by Ken Hood
"Rest assured, my son," the cardinal twittered, barely glancing up from the documents, "that the Holy Father and members of the College will continue to pray without surcease for the defeat of the Fiend whether or not he invades Italy. We regularly remind all acolytes of the Galilean Order in all shrines and sanctuaries everywhere to petition the spirits they serve for assistance against the evil. Our esteemed Captain-General Villari has been told to save no expense to defend the holy city itself."
"Are not these the same precautions you took before France was conquered, when Austria was overrun, while the rest of Europe was ravaged by the monster? I am sure I speak not only for the armies of Florence but for all—"
"You may be sure of that." Marradi thrust the documents back at the secretary, approving them with a nod. "But we are not. If, as I fear, Tobias, you are about to ask the College itself to engage in gramarye, you should remember that the Holy Father and his predecessors for more than a thousand years have refused to countenance the use of demons under any circumstances whatsoever. The Galilean enjoined us to serve, worship, and educate the holy spirits within their natural domains. To abduct and torture them into demons is contrary to all that is virtuous. Fighting evil with more evil must always be self-defeating. Our shield must be love and goodness our sword."
Were this meeting the confidential and intimate parley Toby had requested, he would now agree wholeheartedly and mention that the Don Ramon Company was in dire need of a good healer, as battles were not necessarily fought within easy reach of a sanctuary. In other words, he would ask for a hexer. The cardinal, if he were reasonable, would refuse sadly and later arrange for one to appear. But this cardinal was not being reasonable and did not deserve to be treated reasonably.
"That was not how Rome escaped conquest by the Tartars in 1248, Your Eminence."
The onlookers flinched. No one contradicted an arch-acolyte in public, let alone a cardinal. Marradi's smooth pinkness turned a fraction pinker. He pursed his little mouth:
"You were there, I suppose?" he squeaked.
Toby could boom. "No, but I am here, in Florence, in your city, which I have sworn to defend with my life. Why are you not willing to assist its people in their hour of need? For all of that thousand years you mentioned, the College has waged war on hexers, and rightly so. It has invariably confiscated any immured demon it could lay its hands on, and it is public knowledge that all of those hundreds, nay thousands, of—"
"Public knowledge is worthless knowledge, my son. Those jewels and the demons they contain are taken to Rome to be destroyed, not hoarded in some secret cellar as you imply." His Eminence gibbered the words, sprayed them. "Even if we did control a legion of demons, to use it for the furtherance of evil would—"
"Is self-defense evil? If we use them only for that?"
"I have told you. Those demons do not exist."
"Then if you will not take pity on the men who will die because of your stubbornness, will you not save the tutelaries and spirits? Do you deny that whenever Nevil takes a city he turns its spirits into demons to serve his cause and thus continues to increase his power while you and others like you close your eyes to the suffering and—"
"Insolence! Blasphemy! Chancellor, remove this man and his companion from our presence!"
Toby turned on his heel and walked out.
Hamish stalked at his side, growling low in his throat. As they clattered down the broad staircase, he said, "Did ye see yon Lucrezia? Smirking and panting like a bitch in heat."
"I'm sure she enjoyed the performance," Toby said tightly, "but I don't think she wrote the music. There's another hand behind all this."
"Whose?"
"The shadow who arranged Fischart's death. There's a traitor in the Company."
CHAPTER SIX
Never since the Tartar conquest of Europe almost three hundred years earlier had a member of the Khan's immediate family visited Florence, and no expense was spared to honor the darughachi. The ceremonies would begin at the city gate on the Roman road, the Porta Gattolini, where bands played and banners flew above elaborate staging, where all the rich and powerful came to see and be seen, even those not required to participate. An honor guard lined both sides of the road out for more than a mile. Marshal Diaz had threatened to flog any man who did not meet his standards of perfection, be he cavalry squadriere, infantry commander, or Constable Longdirk himself. Growly old Antonio was probably capable of trying it, too, but the threat was not necessary. The entire Don Ramon Company was determined to upstage the Florentine provisionati, so sunlight blazed off helmets and breastplates, off shields and pikes and swords, off buttons and harness buckles buffed like silver. Even the horses looked polished. Toby had taken care that he would not be found wanting. At his post close to the gate, he flashed and sweltered in full armor like the rest.
