby growled. Hamish knew that Stringer was Fergan, but did anyone else on the ship know that he knew?

"Maybe I ought to break yours! No, Father, what I meant was that I may get mobbed, or betrayed. The trail could lead back to Inverary, to this ship — to all of you."

Father Lachlan believed in staying cheerful. He set off for the gangplank. "You needn't worry about the ship, at any rate. She's leaving on the dawn tide for Lisbon. The sailors haven't heard about your problems, and they won't. Captain MacLeod has forbidden shore leave, because he's been delayed by the long wait in Loch Fyne. Ah… here he is. We're going ashore now, Captain."

MacLeod was standing watch himself — undoubtedly to enforce his ban on leave. He was a thickset, weathered man, presently only a solid shape in the gloom. He wished them well in his Moray accent as they trooped down the plank.

"Where was I?" Father Lachlan asked, bustling along the pier. "Oh, yes, Master Stringer. You needn't worry about him. He is a highly respected burgher and merchant in Dumbarton. He is under the tutelary's protection, just as you will be, I trust."

Toby shivered. "Is there some doubt about that?"

"Doubt? Oh, no. Not at all. I have told you that I don't believe you are possessed. In fact, I'm sure of it now, because here we are in Dumbarton! The tutelary will not allow such creatures into its realm."

Toby was fighting a strong reluctance to proceed any farther into its realm. Was that the tutelary's doing, or plain fear, or the work of his guardian demon? If the demon did not want to be exorcised, it could take him over and turn him around. Perhaps it was as uncertain as he was.

They reached the land and a narrow street between houses and the seawall, cluttered with carts and fishing gear. Father Lachlan turned to the right. Toby felt a surge of relief, and his feet began to move more easily. The streets were very narrow, very confining, very dirty. They followed no pattern at all, but the acolyte seemed able to find his way in the dark like a bat. Most of the buildings had stores or warehouses at street level, with homes above. They were constructed almost entirely of wood, few having any more stonework than chimneys. Many of the upper stories protruded over the road, low enough to be a hazard for a very tall man.

"This isn't the way to the sanctuary," Toby said.

"No, it isn't. How do you… Oh, you saw the spire, of course. Well, you see, my son, it seems wiser for me to approach the tutelary first, on your behalf. Explain matters."

So dear Father Lachlan was not sure of the reception Toby would meet, or not as sure as he implied. A group of men rolled by in the darkness, singing tunelessly. They did not notice the oversized outlaw, whose death could make them all rich.

"Toby can get refuge at the sanctuary, can't he?" Hamish asked indignantly.

"I expect so. Normally, a tutelary will not harbor strangers, but when there is a manifest injustice, then it will often make an exception. The fact that he has been allowed into the burgh at all is very encouraging."

"You mean the tutelary can sense demons at a distance?"

"Incarnate demons, creatures. Not the bottled variety, usually, unless they are activated by gramarye. Turn here. I will leave you at Master Stringer's house and then go on to the sanctuary."

"I want to come!" Hamish said. "I can offer a silver penny!"

Toby wondered which of his bruises that penny represented.

CHAPTER TWO

"And he was at liberty for about six months after Norford Bridge," said Kenneth Kennedy, "but some MacKays up near Inverness betrayed him, and then the Sassenachs paraded him around in a cage all winter, from one town to the next, and finally dragged him away, off back to England. And everyone all thought the song was ended then, but a few of us kept the fire alight, and eventually he escaped and came back. The Lowland dogs weren't top keen, but the Highlands rallied again to the lion banner."

Master Kennedy was drunk.

"And then the Battle of Parline Field," Toby said. "I tried to enlist, but the laird wouldn't take me."

"Well, you didn't miss a great deal." Between swigs, Kennedy was stropping a dirk with long, delicate strokes along a leather belt. One end of the belt was in his left hand, the other tied to the table leg. He leaned back on his stool, with his back against the wall and his dirty bare feet on the table. The single candle lit angles and cast shadows on his gauntness; his eyes glittered. He spoke with the musical lilt of the Isles, but there was nothing soft about him. He was only bones. "But you're his man now."

At the other side of the table, Toby was soaking a bap in milk and sucking the mush, which was all his loose teeth would allow. Kennedy did not intimidate him. One threatening move with that dirk, and Toby would pick up the table and swat him.

"I am that."

They were in the kitchen of Stringer's house, at the back of the ground floor. The building held no warehouse or shops and was larger than most, but all the rooms he had seen so far were tiny and restrictive. Nobody else was home. The only sound was a dog barking a few houses away.

Kennedy paused in his sharpening to take a swig from his flagon, raising giant shadows on the smoke-stained plank walls. "He says you have superhuman powers."

"Odd things happen around me."

The Islander considered that for a moment. His voice came from the Hebrides, but he wore Lowlander breeches and a ragged shirt. "He could be finding a good hexer useful."

"Is there such a thing as a good hexer?"

"Only dead ones, I'm thinking." His skimpy beard had flecks of white in it. If that was straight whisky he was downing, he was taking on a fair measure for his size.

"Why does he need a hexer?"

"The Sassenachs send demons after him. The tutelary catches them when he's in Dumbarton. But ye canna' run a rebellion from a fireside."

"And if the tutelary removes my hex, or whatever it is, so I don't have superhuman powers? What then?"

Kennedy stropped the dirk a few more times. "You could stop musket balls for him."

"Bodyguard, you mean."

"Aye."

Toby gave up on the baps and drained the rest of the milk from the bowl. The prospect of being King Fergan's mastiff did not appeal to him very much. He was not at all sure his loyalty would impel him to jump in front of Maxim Stringer when an assassin cocked a pistol at him. Life would be a long boredom in Dumbarton.

On the other hand, if Kenneth Kennedy had been a rebel since Norford Bridge as he claimed, then he had been on the run for eight years. The lush was worn out. The king needed some new retainers, and perhaps there would be a place for a willing lad after all.

Kennedy burped. "Might involve some traveling."

That was more encouraging. Father Lachlan had dropped a few hints at the keeper's house in Glen Shira.

"Eastward?"

The king's man eyed him suspiciously. "Why do you say that?"

"To seek the help of the Khan. The Golden Horde itself is the only power capable of breaking King Nevil now, they say."

Kennedy took another gulp and wiped his mouth on his arm. "Aye. That's what they say. I don't have this from him, you understand. It's just chatter."

Toby nodded.

"When the Horde conquered England," the king's man explained, sounding like Hamish beginning a lecture, "it was one of those times when the Sassenachs had conquered Scotland, or thought they had. So the English king did homage to the Khan's man for Scotland, too. There's hardly ever been a Tartar set foot in Scotland. Set hoof, would you say?" He chuckled and took another swig.

He wasn't making history sound any more worthwhile than Neal Campbell had, back in Tyndrum, but now Toby was the king's man, it seemed as if it should.

"So, laddie, the English have taxed us men and gold for all these years to send tribute to the Horde. But, if the Khan was to recognize Scotland as an independent satrapy, why then we would be free of the Sassenach, wouldn't we?"

Toby wasn't very smart, but he was sober. He could see no great advantage in exchanging one overlord for another. From what he had heard, the English king had been thumping the Tartars' vassals all over Europe for years. If this was King Fergan's Grand Design, then its merits escaped him.

"You think he might be going to travel to Sarai?"

"Could be," Kennedy muttered, taking up his dirk and strop again. "As I said, it's just chatter. But it could be." He winked.

"Sarai? That's on a big river somewhere?"

"The Volga. Long way. Long, long way!"

"Weeks?"

"Och, laddie, it's months you're talking about!"

Definitely promising!

Toby pushed his stool back. "Then I think I'll rest up for the journey. If they want me tonight, they'll find me. Have you a spare candle?"

The older man scowled and swung his feet to the floor. He held out the flagon. "Here, boy, put some real hair on that big chest of yours. You'll not be going off to bed now and leaving me drinking by my lonesome?"

Toby had to take a gulp of the awful stuff before he was allowed to leave, with Kennedy muttering dire comments about his lack of manhood. Holding both his own bundle and Hamish's, he paused in the doorway. "Where do I sleep?"

"Straight up, as far as you can go. If you see the stars, you've gone too far." Cackling, Kennedy sucked on his bottle again.

Straight up was a fair description of the stairs. They ended in a narrow passage, flanked by doors. At the far end was a ladder, leading up to a trapdoor. When Toby raised one side of that and peered through, he saw straw. He blew out the candle, went down to the floor for the bundles, and then scrambled up into a low attic. He could barely sit upright in it, let alone stand. In a moment or two he identified a faint light from gaps under the eaves. The wind came from those, too. There was a musty odor of chicken coop, which meant birds' nests somewhere.

He was a long time going to sleep, mostly because his bruises forced him to lie on his back, not facedown as he preferred. Even in his plaid, he was barely warm enough. Later he registered someone lifting the trap, replacing it, rustling in the straw. Whoever it was did not summon him away to the sanctuary. In what seemed no time at all, although he had probably dozed off in the meantime, he heard Hamish's familiar snores.

Life in a king's palace was not quite what he had expected.

CHAPTER THREE

It was not like Glen Orchy — this time Valda had no doubt where he was. He stood and watched her walking toward him, but she was indistinct, mist-shrouded. She stopped a few paces away and raised both arms to him.

"Susie?" Her voice seemed farther off than her image, but it was clear and compelling. "Susie, answer me!"

He watched, knowing in the silent certainty of dreams that if he did not speak, she could have no power over him.

Her shape seemed to brighten, clarify, her body glowing through a gauzy veil. He wondered how he looked to her.

"Toby Strangerson!" she said, louder.

He thought, I am Toby Strangerson.

She smiled, and the veil faded from her. He felt his body respond with a savage surge of desire.

"Then come to me. You will come to me."

I will come to you.

She was gone, and he was awake, drenched in sweat. Not really awake, he thought. I was just dreaming. It's the middle of the night.

But he couldn't just lie there. The call was too strong. He had to go. He sat up, wincing at the stiffness in his limbs. Straw rustled. A faint dawn glow showed in the air holes under the eaves.

Other straw rustled. "Wha's matter?" Hamish mumbled.

"I have to go."

"There's a bucket in the corner." Hamish rolled over and went back to sleep.

Already Toby's arms and legs were moving him to the trapdoor. Wait! I can't go out like this! Panic seized him. I've got to dress first! But his limbs refused to listen. One hand was already lifting the trap when he realized his left knee was resting on his belt. He snatched it up and grabbed a corner of his plaid also. He scrambled down the ladder, bringing a cloudburst of straw with him. Hastily bundling himself as he went, he headed for the stairs.

It was impossible to put on a plaid properly while walking, or with hands still swollen like mealy puddings, but he managed the best he could. Reeling along the dark corridor, he managed to buckle his belt. He found his pin still in one corner.

