Demon Knight

by Ken Hood

  —|—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Very significant secrets!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Toby looked around anxiously for Hamish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "A council. Sober up, Toby!"

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

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

  —|—

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

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

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

  "You are the one called Longdirk?"

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

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

  "I had that honor, Your Magnificence."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "You refuse to answer my question?"

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

  The hall was very quiet.

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

  "About a month, Your Highness."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER FOUR

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

  "Running away? Not like you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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