The Company had begun deploying before dawn. Great carriages of the rich started rumbling out not long after, then the commonality emerged from the city like a noisy tide to roil over the fields, churning up the young wheat. They danced, picnicked, and generally enjoyed a sunny holiday. Hucksters and pickpockets plied their trades.
By noon the bands had given up, the honor guard was losing its glitter, and everyone was becoming grumpy. It was midafternoon before the long procession was seen winding in over the hills. It took almost another hour for the van of the Sienese escort to reach the first of the honor guard, and even then the end of the baggage train was still not in sight. The music began again, and maidens strewed flowers on the road before the prince's steed. Cannons boomed, startling the horses. Some ambitious souls began to cheer, although that did not last long in the heat.
All this was only preparatory, for the main events would take place in the city, in the Palace of the Signory. But before the speeches and masques, before ceremonies in the piazza and services in the sanctuary—before anything else at all—the city leaders must make the Tartar ritual of obeisance, which was so ancient that it had been conveniently forgotten in Tuscany centuries ago. Nevertheless, it was required now, however much republican blood might boil.
A herald proclaimed the name and rank of the Khan's official deputy, the despised Antonio Origo. The podestà advanced on foot, bowing seven times. Then he had to kneel and touch his face to the ground, rise to his knees, and kiss the prince's boot. Later, when Sartaq sat enthroned in the palace, there would be formal oaths of allegiance, with each participant lifting the royal foot and placing it on his own head, but that could not conveniently be done when he was on horseback. Even this ritual was more difficult now than it had been in ancient times, for where the prince's world-conquering ancestors had ridden shaggy little Mongolian ponies, he sat astride a long-legged Arabian stallion, and the dumpy messer Origo had considerable trouble reaching his lips to the boot without lifting his knees off the ground. Muffled sounds of amusement could be heard from the distant ranks of citizenry. Even the notables around Toby shimmered a little. As Origo rose and backed away, bowing seven more times as required, his face was observed to be redder than the rich wines of the Chianti Hills. Truly, the lot of a podestà in Florence was never easy.
Sartaq seemed younger than Toby had expected, although those unfamiliar Asiatic features were hard to judge. Under a towering, many-colored and many-layered hat, his complexion was the same olive-brown shade as Sorghaghtani's, plump and unlined, with a thin black mustache curving down almost to his jawline. He was short, probably stocky, although little of his shape showed through the grandiose robes of bejeweled and emblazoned silk—not for him the simple furs and leathers of his horseborne steppe ancestors. He looked very bored, but possibly he was merely wearied by a long ride on a hot day.
None of the twenty or so glorious-garbed courtiers behind him seemed likely to be the military attaché Neguder. They were all elderly and could be assumed to have been sent along to keep the young prince in line.
All the innumerable priors and other dignitaries of Florence had now to be proclaimed by the h
eralds and then follow Origo's footsteps over the crushed flowers. Pietro Marradi was not there, because formally he was only a private citizen. He was also too much of a realist to feel slighted by the omission, although all the lesser politicians, while denouncing the ceremony as barbaric and antiquated and humiliating, had been ready to riot if they were excluded.
The military were to come next, starting with the captain-general. Don Ramon might well be the haughtiest man in Italy, but an abasement that shocked republicans was no problem for him. He understood the rights of rank. He probably believed that he was entitled to much the same sort of veneration himself—after all, he could trace his lineage back six or seven centuries farther than the prince could, for the Khan's line had been undistinguished before it produced the great Genghis. He strode forward cheerfully, a limber, athletic contrast to the stodgy, overfed burghers who had preceded him. He was the first to perform the obeisance with grace.
Then the captain of the city's own troops, the provisionati, but no one put any stock in him. Toby was next. He braced himself...