He was walking into a trap, of course. He was probably going to his death, but there was nothing he could do about it. The house must be full of people — he could hear snoring. If he could just call out, they would come and stop him, come and save him; but he was forbidden to call out. He was forbidden to raise the alarm in any way. He moved deliberately, making as little sound as he could, although he could not prevent boards from creaking under his weight. More snoring audible through doorways… he wanted to scream. They would waken in the morning and find him gone. Why didn't they keep a dog?

He stumbled down the precipitous stairs. The house had its own little creaks and tappings. Rats, perhaps. Once he thought he heard footsteps overhead, but it was probably just someone else looking for a bucket in a corner. Inching along another black passage, he smelled the stale odors of smoke and fat from the kitchen. Still fighting to arrange his plaid, he came to the front door.

The door would not move. Saved! He could not break it down without rousing half the city. He fumbled his swollen hands over it, trying to identify bolts or bars or locks, but the shapes made no sense. Saved! I can't come!

Compulsion: He must go and find a window. Or there might be a back door, leading to a yard or alley.

With two sharp metallic clicks, the bolts slid of their own accord — they were both set vertically, one into the floor and the other into the lintel, which was why he had not recognized them. Hearing his own low moan of despair, he pulled the door open.

Cold dawn air washed in on his bare skin, bringing the salty scent of the Clyde. His feet wanted to move. He resisted, peering out at a murky pale fog. He could not go wandering around the burgh in daylight! There would be people around by now, or very soon. The fog would lift when the sun rose — the far side of the street was already a vague solidity with hints of doors and windows. The sky was paler, a narrow strip, high overhead. He had never been in a town before; already he felt shut in.

The urge to move became irresistible. He stumbled out into the road, cold and grubby under his bare feet. A dark shape glided in from the murk — a man in a hooded gown. It went past him without a sign, but he turned and followed. This was how he had been summoned. This was how the bolts had been opened — she had sent one of her creatures to fetch him. It moved swiftly and silently and he hobbled after it, treading in icy muck.

Sea fog billowed around him, clammy and salty. He caught glimpses of doors and storefronts, but he could not stop his legs. He heard hooves and wheels on cobbles in the distance. The town was waking. His demonic guide might not attract attention in its robe, but Toby's Highland plaid would make him conspicuous, his size would make him conspicuous. So would his purple, swollen face. Any honest citizen who saw him would remember the reward and raise the alarm. He had as much to fear from the civil authorities as he had from Valda.

The creature turned down a dark alley. He followed, smelling filth and horses and stale, ancient cooking. He could have lifted his arms and touched an elbow to the wall on either side. He thought he could see nothing except a faint, vertical strip of light ahead, but when something moved near his feet he realized that there were people lying there. Towns were not as glamorous as he had been led to believe, but he had never believed they would be. He stepped around or over the sleepers. Even if he could have deliberately trodden on them to waken them, homeless beggars would not rescue him from a demon. It was ironic to think of these penniless wretches huddled there in their misery while a vast fortune stumbled by them and vanished forever.

The husk showed as a dark shape against the light, then disappeared around a corner, turning left. He followed. Here the light was brighter, the space wider. He had lost sight of his guide, but his feet knew where to go. He crunched dead leaves, passed under tree branches. A pedestal with a statue on it loomed out of the fog, floated by, vanished astern.

He could not detect the sanctuary, as he had before. Nor could he sense the demon ahead of him as other than human. His superhuman awareness seemed to have been turned off. Still gliding silently forward, the husk turned another corner. So did he.

The fog was fading, the sky growing brighter. The sun must be up by now, about to break through. A steady clatter dead ahead brought a tiny agony of hope. Someone was coming! The creature stepped to one side and halted.

So did Toby, shivering with mingled cold and fear.

A man solidified out of the fog, hauling a rattling barrow. Bent forward, anonymous in cloak and hat, he passed within easy reach of the creature and did not look at it. Then he went by Toby with the same eerie inattention, leaving a momentary odor of fresh, warm bread. Toby tried to cry out, tried to whimper or even cough, but nothing happened. His arms, which up until now had been under his control, were suddenly frozen.

Valda's creature moved on again and he followed. If it ordered him to march into the firth and drown, he would have to obey. Demons were driven by hate, Father Lachlan had said.

The street was barely wide enough for two wagons to pass; timber walls towering up on either hand. The light seemed brighter ahead — he was almost out of the burgh, heading for open country. At the very last building, the creature turned aside, stopped, opened a door, and entered. Close on its heels, Toby caught a glimpse of a window of many tiny panes of glass and then the lintel was coming straight for his eyes. He ducked hastily and stepped down to a flagstone floor. The husk stood just inside — he saw its eyes glitter as he walked past, and he caught a whiff of a nauseating stench of decay. It closed the door quietly behind him and slid bolts while he continued across the floor.

He was in a dim apothecary's shop, not unlike Derek Little's in Crianlarich, but much better supplied. Two chairs for customers stood before a massive counter of oak. The walls were lined with shelves bearing crucibles, sets of scales, mortar and pestles, innumerable mysterious jars and vials, tall bottles of colored liquors, an alembic, a skull, weighty leather-bound tomes. He smelled familiar minty odors of herbs. Shadow masked the high ceiling, but there was some sort of stuffed beast hanging up there, something with many legs.

He detoured around the end of the counter, walked through an open door into blackness beyond — and stopped.

He felt a thin rug under his feet, smelled stale human habitation. Darkness slowly brightened into gloom. Shapes began to appear. A dozen candlesticks had been set wherever there was space, all around, flames were twinkling like stars. A brighter glow came from the open door of an iron stove and some light came from the doorway behind him.

A woman sat at ease in the chair by the fire. Her voice was low and tuneful and familiar. "I see you have embarked on your career in pugilism without my assistance. How is your opponent?"

"Dead, my lady."

"I should be much surprised to hear otherwise."

He began to make her out — a glitter in her dark hair, the pallor of her face and hands. The rest of her was still invisible. Blue fire… On her breast hung a jewel as large as the top joint of his thumb. He forgot the hexer herself, his whole attention aimed at the fires of that sapphire. Certainly she might have a demon bottled in such a gem, but it was not the thought of another demon that caused the uprush of despair in his heart.

Fool! Idiot! Hulking, musclebound imbecile!

How does the demon stay close to you? Father Lachlan had asked him, and he had never thought of the amethyst Granny Nan had given him when she said good-bye.

It had lain in his sporran when he broke free of Valda and escaped from the dungeon. It had been with him when he eluded the wisp in Glen Orchy, when he bested Crazy Colin at the grotto, when he tore down the hillside. It had been there for all the miracles. And now?

In his mad, driven rush to leave the attic, he had left his sporran behind.

The amethyst was the answer to the mystery. Whatever its powers — whether it had come with them from Granny Nan or had somehow collected them during Valda's gramarye — they were lost to him. He was no more than mortal now.

CHAPTER FOUR

Like a very weary pillar, he stood in the center of a small room. He suspected that his feet were forbidden to move, so he did not even try to move them. Were he laden with chains from neck to ankles he could be no worse off, for he could not resist the will of the demon, which was Valda's will. The stench of decay told him that the creature had come to stand right at his back. His skin crawled at the thought that it might be about to touch him. He should be able to hear its breathing, but he could not.

Valda said, "Krygon, fetch more firewood." With a barely audible hint of movement, the husk went to obey.

But then the hexer just sat, regarding her captive with interest, not speaking, but calm and poised as a queen on a throne. She might be waiting for her creature to return; she might be politely allowing Toby's eyes time to adjust to the gloom; or she might be letting his innards melt away altogether from pure terror. If the latter was her aim, she was succeeding admirably.

As his eyes adjusted, she came into view like a landscape at dawn. Her weighty black tresses were piled on her head with the same glittering tiara she had worn to dine with the laird in Fillan. Her face was carved from pure alabaster, adorned with lips as red as fresh blood and lashes longer than seemed humanly possible. Her tiny, perfect feet were clad in silver sandals, her nails painted dark, the firelight on the foot closest to the stove showing that they were crimson. Yet, surprisingly, her gown was a simple, somber thing that swathed her in wool from chin to her wrists and ankles. It was the sort of garment that might have belonged to any respectable burgher's wife, and not at all what he expected of Lady Valda. If she hoped such modesty would let her pass as an honest town wife, she was doomed to disappointment. Even in such a sack, she was intoxicatingly, maddeningly beautiful, and the glint in her eyes was utterly evil.

Something hissed briefly. Toby tore his attention from the hexer and glanced around the stuffy little room, trying to locate the noise. The roof was very low, the beams barely clearing his head. A ladder in one corner led up to a hatch. The single chair, a table with a striped tablecloth on it, and the remains of a meal, shelves with dishes and pots, an empty coal scuttle, a basket of dirty washing, a desk heaped with papers, an untidy dresser — this kennel was the apothecary's home. The low ceiling had been put in to make a sleeping loft overhead. There was no other door and no window, which explained the stale stink of the place. The extravagance of candles must be Valda's doing. She had made free with her host's hospitality, placing them on table, desk, shelves, even on the floor. The leaden casket on the table was hers, familiar from the dungeon in Castle Lochy.

Hiss! again.

The noise had come from the stove. He looked up. A dark stain disfigured the planks above it. "Blood?"

"Blood," Valda agreed. "Krygon is a messy killer."

He fought down a heaving sensation in his belly. He must not let her see how much she frightened him. "Is that our host up there?"

"And hostess, too, I think. I don't know if there were children — go and look if you are interested."

He shook his head, then yelped in pain as something slammed against his hand. The creature had returned, bringing one of the chairs from the front shop, and had taken the opportunity to strike him with it in passing.

"Krygon, put the wood on the fire," Valda said wearily, "and do not harm the man again — unless I tell you to, or am in danger."

Without a word, the creature proceeded to rip the chair apart and stuff the fragments into the stove. Watching it snap the long members without even putting them over its knee, Toby was impressed, horribly impressed. He knew he could not do that. That was the legendary demonic strength he had seen kill Crazy Colin. Demolition complete, the husk took up a heavy metal poker to mix the new fuel with the hot embers. When it straightened, it turned in his direction. He saw the glitter of eyes within the hood and remembered what Father Lachlan had said about hatred. He would have no chance against that monster, no matter which of them held the poker.

Another drop of blood hit the stove and hissed.

"Now," Valda said, as if coming to business. "I underestimated you, Master Strangerson. I do not recall ever being so wrong about any man before. I thought you were an ox and you turned out to be a notable opponent. I shall take no chances with you in future."

Not an ox, a mule. "Call it a draw and let me go."

She smiled wistfully. "I would, if that were possible. You have certainly earned it. Alas, though, you have something of mine that I cannot give up. Will you please explain to me how you bested me so thoroughly?"

She had abandoned the mocking contempt he remembered. She lacked even the air of a lady addressing a peasant, although she was a very great lady and he an extremely low peasant. His liege lord, Fergan, could not defend him against dangers of her sort — nor against many others, truth be told. Toby had found himself a lord to follow — a good, honest lord, he thought — but one without any real power. This foul hag, on the other hand, could work miracles. She was addressing him as an equal, which felt immensely flattering and also extremely dangerous. He told himself to remember her creatures, the depths of her villainy. A man must never cooperate with such wickedness! The diamond tiara and the painted toenails were the real Valda, not the goodwife dress.

"All I know is that you tried to turn me into one of those." He gestured at the hooded creature that stood with folded arms, still holding the poker and staring at him malevolently.

"No!" she said sharply. "I may be evil by your ways, but I do have standards of my own. I appreciate beauty, for example, and the fitness of things. Even kings do not use gold for chamber pots. I expect you dislike being described as beautiful." She smiled and his heart turned over. Her attention was as potent as strong drink. "Rugged? Virile? At the moment, of course, you are a disaster, but you were an exciting and striking young man before and you will still be an imposing one when you have healed. I shall make sure you heal without too much disfigurement. I would not waste such quality manhood on demonic incarnation. Krygon, let him see."

Toby opened his mouth to protest that he did not want to see, then realized that he would be wasting his breath.

The creature clattered the poker down on the stove and stripped, dropping its robe to the floor. The husk was… had been… a man. Its age was no longer evident, and certainly did not matter now, but perhaps around forty. He had probably been a scrawny specimen, even in his prime. Now he… it… was a ruin. A few rags still hung on the wasted frame, but they did not hide the filth, dried blood, open sores, the infestation of vermin. The creature's face had been blackened with soot at some time — Toby had thought the four in the dungeon were masked — and it was bearded. There was something wrong with its jaw. One side of its chest was caved in, with jagged ends of ribs protruding from rotted flesh. It leered at him, showing broken fragments of teeth and more bone. The stench of death filled the room.

Toby gagged and edged backward. "How does it live?"

"It doesn't in any normal sense." Valda sounded bored. "It likes to roll in mire and torment itself, because its original owner feels the pain, while it does not. It was in better shape a week ago, but then you dropped a mountain on it. It can't eat; it is almost used up. I shall have to find another husk for it soon, or put it back in its bottle. Won't I, Krygon?"

The thing tried to speak, but the ravaged mouth produced only a slobbering mumble. It nodded its head eagerly.

"So there is a demon for you, Tobias. You see why I would not have wasted your splendid physique on one of those. Never mind… you are not cooperating. I realize you have no cause to cooperate with me, and I need your cooperation to discover what went wrong and correct it. Time is short. Dumbarton is under siege, so I must adjust your attitude without delay."

"Siege?" A moment ago he had moved. His feet had obeyed him… No, it was still hopeless, because Krygon could control him at a distance. There was no way he could get out of range fast enough to escape.

Valda rose from her chair. "Siege in a manner of speaking. Normally I wouldn't dare bring an incarnate like Krygon into a warded town, but the tutelary is fully occupied at the moment." She stepped to the table and opened the metal casket. "Oreste is on his way here. He will be accompanied by a whole retinue of creatures, many of them far more steeped in evil than Krygon. Dumbarton has worse worries than me — or you."

Father Lachlan had gone to pray to the tutelary. No help there? The hexer might be lying, of course. She had made her headquarters just inside the burgh limits. Was that significant?

"Krygon, freeze this man."

Instantly, Toby felt a coldness, but even more he felt all his muscles go rigid. He could not even blink. He could breathe, but only with a huge conscious effort, as if his chest were bound with iron hoops.

"I need a lock of your hair," Valda murmured, rising and going to the table. "You will forgive me if I don't trust you just yet?"

At the edge of his field of view, he saw her produce the gold bowl he had seen her use before, and the dagger with the yellow stone. She began doing things, clinking bottles, but at that angle he could make out no details. One thing he could see clearly was the leer of satisfaction on the walking corpse. Its mistress had forbidden it to harm Toby, but it was enjoying his frantic struggle not to suffocate.

"Oreste is after you, of course," she said absently.

All his attention was concentrated on just breathing, and he could not move his lips or tongue to speak anyway.

"And for me also, but mostly you now. He picked up my track when I returned to this country, and he tracked me to Fillan, so he knows about you. You won't have heard of him. He is a cunning adept, very skilled and dangerous, but he is bound to serve Rhym. Rhym is the one you know as King Nevil. Now…"

She strode over to Toby with the dagger and cut a curl from his head. She took it back to the table. He thought she put it in the bowl and then cut a lock of her own to accompany it, but he could not be sure. She poured liquid from a vial. She said something in a guttural language, of which the only intelligible word was the first: "Krygon." Whenever she gave the creature orders, she began with its name.

"We must complete our business here," she said, "and speedily begone. Whether Oreste or Dumbarton itself is victorious, we must take to the sea before a decision is reached. Neither can track us over the sea — not that the tutelary would, of course…"

She made passes with her hands, speaking more words of gramarye. She came back into view, moving to the stove and placing the bowl on it. Then she lifted the silver chain over her head and held the sapphire high, speaking again in the strange tongue, although this time the words were so soft that Toby could barely make them out. He was close to fainting from lack of air. The demon seemed able to judge his strength exactly, so that he was convinced every breath must be his last and yet he could always force one more. His head swam.

Bluish fire flickered in the golden bowl, sending up faint curls of smoke. The glow brightened as the hexer lowered the sapphire, spinning in small circles within the fumes. Hideous blue light surged to fill the room like a fog, drowning out the candlelight, making Krygon in its rotted rags look more than ever like a corpse. Even Valda lost her humanity for a moment and became a leaden mannequin. Then jewel clinked against metal and the room plummeted back into gloom.

"We'll give it a minute to cool," her voice said quietly. The chair creaked as she resumed her seat. "Fortunately, there are several ships in the harbor at the moment I shall enjoy a voyage with you, Tobias, once your face has lost its resemblance to an offal bucket. Even if you are still you, I promise you some lessons in the arts of joy. You will be a rewarding pupil."

He could see her again. He felt he was fighting for his life, even though he knew the battle was a fake. The demon had been forbidden to hurt him, but its orders did not say it could not keep him on the very edge of suffocation indefinitely, gradually releasing the pressure as his strength faded. He wondered if Valda had even noticed. If nothing else, she ought to see the lake of sweat around his feet.

He could sweat, but he could not weep, although he knew he was lost. From now on, the hexer would do whatever she wanted with him and he would be helpless to resist. There would be no demonic strength this time, no mystical dum… dum… He would no longer be King Fergan's man; he would be hers. Whatever power had been in the amethyst was lost to him.

He had been a fool! When he should have been fleeing the country, he had dallied in Inverary Castle until the price on his head was raised so high that every eye in Scotland was looking out for him. Right from the start, he had been a fool to refuse Lady Valda. How could he ever have hoped to evade so great an adept? When she had offered to employ him, at his trial before the laird in Fillan, he had spurned her, instead of falling on his knees with tears of joy and gratitude. Even earlier — when he had met her on the road to Bridge of Orchy and first sensed her power, he should have knelt at her stirrup and pledged his heart to her service, in the vain hope such a worthless trifle could be of interest to her. When she had sought him out in dreams, he should not have resisted her call. She was a great lady, with wisdom and power such as he could not even comprehend, and he was a brainless serf, a worthless bastard, ignorant and dimwitted…

"That should be long enough," Valda said. "Krygon, release him."

The invisible bands vanished. He lunged forward and snatched up the sapphire from the bowl even before he had finished drawing his first free breath. He stood there in bewilderment, gasping for air, the jewel clutched in his clumsy muffled fist, loops of chain hanging free. No, that wasn't right…

Valda chuckled. "Hang it around your neck, boy! It has to be next to your skin."

Oh, of course! He looped the pendant over his head so the jewel was on his chest, dangling just above the fold of his plaid. Then he sank to his knees, very conscious of being a clumsy, stupid, sweaty oaf unworthy even to exist in the same room with so courtly a lady, consort of royalty.

"I have been very wicked to cause you so much trouble, ma'am. I beg you to forgive me, although I know I do not deserve forgiveness. Is there any penance I can do, anything to try and make amends?"

She smiled. "Do you know the Tartar ceremony of obeisance?"

"Not in detail, ma'am."

"Do what you know of it."

He scrabbled forward on hands and knees and began to humble himself before her… then stopped. The sapphire had swung away from his chest. He straightened again, turned the chain around so the gem lay against his back. Then he was free to crouch down and put his face on the floor.

"I lift your foot?" It would be sacrilege even to touch her.

"Correct."

He took her ankle carefully between his broken fists and laid her foot on his head. It weighed nothing.

"I don't know the words, ma'am!"

"Swear to be my man, in body and mind and soul, to serve me in all ways, to the death."

He swore willingly. She removed her foot.

"Good. Now stand up."

He rose and then, because he felt it was disrespectful to make her crane her neck to see him, he backed away, almost to the door. He would feel happier kneeling in her presence, but she had told him to stand.

Valda smiled. "From this day forward we are partners?"

"No, ma'am! I am your slave!" He had found a far worthier and more potent liege than the outlawed rebel king. She would protect him, and he would serve her to his final breath.

He was her man.

She shrugged, seeming satisfied, and settled back in the chair. "And now you will tell me how you upset my plans so drastically! Do you know what you cost me, Tobias? I have spent many years collecting my little pets, teaching them to hate, training them to serve me. You buried two of them when you pulled down the mountain."

"I am sorry!" he cried.

She chuckled. "You will not offend again. Now tell me—"

A bell tinkled in the apothecary's shop. Valda straightened.

"Krygon, who is that?"

The creature mumbled words that made no sense to Toby, but the lady seemed to understand. "You despicable trash!" she snapped. "I shall make you suffer. And what has he been doing since?"

More gibberish.

She bit her lip and looked at Toby. "Did you understand that?"

"No, ma'am." He had failed her already. How useless he was!

"It says a boy followed you here. He has been prowling around, trying to find another way in, or a window to spy through. There isn't one, of course. This useless near-dead thing did not tell me — demons will obey no farther than they must, whereas mortals like you are eager to please in any way they can. Krygon, go… No, Tobias, you go. If the boy knows you, your face will not alarm him. Bring him here."

Toby ran. The outer room seemed dazzlingly bright, and despite his eagerness to do what the lady wanted, he paused a moment at the window to let his eyes adjust again. The street outside was just as foggy as before. A man plodded by in the center of the street, leading a horse and cart, and they were gray wraiths.

As soon as they had gone, he unbolted the door and opened it a crack. He peered out at the salty mist. There was no one there.

He could guess who the boy was. He was a devious brat, that one! He would have rung the bell and then retreated to a safe distance until he saw who or what came to answer.

Toby warily put his head out, reluctant to be seen. A few ghostly pedestrians were visible through the fog, but if he could not make them out, they could not see him clearly either.

"Hamish?" he called. "Hamish!"

A face appeared out of a doorway two stores along.