"His Royal Highness," bellowed the herald, "the Duke of Anjou, knight of the Order of the Golden Sword, companion of the Crystal Star, Sieur de la Loire, seigneur of Anjou, of Beaupréau, of Les Herbiers, of—"
Toby had swayed slightly on the balls of his feet, but he regained his balance without giving onlookers the satisfaction of seeing him flail his arms. His immediate companions were hissing in astonishment as the catalogue of seigniories rolled on and on.
And on...
"...of Sablé-sur-Sarthe, of Aiffres, Viscount Chateauroux, Baron Bonneval, castellan of La Rochesur-Yon."
The old scoundrel had never admitted to any of those honors before. Even now, he was obviously laying claim only to the titles he had possessed before the war, before Nevil turned his family into dog food. Since then he had inherited a third of Europe.
The catalogue ended, the rangy old mercenary limped forward to greet the prince. Granted that D'Anjou himself had probably instigated this royal recognition, who had worked him into Toby's spot in the ceremony? It was universally assumed that the main purpose of the darughachi's journey west was to choose the next suzerain. If blood was what mattered, then D'Anjou must be the logical choice, but there was certainly no chance of D'Anjou then appointing Toby Longdirk comandante.
That crashing noise was the sound of plans collapsing.
D'Anjou rose and retreated, bowing. The herald proclaimed Baldassare Barrafranca, certainly one of the most incompetent fighters ever to sign a condotta and pretender to one of the least justifiable hereditary titles. Obviously Toby Longdirk was not going to be called forward at all. He supposed he should be feeling anger, but his inner calm remained unruffled, almost as if he had expected this; the hob slept on.
"They did it again!" said an irate whisper at his elbow. Even Hamish was polished up like a silver wine jug today, but now his face was scarlet with wrath. He was speaking out of the corner of his mouth, of course, as all attention was supposed to be on the ceremony taking place in the road.
"Did what?"
"Insulted you! Deliberate public humiliation!" He managed to spit the words without moving his lips, quite a feat.
"You mean I'm supposed to feel slighted because I'm not allowed to kiss a man's boot?"
Hamish glanced sideways at him. "Don't snarl at me, messer Longdirk! What Lucrezia does isn't my fault. I got your name as far up the list as was humanly possible."
"I'm not snarling."
"Well, you should be! Tell me why Il Volpe lets his sister interfere like this! She's doing everything she can to make your job harder. Nevil will hear of this. His spies will tell him."
"Lucrezia is a formidable signora." Toby had not identified her among the massed beauties in the ladies' stands. But she would be there, watching him to enjoy his reaction. "If she's the puppet master, she's doing a remarkable job, but she isn't really hurting me. I don't care about the prizes she keeps snatching from me. Bowing and scraping folderol! No, I'm sure the Magnificent knows his sister well enough not to let her meddle in policy. Someone else has turned him against me, and it must be a traitor, someone working for the Fiend. That worries me a lot more than a woman's spite."
—|—
The pattern was repeated when the procession reached the palace. Toby was not at all surprised to discover that he had been struck off the list of dignitaries to make obeisance before the throne. This omission was clearly intended to be another snub, but he could not feel hurt by it. The opportunity to place another man's foot on his head seemed a very questionable honor.
After that he rode back to Fiesole with the rest of the Company, skipping the inevitable banquet without finding out what little treats had been planned for him there.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"The duchessa was very disappointed that you missed the banquet last night," Don Ramon remarked airily. On that splendid spring morning, he and Toby were leading a group of senior officers into Florence to wait upon General Neguder. He looked astonishingly pert for a man who had partied all night—which he must have done, because he had not returned to Fiesole until well after dawn.
There was no justice. Toby, who had gone to bed at a respectable hour like a dutiful little boy, felt bleary-eyed and bedraggled. The life of a penniless outlaw had been much simpler than that of a condottiere.
"I bet she was."
"Mustn't disappoint influential ladies."
"I am sure you did not, signore."