Toby waved. "Come on! It's me!"

Hamish came, but slowly, one step at a time. He looked ready to bolt at any second, and the sickly pallor of his face exactly matched the fog.

"You all right, Toby?"

"I'm fine! Come on in."

Hamish shook his head violently. "Who else is in there?"

Toby laughed as convincingly as he could. He certainly must not let Hamish Campbell go racing back to the others to raise the alarm. "Friends, believe it or not! We were just about to have breakfast. Come and join us."

Hamish stopped just out of reach and regarded Toby with extreme suspicion. "What friends?"

A couple of women carrying bundles on their heads were emerging from the fog, progressing from pale gray clouds to solid shapes. Time was running out by the second.

Toby glanced around and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Friends of Master Stringer's."

"Oh. Well, I won't come in, thank you." Hamish stretched out a hand, palm up, offering Granny Nan's amethyst without coming an inch nearer to Toby than he had to. "I just thought you might need this. Er… what's that chain around your neck?"

CHAPTER FIVE

Toby shouldered the door closed behind him and marched across the shop to the back room, clutching Hamish to his chest with one brawny arm and keeping his other hand over the boy's mouth. The boy kicked and squirmed helplessly, feet well off the floor.

"Smoothly done, Tobias," Valda said, sounding amused. "What have you brought me?"

The praise sent a rush of pleasure through him. "A whelp named Hamish Campbell, ma'am. But he's got a demon in his hand."

The hexer jumped to her feet. "Does he know its conjuration?"

"No, ma'am. I'm not sure it has one. It's the hob from Fillan, bottled in an amethyst."

"Well, put it in there, just in case." She gestured to the metal casket.

Toby set Hamish down in front of the table and transferred his grip to the boy's arms. "You heard the lady!"

Hamish wriggled like a landed fish, vainly kicking and butting. "No! No! Toby, she's hexed you! This isn't you, Toby!"

"It is now." He banged the kid's wrist on the edge of the casket. "Drop it!" He banged again, harder. "I'll break it!"

Hamish released the amethyst and it fell inside. Valda slammed the lid down.

"Over there!" Toby said and shoved his prisoner away, sending him staggering into the corner by the stove. "You said you needed a new husk for Krygon, ma'am. He would do, wouldn't he?"

Valda smiled with secret amusement. "He would, indeed! I see you will be a loyal and helpful assistant."

Toby gulped with joy. "I shall always try my best!" He pulled the sapphire around to hang on his chest again, where he could glance down and admire it. It was a badge of his service, a sign of his loyalty to his mistress, like a medal, or an officer's sash. Men did not normally wear jewelry, of course, but he would be wearing Lowlander garb from now on, likely, and a shirt would hide it. He had been very lucky that it had been out of sight when he went to get Hamish, who would certainly have guessed what it was if he had noticed it.

A choking wail from the corner indicated that Hamish's eyes had adjusted well enough for him to make out Krygon.

Valda resumed her seat. "Now tell me the story. How did you gain possession of the hob?"

Toby had barely had a chance to work it out himself. "The witchwife was my foster mother, my lady, but she was very old. I think she knew she was about to die and then I would leave the glen. The hob was puzzled that all the young men were going away and not coming back. I think this is what happened: She persuaded the hob to move into the jewel so it could find out for itself where we were going; and then she gave it to me to take with me, thinking that it would protect me, so she had helped both of us." He stared in dismay at the lady's disbelieving frown. "The hob isn't very smart, ma'am! And Granny Nan was pretty much crazy, too."

"So you think the hob…" Valda shook her head. "How did you use it, then? By what commands did you conjure it?"

"None, ma'am! Whenever I was in trouble, it came to my aid. I could see what it was doing, but I never told it what to do."

She frowned. "This is no gramarye known to me! You think the witchwife persuaded an immortal into a jewel? I can't believe it! An adept must use another demon to harvest an elemental. They don't just come for the asking!" The lady drummed scarlet nails on the arm of her chair. "And even if I could believe that, then I certainly can't believe that it worked for you as you say."

Appalled, he sank to his knees. "My lady! I would not lie to you!"

"I'm sure you wouldn't, Tobias, but your explanation is not credible. An incarnate demon, like Krygon there, does have a small amount of initiative. It can follow orders, although you've seen that it does so reluctantly — it did not tell me you had been followed here, for instance. But I can give it general instructions: 'Protect me,' or, 'Go and bring Toby Strangerson back here without harming him or alerting anyone.' It has a human brain to think with, so it can do what is required to carry out orders. A bottled demon, though, must be directed specifically. Like Oswood." She smiled.

He wanted to hug himself when she smiled at him, it felt so good. "Oswood, my lady?"

"That jewel that so enhances your manly chest. I harvested that elemental at a place called Oswood. Just now I gave it two very specific instructions. I told it to keep you loyal to me always, and I told it to prevent you from removing the jewel. That way you can never move out of its range, you see. That is how Rhym controls his mortal creatures like Oreste. Oreste commands a dozen demons of his own, but he cannot remove the beryl on his finger, which binds him, nor order them to remove it for him."

"I would not want to move out of its range, my lady! I enjoy serving—"

"Yes, I know you do. How long have you had that amethyst?"

"Since the day we met, ma'am. And that was when the miracles began!"

Lady Valda pondered for a moment, staring at the fire. Toby remained on his knees. Hamish cowered against the wall by the stove, paralyzed by horror, while Krygon watched them all with undisguised hatred, unobtrusively scratching skin off its thigh. The fire crackled. A drop of blood fell from the ceiling and hissed on the stove.

That continual dripping of blood was worrisome. Dead bodies did not bleed. It would be in character for Krygon to have left someone alive and suffering up there in the loft. Still, if Lady Valda was not worried, then it was not up to Toby to raise the matter. She might send him to finish the job, and he would rather not do that sort of dirty work. He would do it if she told him to, of course, but he would prefer not to volunteer for it.

" 'Tis strange!" the lady said at last. "But I suppose if an elemental entered a jewel voluntarily, it might retain the free will it had in its own habitat. An unrestrained hob would be a dangerous companion, Tobias! Totally unpredictable! Still, it can do us no harm inside that casket."

She sighed. "Time passes! Oreste approaches, and I still have not solved the problem I started with." She turned a dark and frightening gaze on him. "Many years ago, a friend of mine obtained a most potent demon, known as Rhym. It was ancient, powerful, cunning, and for centuries had been bottled in a yellow diamond. My friend and I attempted to utilize this immortal in a conjuration. We knew the ritual to command it, but that night we were not specific enough in our instructions."

"King Nevil?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Indeed! So you have heard the tale? Well, it is true. Under certain circumstances, at critical moments in rituals, an exchange is not only possible, but actually quite easy. Rhym managed that exchange. The demon infested the king's body, and the king's soul was immured in the jewel that I later put on this dagger."

Toby nodded. Even a muscle-bound bareknuckle yokel could work it out now. "So you fled with the soul of the king, and Rhym set out to conquer all Europe?"

"That is what I was about to explain, yes. It has taken me many years to acquire the support I knew I would need to restore my beloved. Rhym hunted me tirelessly — it fears the king, because he knows the true name of Rhym. Many times I have escaped its clutches by inches! When at last I felt ready to proceed, having acquired and trained new pets to replace those I had lost, I returned to Britain and sought out a fitting vessel to hold the soul of my love. He was about your age when it happened, you see."

Toby shuddered. "I will do as you command, my lady."

"Indeed you will. Get up!" She rose from her chair.

He rose also, and walked forward to stand before her. He could not hide his shivers, but he must be brave in her service.

"I know that Nevil is no longer in the jewel on the dagger," she said. "So he passed into you as I planned. Something went wrong."

"The hob interfered?"

"I don't think so. I did not know you had a demon of your own, of course, but I don't think it interfered. It is you who are the problem. My creatures assure me they can see signs of possession on you, but you are not Nevil, are you?"

"No, my lady."

"Yet he is in there inside you. Somehow he is suppressed. We must release him."

Toby worked his injured tongue around until he could find enough spit to speak. "How?"

She smiled sadly. "You are a resolute young man, Toby Strangerson! I think where I erred was in underestimating your strength of will. Had I seen you smothered in bruises as you are now, then I might have realized what a doughty soul you are — any man who submits to such a beating voluntarily is a man of unusual courage and determination, whatever one may think of his judgment. Somehow you suppress my beloved. You have him locked away in a corner of your heart."

"Not… not knowingly, my lady!"

She stepped very close, gazing up at him with eyes of black fire. "Knowingly or not, you have. Now you have promised to cooperate. I have made quite certain that you will cooperate! So reach into the depths of your soul, Toby Strangerson, and seek out my missing lord, my lost love. He is in there. Call him forth!"

He stared into those black pools. He was conscious of her musky, floral perfume. Sweat trickled down his bruises. He tried. He tried desperately to do what she wanted of him. The stove hissed once…

"Let him be, Toby Strangerson! Let him live again. In your heart, kneel to Nevil, the king, your lawful liege. Call him forth to the light."

The stove hissed twice…

Valda sighed and stepped away. "It isn't working! Your grip on life is too strong. We must try the other way."

He did not ask. Whatever she wanted of him, of course…

She stalked over to the table and scratched at the cloth with her nails. "I dislike this! If there were any other choice… It seems such a shame to waste you."

Death! "However I may serve you, ma'am," he said sadly.

"Yes. Worse, it is dangerous for Nevil." She paced back to face him again. "I must have Krygon diminish you. I will let it have your soul, nibbling it away little by little, until my lord can emerge from your shadow. I do not know how much of you will remain by then, Tobias — probably almost nothing, and of course you will be no more able to act then than Nevil can act now. Know that I have enjoyed our little tussle. In an odd way, I admire you."

She leaned up and touched her lips to his.

He closed his eyes, shuddering with an unholy mingling of terror and desire.

The lady stepped back. "Now, Krygon—"

Hamish grabbed up the poker and swung it with all his strength, clubbing Toby in the middle of his chest. There was a sharp cracking sound and a bright blue flash that momentarily lit the room like a noonday sun.

Lady Valda screamed piercingly.

Dazzled, stunned by the pain, taken by surprise, Toby staggered back into Krygon and was hurled bodily aside by one sweep of the thing's weedy arm. He stumbled over the table, collapsing it under his weight with all its miscellaneous contents of vials, casket, dagger, dishes, and candlesticks. He landed on his broken ribs and two or three hundred bruises. Through all the racket, he heard Hamish whoop in shrill triumph and throw down the poker.

Lady Valda screamed again, even louder. Bewildered, blinking, Toby tried to make sense of what his eyes were telling him. A turquoise blaze enveloped her. Then the harsh light changed shape and he made out a thing of fire — a jagged, glittering being that flickered back and forth between near-human form one instant to a whirl of claws or sharp faceted edges the next.