The don smirked and twirled up his mustache. "I believe we gave satisfaction." He was riding the devil-horse Brutus, which kept trying to bite Smeòrach. Both Toby and Smeòrach were growing very short of patience. Toby had surreptitiously slid his boot out of his stirrup and was waiting for the next provocation.
"What did darling Lucrezia have planned for me—gunpowder in the soup?"
"I believe vipers in the pasta. What's wrong with your mount?"
"I'm not sure." Smeòrach was trudging down the hill like a cart horse, not at all his usual high-spirited self. Possibly he had been infected by his rider's glum mood. Toby gave him an affectionate pat. "I think I'm neglecting him. The big dolt isn't getting enough exercise."
"Not enough? If you want my—"
At that moment Brutus aimed another nip at Smeòrach. Toby's spur slammed into Brutus's flank, and at once the don had an unexpected fight on his hands. It was several minutes before order was restored and the procession could continue down the trail. The don had probably not witnessed that low blow, but he was already glowering suspiciously at his companion and would find the wound when he dismounted. Some of the sycophants following would have noticed and would tattle to him later. Which reminded Toby of the worst of the nightmares that had troubled his sleep.
"Are you prepared to accept the Chevalier as suzerain, Captain-General?"
The don shot him an astonished glance, then exploded into laughter.
"You don't think D'Anjou will be appointed suzerain?"
"No, I don't, because I know who will be."
And now he wasn't going to tell—so there!
—|—
The hall to which the noble condottiere and his men were conducted was neither the largest nor the grandest in the Palace of the Signory, but it was large enough and grand enough to dazzle any native of a poor, drab land like Scotland. Its walls and ceiling blazed with gilt moldings and vivid frescoes of glorious battles from the war-smeared history of Florence. Only a greasy layer of smoke stain from innumerable years of candles marred the brilliance.
Here the visitors were required to stand for a considerable time, long enough to make them feel less important than the roaming bluebottles. Eventually a herald hurried in and ordered them to kneel for the entrance of His Splendor General Neguder, military aide to the Illustrious Prince Sartaq, Swift Sword of the Khan, High Warrior of the Golden Horde, and so on. Later a trumpet brayed outside. Still later, it brayed again. And in due course the great man did waddle in
with a train of attendants almost as splendidly arrayed as himself. The visitors, having been properly instructed, pressed their faces to the floor and squinted out of the corners of their eyes.
He was elderly, tall for a Tartar, and wide for a man of any race. Even flowing silks could not disguise the bulge of that belly. He took the throne with obvious relief, leaned back, and probably closed his eyes—it was impossible to be certain, because his eyes were tiny slits in the blubber of his face. His followers took the chairs arrayed to right and left of him. The visitors were left where they were, noses on an evil-smelling carpet reeking of generations of boots.
The herald said something inaudible, probably in Tartar.
The general then delivered a speech. Officially he delivered a speech. In practice one of his aged flunkies read it for him, remaining seated while doing so. Its meaning, if it ever had any, was gutted by the man's gruesome accent and skinned by Toby's inadequate command of Italian, but the shreds of meat remaining seemed to consist mainly of a review of great victories won by the Golden Horde in ancient times and the lessons to be learned from them. The tactics mentioned were rarely suitable for Italian terrain. There was no mention of firearms. There was no hint that the Khanate was prepared to support resistance in Italy with a strike at Nevil from the east, across Hungary.
The speech lasted about two hours. Toby wondered if a first snore would be a capital offense, or if he might be allowed a second. Not that the meeting was not educational. Nay, it was most exceeding instructive! Ever since Nevil's rampage began, the Khan's loyal subjects in Europe had been appealing to him for assistance. The lack of response had been a mystery much discussed, but it was a mystery no longer, not to Toby. These men were imposters. The once-invincible Golden Horde, whose ancestors had conquered all the world from Spain to Cathay, was a legend now. It had no more substance than a bubble on a stream.
In their time the Khans had ruled well, imposing peace on a very quarrelsome continent—more or less peace, and at a price, for the suzerains had been tax collectors before they were anything else. They had always managed to pocket a lionish share of whatever they gathered, but much of the gold had flowed east to Sarois.