Oh, merciful spirits! It was Oswood! By smashing the jewel on Toby's chest, Hamish had released the demon, and now it had backed the screaming hexer into a corner and was ripping her face off.

Toby was about to be scorched — the cloth on the table had caught fire, setting the contents of the vials to blaze in billows of red flame. He sat up and located the door. Now was a good time to leave.

The collapsing table had dropped the metal casket right at Hamish's feet. He had snatched it up, but Krygon reached him before he could open the lid. The husk grasped the box and slammed it back against the wall like a hammer on an anvil, with Hamish himself being the work between them. He cried out, then slithered limply down the wall, gasping for air.

Toby was on his feet. The creature turned and hurled the casket at his head. He ducked, hearing it crack into the dresser behind him and dislodge a shower of crockery.

Lady Valda writhed on the floor, her screams taking on a hideous choking quality. The flashing, glittering demon on top of her was still tearing at her, showering the room with fragments of blood-soaked cloth and quivering lumps of flesh.

"Hamish, come on!" Toby staggered toward the door. He was alone. Turning, he saw that the Krygon creature had Hamish by the neck and was shaking him, probably about to strangle him. Whatever else Toby did, he must help the boy escape to make amends for having dragged him into this. His fists were broken, but his feet still worked. He took a stride and kicked as hard as he could, slamming a heel into the thing's kidneys. The husk cannoned into the wall. Unfortunately Hamish cushioned the impact.

The Krygon thing spun around and came at Toby, rags flapping, hands outstretched like claws, aiming for his eyes. He jabbed a left at its broken jaw, but the creature was ready for him this time, as unyielding as rock. An explosion of agony in his fist almost stunned him, then he was struck by a runaway wagon — an impossible bodily impact sent him sprawling, measuring his length with the rotting husk on top of him. Joy and hate glowed in its eyes as it lowered its jagged mouth to tear out his throat. He braced his hands against its face and tried to push it away, but all his strength was useless against its demonic power. Only a blade through the heart… Nauseated by its stench, Toby yelled to Hamish to find Valda's dagger. Hamish must have reacted, because Krygon released Toby and sprang free. He swung a leg wildly… struck one of its ankles, tripped it, sent it headlong into the stove with a sickening boom that would have certainly brained a mortal.

Oswood was still tearing at Lady Valda, spraying blood. From the noises she was making, she had little left to scream with. Although the demon was only a flickering, shifting fire with no discernible face, somehow Toby was certain it was already looking around for another victim.

Both the rug and the basket of laundry blazed now, filling the room with flames and smoke. The Krygon creature lurched to its feet and at the same time hurled the chair at Hamish, bowling him into a corner.

As Toby struggled to rise, he registered the metal casket within reach. He sprawled back and grabbed it, pulled it to him. The hob was inside there! He sat up, wrapping an arm around the box and gripping the lid with a half-useless hand. If he could just release the hob, it would come to the rescue.

Krygon caught him by the left ankle and jerked him flat on his back again. Then it hauled him across the floor toward the stove, leering grotesquely as it prepared to feed him into the fire. Still fighting vainly with the casket, he braced his right foot against one of the range's metal legs, but he was no match for the superhuman strength. He was pulled around, slithering on the blood-slick flagstones, his left foot moving inexorably toward the fiery doorway. He could feel heat on his skin. He could hear the spray of Valda's blood hissing on the hot metal as Oswood continued dismantling her.

He gave up trying to open the casket and took it in both hands to throw at Krygon, knowing that it would inevitably just bounce off. His toes were almost into the coals when the viselike grip on his ankle relaxed. For a fraction of a second, the creature looked down in astonishment at a bloody metal point protruding from its chest. Surprise seemed to melt into a smile as its knees folded — but perhaps that was just a trick of the light. It toppled forward and sprawled lifeless across Toby's legs. The hilt of Valda's dagger stood proudly in its back, the yellow gem shining bright.

Toby yelled, "Well done, Hamish!"

Krygon was dead. Valda had fallen silent. The Oswood demon reared up over her, a blurred blue fire of talons and sharp edges, taller than man-size — glittering, spidery, unworldly, infinitely malicious. It had no face and yet it glared triumph and hatred. The hexer had merely whetted its appetite. It was ready for another victim.

The casket flew open in Toby's hands, spraying jewels, jars, scrolls, chalk, string, and sealing wax in all directions. Seeing a flash of purple, he grabbed for the amethyst. The ladder was ablaze, with flames roaring up through the hatch as if it were a chimney. There wasn't much left of Lady Valda. To be more exact, Lady Valda was everywhere.

"Hamish," Toby said hoarsely, scrambling to his feet, "let's get out of here!"

Where was Hamish? Standing up had been a mistake. There was nothing to breathe up there, only hot smoke. Toby crouched down again, rubbing his eyes, choking. There was precious little air even at floor level. Hamish was flat on his face, coughing feebly, barely conscious. Toby scrabbled across to him, hauled him over his shoulder, and turned for the door.

Oswood blocked the doorway.

The chair and table and even the walls were a crackling inferno. Barely visible through the suffocating smoke, the demon was a flicker of blades and hatred, claws and facets. It made no move to advance — it would rather gloat as the mortals choked or burned to death.

Crouching low to find air, Toby surveyed his options. He didn't seem to have any.

Suffocation was probably the best way out of this. He wasn't quite ready to die, though. Hampered by Hamish's dead weight, he reached for the metal casket, grasped it by its lid, and hurled it underhand. It passed clean through the demon and crashed into the apothecary's counter with a sound of shattering glass. He grabbed the next available missile and discovered that it was one of Lady Valda's arms. With a yell of horror, he threw that also. It did no more good. His eyes were streaming tears and his chest labored for air. In seconds the whole room would explode in flame. To linger was death; to approach the monster was suicide.

He groped for something else to throw, and his hand touched Krygon's corpse. Demon sword! Through his stupefied wits ran the words of Father Lachlan: "They are supposed to possess powers against demons."

The flames glinted on the yellow jewel in the pommel of the dagger. It was more of a dirk than a sword, but it had slain a demon. He transferred Hamish to his left shoulder and tugged the dagger from Krygon's corpse. As he raised it and aimed it at the demon, the hilt shivered in his hand. The blade lit up with a weird greenish light. It grew longer, a shining, fiery sword. Aha!

Holding the weapon at arm's length before him, steadying Hamish over his shoulder, he charged forward in a crouch. The demon flamed in fury and vanished out of his path. He reeled through the doorway, into the apothecary's shop. Ahead was daylight, the square of the window barely visible through smoke. He straightened, swung around just in time to catch the glowing monster coming at him, flailing claws and edges. With a stamp of his foot, he lunged as Gavin the Grim had taught him to use a rapier, although Gavin had never explained how a swordsman should transfer his weight when carrying a man over his left shoulder, or outlined the correct technique for wielding a shaft of green light against a shimmer of blue — perhaps a saber cut would be a better maneuver.

The lunge proved adequate. Weapon and victim were as insubstantial as moonbeams, and yet Toby felt the impact as if he had thrust a real sword into real flesh. The demon screamed an impossibly high note and recoiled, flailing flashes. He kicked the door closed on it and stumbled back against the counter. There was still only smoke to breathe. Hamish moaned, starting to struggle and protest that he was all right. Toby backed across the room, then set him down as gently as he could to leave a hand free for the door. There was no sign of the demon pursuing, but he did not think he had killed it — wounded it, perhaps, if demons could be wounded.

CHAPTER SIX

The fog was thicker than ever, a great heap of white wool filling the street, but the air was clear and fresh, smelling of the sea. Astonishingly, the city was still waking to the new day — like the nightmare it already resembled, the whole Valda episode had not lasted nearly as long as it had seemed to. Stores were opening for business, workers hurrying to their labors. Wagons rumbled along the street, entering and leaving the burgh; gulls shrieked unseen overhead. No one paid any heed to the two choking, weeping vagrants who emerged from the apothecary's to catch their breath in the cool damp.

They were blood-spattered and smoke-stained. Shaking with reaction, Toby rearranged his plaid, wondering how a kid like Hamish had managed to hang onto his sanity at all. The dagger was no longer a shining sword of green light, only a fancy dirk with a yellow jewel, but it was one more thing to make him conspicuous, and he tucked it out of sight in the folds at his waist.

He glanced up at the building. The fire was not showing yet, but the roof must burn through very soon. The absence of a rear window meant there was probably another house hard against it at the back, and there certainly was at the side — a larger, taller structure. He had started a fire in a wooden town; he had loosed a demon.

Rory had told him he was just a walking disaster.

Hamish had his feet on the ground, and was leaning on the wall, trying to smile between spasms of coughing. "Gotta get outta here!"

"Can't! There's a fire!… and a demon!"

"Oh, no!" Hamish rolled cherry-red eyes. "You gather a crowd, you'll be recognized! Every able-bodied man gets rounded up for firefighting. There's a price on your head…" He pushed himself upright and staggered.

"I can't leave a demon loose! I can't let innocent men try to fight a fire with a demon in it."

"What can you do?" The boyish voice became shrill with urgency. "Let the tutelary deal with it!"

"The tutelary's busy, Valda said. I've got a demon sword, thanks to you." Toby pulled out the dagger again and looked at it doubtfully. The blade was shiny clean; Krygon's blood must have burned away.

"Me? What'd I do?" Hamish was convulsed with more coughing. His always-dark face was black as a moor's from the smoke.

"You saved my life, friend! Tell me how these things work."

The roar of the fire was audible now, and a red glow showed through the window. A band of men was coming along the road from the country, heading for town. They moved like ghosts in the fog, but they must see the fire in a moment. They would smell it — why had no one raised the alarm by now?

"Me tell you?" Hamish wailed. "I don't know! Nobody knows. You big idiot, you mustn't hang around here. This is suicide! Come on!"

"There's no other way out of this building, but I suppose a demon doesn't need doors."

"It could be a league away by now! Why would it stay around? Toby — you're the one who's going to get impaled. Move!"

In the adjoining house, someone screamed. The sound came through an open shutter upstairs, but whether it was a man or a woman screaming, Toby could not tell. Nor could he guess whether the screamer had merely detected the fire or Oswood had left the burning building and entered the other.

As he moved to look in the direction of the sound, the blade in his hand flashed green. He waved it, and it flashed again. Another scream… When he aimed the dagger at the noise, it became the glowing demon sword. Again the hilt quivered in his hand, eager to find its destined prey. That way! it was telling him. The men solidified out of the fog, shouting questions, running to investigate the screams.

"Run!" shouted Hamish.

"Go find Father Lachlan!" Toby snapped. "If you can't find him, tell the tutelary — if it's willing to listen." He gave Hamish a push and sent him staggering off along the narrow street.

He ran, too, but only as far as the door. It was locked. He backed up and hurled his weight at it. It sagged, hinges ripping. He backed up to try again, ignoring throbs of protest from his ribs.

"What the demons do you think you're up to?" bellowed one of the men. "You, yon big Highlander!" yelled another.

"Fire!" he shouted, charging the door again. Another scream from overhead. This time the door collapsed, and he stumbled over it into a butcher's shop, smelling of blood, buzzing with flies. Lumps of meat in grotesque shapes hung on hooks over the counter. Hearing shouts of "Fire!" outside, he crossed the room, threw open another door, and found the stairs.

He met a crowd of people descending, eight or nine of them: children, women carrying babies, all fleeing from the stench of smoke. Most of them screamed at the huge clansman coming racing up at them, waving a dirk. Whether they saw a fiery sword, as Toby did, hardly mattered at that point, for they probably registered only his plaid. Highlanders had a well-earned reputation for havoc and slaughter. These Lowlander burgh dwellers would assume that he was the first of a horde and Dumbarton was being sacked.

He pushed by them or over them, shouting at them to clear the building. Only when he was past them did he realize he had forgotten to speak English, and they were unlikely to understand Gaelic. He did not think they would linger for a repeat. In a passageway at the top, several doors stood open, one with a very old man peering out in confusion.

"Fire! Leave! Get out!" Toby charged past him and kicked open the door he wanted without checking to see if it was even latched. Most of the chamber was filled by a bed, its curtains open just enough to show that it was unoccupied. The owner lay on the floor near the window. Toby was too late to save him, or perhaps it had been a her. The flickering blue shape of Oswood crouched over the corpse as it had crouched over Lady Valda. The bed and floor and walls were bright with blood; the air reeked of it.

Oswood reared up in a glowing blur of hatred and sharpness, chittering anger in a sound that was half insect and half clinking of jewels. It advanced on the intruder.

Toby's Inverary training leaped to his aid. He put his right foot forward and this time tried a saber slash of his green-shining sword. Again he felt resistance, and a slice of blue fire curled off the hellish thing and faded out. With an ear-piercing, inhuman cry, the demon sprang away, faster than a cat, landing on the bed. As he turned to fend off attack from there, the entire room exploded in flame — bed, clothes chest, rug, and even the door. Then the demon was gone, flicking out through the doorway, a blue glow in the smoke.

Toby leaped after it, gasping and trying to protect his eyes with his arm. If it could do that to a room, why couldn't it do the same to him? If he had thought of it, when would it? Were demons even dumber than he was, or did the sword protect him? The old man was tottering toward the stairs. Oswood enveloped him and dismembered him in a cloudburst of blood. He died without making a sound, falling in fragments to the floor, but his death had delayed the monster just long enough for Toby to catch up with it.

He flailed at it with the burning green blade. Its screams drilled agony through his head, but again he spalled chunks off it. It was growing smaller. Again it fled from him. It struck the door at the far end of the corridor and burned right through it, vanishing into the room beyond, showering flaming splinters of wood.

He was balked. He could not cross that fiery floor with bare feet. Shouts from downstairs told him a mob was gathering. Hamish was right — he would never escape from a crowd without being recognized, and that meant he would never escape. Never mind. The main thing now was the fight with Oswood. He must catch the demon and reduce it to nothing at all.

He waved the dagger until a flash of green told him he had it pointed where he wanted to go: upward!

He dashed into the nearest room, dropping the dirk in the folds of his plaid to give him two free hands. He was in luck, for alongside the four-poster bed stood a wooden chest. He jumped up on it, laid his hands against the ceiling boards, and pushed. Timber creaked and snapped, nails pulled free. Muscle! He gained a grip and pulled downward. The plank snapped with a reluctant crack. Smoke poured down from the hole.

After that it was a matter of seconds before he had ripped a gap big enough to pull himself through. The attic was furnished with straw and discarded clothes, but it was also chokingly full of smoke, for the fire below had burned through to the sky. He braced his shoulders against the battens between the rafters and heaved bodily. The thatch above was old and rotten, else even his strength would not have been able to rip it open, but it yielded. With the aid of the dagger, he ripped a hole to daylight. The straw around his feet was already smoking.

Gripping the rafters, he pulled himself up and stuck his head out through the hole. Only when he had done so did he realize the demon might be waiting for him up there. It wasn't, fortunately. The apothecary's house was a pillar of fire, and this one was already shooting flames up into the fog. He dragged himself out onto the steeply sloping thatch, then scrambled to relative safety on the ridge while he fumbled for the dagger.

"There he is!" roared voices below. "Up yonder — the hexer! The demon-raiser. Five thousand marks!"

He turned the dagger until it glowed faintly green. Oswood was either too small or too far off to raise much reaction from the blade — and it had apparently crossed the street.

Toby would have to cross also. The burgh's roads were narrow. He had jumped farther than that in the Glen Games. But then he had not faced a bone-smashing drop and had been landing on sand, not a steeply pitched slope of hard and slippery thatch. The house on the far side was slightly higher than the one he was on — but he didn't need to run all the way to the eave.

If he didn't jump, the crowd or the fire would get him.

He pulled the amethyst from the fold of his plaid. "Hob!" he said. "Fillan, I'm talking to you. If you want to see the world with me, then you'd better put some spring in my legs!"

He popped the gem in his mouth for safekeeping, bounded down the roof, and leaped out into the fog. For a moment he seemed to hang in the air above the crowd.

He landed, pitching forward on hands and knees, and then flat on his belly. He began to slide. He thrust the dagger into the straw and came to a stop with his legs hanging out over the drop. With fingers and blade, he scrambled up the slope to the crest. Then he was on his feet, running along the ridge.

What followed was a mad chase across the rooftops of the burgh. Jumping streets and alleys, he soon outdistanced the angry, roaring mob below. He caught up with the demon. It was wounded, or just diminished. Perhaps it was dying, but he dared not count on that. He cornered it against a chimney, his demon sword blazed joyfully, and he hacked the monster away to nothing. The light in the blade faded out.

CHAPTER SEVEN

So much for Oswood! The next problem was to save Toby Strangerson.

He leaned for a moment against the chimney, catching his breath and prodding his wits. The fog swirling around him was hardly thicker than the fog inside his head. The mob had lost him for the moment, but word would race through the burgh that the wanted hexer was at large. Every sword and kitchen cleaver would be after him.

He could not see the spire of the sanctuary, which would have been a useful landmark, nor could he locate the presence of the tutelary itself, as he had the previous evening. He had no idea of the way to Fergan's house. He was lost.

However, the roofs that faded off into the mist like miniature mountains did not extend very far to his right. Either the harbor or open country must lie in that direction. There was certainly no point in waiting around on the housetops until the fog lifted. He found a low eave overlooking a cramped little yard, clambered down to the roof of a privy, and jumped. Then he went out into the street, trying to move with the confident stride of the innocent. A high-piled wagon was heading the way he wanted to go; he walked alongside it, accepting the horse's deliberate pace, keeping back from the driver's notice.

He came to the harbor and found it almost deserted. No vessel could arrive or leave in this weather; there was nothing left to load or unload. Everything in sight was soaking wet, and even the water of the river itself looked leaden and depressed. He helped himself to a lobster trap and put it on his shoulder to hide his face. Then he walked out along the pier, blurred and damp. A Highlander with no bonnet and carrying a burden was acting out of character, but the few men he passed did not react with alarm.

So he came to The Maid of Arran. The plank had been hauled in. He dropped his burden, grasped the side of the ship and hauled himself aboard. Then he squatted down so he would not be visible from the pier. Three crewmen were working at repairing ropes. Another was scraping the deck.

"Hey, you!" shouted an angry voice, and Captain MacLeod himself came marching over. "Longdirk!"

Toby looked up with a hopeful grin. "Morning, sir."

"Trouble?"

"Aye, trouble!"

"Come inside."

The captain's cabin was under the raised deck at the stern where the steersman stood. It was very small, with a bunk on one side, a chest opposite, and a built-in table under the window at the back. It contained one chair, and no space for more. With a shelf of books and charts on the wall, it was businesslike, but the rumpled bedclothes and the dirty dishes on the table made it homey. Toby had his usual problem with the ceiling.

"Sit!" said the captain, waving at the chest. He closed the door and stood with folded arms, solid and bulky in a cloak of oiled leather that glistened with the moisture of the fog. Under a conical leather hat, his weathered face was solemn, but not unfriendly. He had a tangled, reddish beard that seemed to have been windswept into a state of permanent confusion. It sparkled with fine drops of damp.

"I'm lost, Captain. Would you send word to Master Stringer's house for me?"

"I could have a man take you there."

Toby shook his head. "There's a hue and cry after me.

A faint smile softened the sailor's stare. "And a price on your head. He told me."

Had the king admitted what that price was, though? For a moment, MacLeod seemed to weigh possibilities. If Toby had betrayed the cause, he would not be asking for word to be sent to the rebel headquarters. He nodded.

"I'll send the boy. You want to write a note?"

Writing was not Toby's specialty. "No. Just have him say I'm here, and in trouble." He wondered about asking for his sporran with all his money in it and decided not to mention that. Dead men had no use for silver. He felt a stirring of hope — the captain was a bluff, honest man. He might throw Toby to the sharks if he thought that to be his duty, but not without saying so.

"We'll not be casting off lines for a whiles yet. You smell like you've been in a fire. I'll bring you some water to clean that soot off your face. Could you use food?"

Toby tested his teeth with his tongue. He thought he could chew again, if he was careful. "That would be more than kind of you, sir."

MacLeod smiled almost bashfully. "I saw you fight, lad. Och, a braw show that was!" He turned quickly and went out.

Toby relaxed in a great wallow of relief. It was good to have friends.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Less than two weeks ago, he had been odd-job boy in the laird's castle. Now a king came to call on him.

They trooped in, filling the tiny cabin to suffocation — King Fergan, Father Lachlan, Kenneth Kennedy, and Hamish. Captain MacLeod followed, pulling the door closed behind him with difficulty.

The tall king smiled faintly at Toby's efforts to stand, for he had the same problem, if not quite so severely. "Be seated," he said, taking the chair for himself. "And the rest of you, gentlemen."

Toby settled on the chest again. Kennedy joined him. Father Lachlan and Hamish perched on the bunk. Then they could see one another, although there was barely room for all their feet. The captain remained on his feet by the door, as if to demonstrate that on his vessel he took orders from no one, not even a monarch.

Toby braced himself for a struggle. He was fairly sure his life was about to make a sharp turn. It might even come to a sudden stop, because he was a serious danger to the rebels now. The king, the captain, and Kennedy were all armed.

Father Lachlan looked haggard and worried. His white robe was cleaner than usual, but the conspicuous dust stains on the skirt suggested he had been spending much time on his knees.

Hamish was wearing Lowlander disguise. The doublet was too wide for him, and his breeches were pleated at the waist, pulled in by his belt. He was obviously relieved to see his hero alive and well, but he lacked his normal chirrup — Hamish looked as Hamish looked when in trouble. He smiled weakly at Toby and tugged at a bulky object in his pocket, drawing it out far enough so that Toby could recognize his sporran and know that his money was safe.

Kenneth Kennedy slouched in morose silence. He stank as if his overnight carouse had ended in an attack of vomiting.

The thin man in the chair might be balding and in need of more chin; his kingdom might be purely hypothetical, but he could dominate a cabin full of his own followers. They waited on his word. He began by directing a cold glance at Toby.

"The boy knows who I am. He claims you did not tell him."

"I didn't, sire. He knew before I did. He recognized you from your coins."

"So he claims. His mother has one of them. But why did you not report this?"

"I suppose I… I should have done so. I believe that he can keep his mouth shut, sire. I know he usually has it open, but he can be discreet when necessary."

The king's expression did not thaw very far. "Don't ever make that mistake again! Now, he tells a remarkable story. I want to hear your version of it."

Toby was not going to enjoy reciting his litany of failure. "Lady Valda sent a creature to summon me. It hexed me into following it to a house on the edge of the burgh. Then she bound me to complete obedience, hanging a bottled demon around my neck." He pointed to the silver chain he still wore there. "Hamish had followed me. I caught him and… and I handed him over." He shuddered at the odious memory.

"We all know the evil of gramarye," Fergan said sympathetically. "How did you break free of it?"

"Hamish released me. He smashed the jewel with a poker. The demon turned on Valda and killed her."

"What about the other one, though, the creature? How did that one die?"

"Hamish again," Toby admitted. "He stabbed it through the heart with Valda's dagger. He was the hero of the whole affair, and I was just a dupe, worse than useless."

"I see!"

All eyes were on Hamish, who looked more startled than flattered. He stared oddly at Toby.

"My apologies for doubting you, Master Campbell," the king said, and now his ice was melting. "Modesty and discretion are both noble virtues, but when you report to your king, you must tell the truth, and the whole truth."

Hamish muttered, "Yes, Your Majesty," and frowned again at Toby. "But Toby rescued me from the burning house, sire. And then he went off into another, chasing the demon, even though he knew the crowd would recognize him from the wanted poster and—"

"Yes!" the king snapped. He turned to Toby. "And what happened then? The fire is still burning. The town is in an uproar."

"I killed it." Toby produced the dagger. "Father, you said you had never seen a demon sword. See one now. It works."

At the sight of a naked blade in the presence of their king, both Kennedy and MacLeod reached for their swords. Then they stilled and fell silent, all eyes fixed on the legendary weapon.

Footsteps drummed on the ceiling as sailors went about their business. The light was growing brighter, and faint sounds of bustle on the pier revealed that the fog must be lifting. Men were getting ready to set sail and catch the tide.

Father Lachlan broke the hush. "Praise to the tutelary! It has guarded you well, my son."

Hog swill! "With all respect to the spirit," said Toby, "I don't think it did anything, except perhaps send the fog. I sensed it last night, when we arrived. I can sense it now. It returned a short while ago. But it wasn't there when I was battling Oswood. What did it tell you, Father?"

The little man pushed his glasses up his nose, glanced unhappily at the king, and said, "Nothing. It is not responding to prayers. The acolytes are very disturbed, for they have no record of this ever happening before." Then he blinked. "You can sense the tutelary? Like you saw the specter in the hills? From here, even?"

Toby nodded.

Lachlan stared. "Ah! You have solved the mystery?"

Again, Toby nodded. Obviously Hamish had not mentioned the amethyst, any more than he had yet told Toby how he had known about it. But now was the time to confess the alarming truth.

"Your Majesty, in Inverary, I swore to be your man, and I had no reservations when I made that oath. But when Valda hexed me, I betrayed you and swore to be hers."

The king scowled. "I am well aware that a man's honor can be perverted by gramarye. I do not hold that against you."

No. King Fergan couldn't, for he had once betrayed his country by doing homage to King Nevil.

"But it now seems that I was not free to swear allegiance to you in the first place, sire. I am another's man and have been ever since I left Strath Fillan."

The king broke the deadly, accusing silence. "Whose?"

"No mortal's. Years ago, Valda and King Nevil conjured a demon named Rhym, which turned on them. Did Hamish tell you? The demon took possession of the king and banished him to the jewel on this dagger. In Castle Lochy, Valda moved him from there to me, so that I would become Nevil, or Nevil's man at the least — Nevil's creature."

Hands were creeping to sword hilts again.

"But I swear to you, sire, that I am not aware of him at all. I am Toby Strangerson, not the rightful king of England. She said I suppress him. I suppose I must, for her demons could see signs of possession on me. I don't know how I manage to do this. For what it is worth, though, you must know these things, because if the Nevil soul ever manages to emerge in me, then I shall betray you."

Father Lachlan said, "That does not explain your superhuman powers, my son."

"No, Father. There is more. The powers do not come from me at all, but from this." Toby pulled on the silver chain. While waiting for a response to his message, he had fixed the amethyst into the wires that had once held the Oswood sapphire. He had tucked the gem under the shoulder of his plaid, and now he pulled it out for all to see. It twinkled purple fire as it spun.

"A demon?" snapped the king, easing away from him.

"Not quite, sire. This is Fillan, the hob from my village. Granny Nan gave me the gem as a farewell gift. Somehow she had talked the hob into it. It must have bottled itself voluntarily, for certainly she knew no gramarye."

They all reacted to some extent, but Father Lachlan reared back in horror. His head cracked against the wall and his glasses fell into his lap. He fumbled for them without taking his eyes from the jewel.

"A bottled hob? I never heard of such an abomination!"

Toby sighed and put the jewel away, out of sight. "Neither had Valda. But that's what's been protecting me."

"My son!" The old man was practically squealing. "I told you! A hob is like a child, a terribly powerful, innocent child. It has almost no concept of right or wrong, of good or evil! It can be mischievous, spiteful — unpredictable! You cannot walk around with a pet hob on a string! Spirits know what it may do!"

"It hasn't hurt me so far."

"That doesn't mean it won't! It may take it into its head… I mean, it may decide to… Oh, anything! It may drive you insane, or turn you into a monster! You must bring it to the sanctuary right away and…"

"And what?" Toby asked quietly. "Do you have adepts who will conduct it back to its home and restore it?"

Father Lachlan shook his head, looking frightened. The other men were leaving the metaphysics to him.

"I cannot," Toby said. "If I could, I doubt it would let me. I don't know if it can reverse what it did, or why it should even try. It wanted to know where all the young men are going. I think it wants to see the world! Maybe that is childlike, but I can sympathize." His feeble effort at humor won no smiles.

The little man moaned and wrung his hands. "It has never been taught! It may go mad itself in there and turn into a demon. At least a hexer can control his creatures by conjuration, but that hob is a free elemental! You can't control it, you don't know what it may decide to do next. My son, it is dangerous!"

"It has saved me many times from danger," Toby said stubbornly. "Already I owe it my life, over and over. I will resist any effort to take it from me, and I believe it will do the same." He turned to the king, who was regarding him with dark suspicion. "You see, sire? I did not know I had a hob in my sporran, or another man's soul in my heart. I swore to you in good faith, but even if you give me a direct order to dispose of the jewel, I either cannot or will not obey. And I can do nothing about Nevil."

Fergan drummed fingers on the arm of his chair. He glanced at the impassive Captain MacLeod and frowned at what he learned from his face.

"I was hoping that your mysterious powers might be used to further the cause of liberty and help free Scotland of its oppressors."

"I cannot control them, Your Majesty. In a battle, the hob would probably go berserk, as it does in thunderstorms."

Sunshine poured in through the window now. Outside, the pier was bustling. Blocks squealed as sails were raised. The captain had begun to fidget.

"So," Fergan said. He leaned back and crossed his legs. He had probably guessed what was coming, and a faint smile touched his lips. "So, what are you proposing, Master Strangerson? If it will make things easier for you, I will admit that our relationship is proving troublesome. Loyalty is a two-sided sword. A vassal is due protection from his liege, but I am perplexed to know how to protect you this morning in Dumbarton."

It was going to be all right. "I am a danger to you," Toby said. "I may lead the Sassenachs to you. Baron Oreste is on his way here — searching for me, Valda said, because he knows about Nevil. He has also distracted the tutelary from its duties, which include your defense. I bear the soul of your foe. I carry an elemental. I am loyal, sire, but you would be well rid of me. I am trouble."

"And Captain MacLeod has agreed to take a passenger to Portugal, I presume?"

Toby had not dreamed of escape on that scale. "I was hoping he might take me south and let me off at his next port of call."

The sailor chuckled. "We'll take on water in Dublin — but why not come to Lisbon, lad? I can always use an extra hand."

Demons! Why not? "But hands are the problem, sir." Toby held out his swollen fists. "I can't haul on ropes for you yet! I'll gladly pay my fare if you have room for a passenger."

MacLeod snorted. "Bilge! I saw how you earned that silver, lad, and I won't take it from you. Och, that was a braw fight! Come along, and welcome. I'll book you in as ballast!"

A strange lump constricted Toby's throat. This was friendship! — friendship he had done nothing to deserve. "That's incredibly generous of you, sir. I'll try to be of use… if His Majesty agrees?"

The king was looking at the dagger on Toby's lap.

"It is yours, sire," he said quickly, "if you want it. I swore to defend you against all foes, and I happily give you this to defend you against Oreste and others like him." He began to move and then laughed. "I don't think there's room for me to kneel!" He proffered the dagger.

Fergan stared at it covetously. "It is a princely gift! The jewel alone is beyond price. You are sure?"

"Quite sure, sire. Take it with my thanks for befriending me when all men were against me."

The king took the dagger. "Then I accept it, with gratitude. I free you from your oath, Longdirk. Tush, Father! If he is happy to live with a hob in his shirt, then let him be! Spirits go with you, Toby." He offered a hand, and he did not seem to want it kissed.

Toby shook it with a feeling of a great weight being lifted from his shoulders. He had never been happy being the king's man, and now he had been honorably relieved of his oath.

"Captain MacLeod is anxious to weigh anchor," the king said, preparing to rise.

"I wanna come too!"

Everyone turned to Hamish, who was staring at Toby with total dismay.

"Boy, that isn't—" Father Lachlan said.

"Wait!" the king barked. The cabin stilled. "I don't care how discreet he is, that might not be such a bad idea!" He glanced inquiringly at the captain, whose obvious impatience melted for a moment. He shrugged.

"Could use a cabin boy, Your Majesty."

Hamish grinned widely.

"Longdirk?" said the king. "Will you take him with you?"

"I won't take him, Your Majesty—"

Hamish wailed. "But you promised—"

Toby had been joking then, as he was joking now, but he didn't want to have to explain all that. He was not good at gratitude, never having had much practice. He hadn't had much experience with friendship, either, yet he had discovered today how invaluable it was. He had learned that no man was strong enough to survive without friends. He had learned it from Captain MacLeod, almost a stranger. He had learned it from Hamish. The gawky young scholar had saved his life and his soul — not once but three times. He had brought the amethyst to the apothecary's, he had smashed the sapphire, he had stabbed Krygon. How much more friendship could a man display? Toby would have to learn gratitude, and soon.

He couldn't say all that. He was no good at speeches. "No, I won't take him! Being responsible for Meg Campbell was a real pain, and I'm not going to fall into that trap again. The last thing I want is a snivelly child trailing after me, expecting me to wipe his nose and see he eats his vegetables and washes his socks every week."

King Fergan's eyes twinkled. "Quite understandable."

"Toby! I'm not a—"

"Shut up, brat! Your Majesty, I refuse to be saddled with a wet-eared kid — wondering all the time if he's gotten into a bar, or a brothel, or a fight… Of course, I could use a man at my side who can be counted on in the bars and the brothels and the fights, because I'm going to get myself into all those sorts of troubles, and I'll need a friend beside me. I promised Meg I'd never fight for money again, but I'm sure there will be fights, so I'll need a good second, someone whose courage I can rely on. If anyone here knows of a man who could handle that, then I'd be glad to have him with me — equals, shoulder to shoulder. No, I won't take a boy. But if a man like that chose to come along… I could certainly use a trusty friend."

Hamish had swelled like a pigeon on the bunk, almost filling his oversized doublet. He managed to force his voice into an adult range, but it sounded forced. "Happens I'm thinking of heading south myself."

"Would you mind if we traveled together?" Toby asked.

"I can put up with you, if you promise to stay away from hexers."

The whole cabin burst into laughter, Toby louder than any. "Think you can handle the brothels yet?" He wondered if he could.

Hamish glanced around in alarm, then straightened his shoulders manfully and grinned as wide as a pike. "Well, certainly! Er… are there any books on that?"

CHAPTER NINE

The royal party had gone. The sun was shining. The Maid of Arran leaned into the breeze as she edged away from the pier. Her departure came none too soon, for the mob of townsfolk rampaging through the streets in search of the giant Highlander who burned houses and conjured demons had now reached the harbor. Toby had been ordered to stay out of sight, and Hamish had remained with him.

The kid was so excited that he barely glanced at the captain's bookshelf, although he peered carefully at a chart on the wall and jumped at every new noise. Mostly he knelt on the bunk with his head out the side window. The rest of the time he just squirmed around.

Toby sat uncomfortably on the chest and felt like a herring in a barrel. He should be feeling like a falcon loosed. He was no longer the laird's man, or Valda's man, or the king's man. What he had never dared admit, even to himself, was that he wanted to be his own man, however absurd that idea was for a landless orphan. At the moment he was bound only to work for Captain MacLeod, and that service would not last long.

Perhaps he was really the hob's man, but he had not found that situation too troublesome so far. Despite Father Lachlan's forebodings, the hob seemed content to view the world. Apart from its attack on Crazy Colin, which had been a unique revenge, it had interfered only when he was in danger from demons. It had been unpleasantly attracted by the broadsword that Annie had provided, but it had let him dispose of it when he insisted. It had not interfered in his fight with Randal because he had not had it with him then. A well-intentioned hob would be a valuable friend.

He had learned a lot about friendship. Friends were where you found them, or they found you. He would never have chosen the hob, or even Hamish. Hamish had chosen him, but he had learned to enjoy the kid's company. His chatter didn't seem so bad anymore — a man got used to it — and he had more than proved his worth this morning. His brains and book learning were exactly what a dumb lunk like Toby Strangerson needed around.

Of course, Teacher Neal Campbell of Tyndrum was going to have a dozen simultaneous fits when he received Father Lachlan's letter and learned that his son had gone off adventuring to foreign lands with the terrible bastard. That realization had been one of the brightest spots in a very eventful day, but it had had nothing to do with Toby's decision to take the lad. At least, he hoped it hadn't. He was just obeying the king's orders!

Hamish plopped his seat down on the bunk. "Toby, this is exciting, isn't it?"

"More exciting than fighting demons?"

"Well… no. I prefer this, though."

"We've had an exciting couple of weeks. A quiet cruise is exactly what we need."

"Just think," Hamish said dreamily, "Meg Tanner as the next countess of Argyll! Me and you off to explore the world, and you've got the hob round your neck!" He frowned. "You don't suppose we'll find Portugal dull after this, do you?"

"Where is Portugal? South?"

"Everywhere's south from Scotland." Hamish went back to the window. "It'll be hot. They grow grapes and olives and oranges."

Whatever they were.

He pulled his head back in for a moment. "And after we've seen Portugal, we can go on to Castile! Granada or Aragon, maybe? Or Savoy?"

Wherever they were.

"Anywhere you like," Toby agreed. They would probably get rounded up into somebody's army, of course, fighting for or against the Tartars.

As the ship turned into the firth, the burgh was coming into view through the larger rear window. Vast clouds of smoke were still rising from the western end. Rory would sneer and repeat that Toby was a walking disaster. Suddenly Hamish pulled his head in and aimed a glum look at Toby.

"What's wrong?"

The kid pulled a face like an owl that had swallowed a bad mouse. "The fire! I almost wish I hadn't released you from the hex."

"I hope you don't mean that! The fire's not your fault. The tutelary's back and can deal with it. You couldn't have known what would happen. Valda was the one who played dangerous games with demons. The guilt is hers."

Hamish scowled. "I'm surprised the captain lets you stay, now that he knows you've got the hob with you."

Toby pulled out the amethyst on its chain and dangled it, winking flashes of purple light. "He'll just throw it overboard if it causes any trouble." And Toby with it! He doubted he could ever bring himself to part with it. It was still Granny Nan's farewell gift to him, and he would cherish it for that reason alone. Then he looked at his guilt-ridden young companion and remembered that one duty of friends was comfort in times of trouble.

"I hate to think what I would be now if you hadn't brought it to Valda's lair. How did you know about it?"

Hamish smiled wanly. "When I was looking for coins with Fergan's head on them, before the prizefight… remember? You gave me your sporran to care for and told me to look through it."

"So you guessed that was where the power came from? Why in the name of demons didn't you say so?"

The smile became a triumphant grin. "I assumed you knew and didn't want to talk about it, of course! I am discreet, remember? That's what you told the king. And when you went tearing off in the night without it, I knew there was dirty work afoot."

"I can never tell you how grateful I am. I mean that!"

Hamish perked up to listen to new noises on deck, then turned and rose on his knees to look out the window again. He paused. "By the way, why did you tell yon king laddie that I killed the Krygon creature?"

"It was you who picked up the dagger and…"

Hamish was shaking his head.

But… "Then who did?"

"The hob! You shouted at me to get the dagger, but I couldn't find it — it was in the fire — the table and all that stuff… I was looking for something else, a table knife or a fork… and your foot was almost into the stove… Then I passed out from the smoke. But you managed to open the casket… No?"

"No."

"Oh…" The boy's voice cracked. "The dagger jumped out of the fire and shot right into the creature's back — all by itself. I saw it, Toby!"

"I don't understand! The hob was locked up in that hexed box of hers. I didn't get it open until after."

They stared at each other. It made no sense.

"Unless… demons and hellfire!"

He had it — whereas Hamish looked more like a startled rabbit than an owl.

Toby groaned as the implications sank in. "Didn't Lady Valda say that sometimes it's easy to make a switch? And when she tried to plant another soul in me, if the hob didn't like that…"

"Toby! No!"

"Yes! We've had it all backwards! Valda, too! That's why she couldn't find Nevil's soul in me — it was locked away in her casket."

"And that's why the hob still has free will!" Hamish shouted. "It's incarnate, not bottled… Oh, demons, Toby!"

Father Lachlan had been horrified at the idea of him carrying a hob around on a chain. What would he say to carrying a hob around in his heart?

Now the presence of the hob suggested very sinister possibilities. Toby tried to laugh, without noticeable success. "Rory told me that I was a human hob! That's it! I'm possessed after all — possessed by the hob."

Hamish nodded morosely. "So you can't just drop it in the sea."

"I'm stuck with it!" Spirits! He was possessed by a hob! That might be better than being possessed by a demon, but not necessarily. The hob had no sense of right or wrong. It was childish, wayward, capricious. This hob might be even worse than most, because this hob, unlike all others, had decided on its own initiative to venture forth and see the world. He knew how it reacted to drums and thunderstorms — suppose someone started firing guns near him? It was totally ruthless, as Crazy Colin had discovered. It had made him lust after that absurd broadsword, dreaming of slaughter and mayhem. And it had been present at the prizefight, after all! It had probably enjoyed that roughhouse tremendously, perhaps even keeping him fighting and suffering long after he should have collapsed under Randal's battering, and today's battle with the demons, too — it had intervened only at the last moment. Very funny!

Father Lachlan had warned that it might drive him insane, or go insane itself. And Hamish's appalled expression confirmed that he could see all the terrible possibilities. Possessed by a hob!

Toby forced a laugh. "Well, what of it? I can't throw it overboard, but I can always get it exorcised at a sanctuary. Do you hear that, hob? You behave yourself from now on! And you cheer up, my trusty friend. We're on our way to see the world, aren't we? That's what we both wanted, isn't it?"

Hamish brightened and nodded.

The door opened. Toby hastily thrust the amethyst back under his plaid.

"Time to get to work!" Captain MacLeod announced cheerily. "We'll have no lazy layabouts on board this ship!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" Hamish piped brightly.

"Aye. First you both must sign the log. Means you agree to be bound by ship's law." The sailor chuckled. "And that means whatever I say it does!"

He pulled a large book down from the shelf and spread it on the desk. He uncapped the inkwell, wrote a line with a squeaky quill.

Toby did not enjoy having people watch him write.

Hamish must have noticed his expression. "My friend's hands are still swollen, sir. Can I sign for both of us?"

The captain shrugged. "Aye, as long as he makes a mark. Don't use the name that's on that Sassenach poster, 'cos other eyes may pry in there. Use whatever names you want to be known by. Your mothers will not be writing to you here." He stepped back and began unlacing his cloak. "That's a demon of a fire in the town!"

Toby winced. "Terrible."

The sailor eyed him thoughtfully. "You're a very fortunate young man, you are — escaping from demons and all. Glad to have luck like yours on board."

"He just blunders around," Hamish said from the desk — apparently he could talk even while writing. "I get him out of trouble when he needs help. Here, er…" He passed the quill to Toby and wriggled quickly out of the way.

Toby rose and leaned over the log book, squinting at the crabbed scrawl.

Hamish Campbell of Tyndrum, it said.

And underneath that — he spelled out the letters:

Longdirk of the Hills, his mark.

He turned his head to regard his self-appointed secretary, who was poised at the door — ready to flee if necessary, but gazing at him with a wild mixture of mischief and anxiety and boyish glee.

Toby grinned back. He had found the new name he sought, obviously. It would do.

So Longdirk of the Hills proceeded to make his mark.