by Ken Hood
"Do you feel," Hamish asked, as they rode off along the road, "that this conclave has achieved anything at all?"
Toby thought for a moment. There had to be some use in anything. "Yes. I think future historians will use it to date the fall of Italy."
—|—
They spoke very little. Hamish was calm but understandably bitter at the cruel blow fate had dealt him. Toby had only clammy comfort to offer. He mentioned the bereavements he had known—Granny Nan, Jeanne, friends in the Company—and of how all wounds must heal in time. But that was sometime, this was now.
"You always knew it could not be," he said. "You never expected to share her throne in Greenwich Palace. Could you have endured watching her washing clothes in the burn?"
Hamish gave him a sour look. "Do you think she wouldn't wash shirts for me, or I wouldn't dig fields for her? If the Don Ramon Company ever pays me what it owes me, I'll have enough to buy a farm, and farmers can afford servants. Or I could go back to Barcelona and work for Josep Brusi. He offered me as much to wield a pen as you pay me to risk my hide. I should have put Lisa on a horse and ridden off into the night. I should have taken her where the Fiend would never find us."
After a long silence, Toby said, "Yes, you probably should have."
He wondered what he would have done, had he been in Hamish's place. Had he been like other men.
—|—
They did not turn aside to Fiesole, but went on to Florence and the Marradi Palace. Even Hamish, who had made a point of befriending all the Magnificent's gatekeepers, could not gain admission that evening. He learned only that two golden-haired foreign ladies had arrived the day before and were staying on as guests. It was encouraging that their identity had not yet become public knowledge, but this could not be long delayed after Marradi's display of temper at Cafaggiolo.
They rode back to the villa to break the bad news and reassure Diaz that he had made the correct decision when he surrendered Lisa and her mother to the Magnificent. Then there was nothing else to do except clean up and eat and go on with the rest of their lives.
CHAPTER FIVE
"We call this the portrait gallery," Lucrezia said. "At the far end you will find some very imaginative impressions of what my forebears wished their forebears had looked like. At this end the art is more pleasing and probably more plausible. This one, for instance—Orpheus calming the waves. By Ruffolo."
Lisa said, "Charming."
"You prefer Apollo driving his chariot?"
"Bizarre."
The duchess eyed her guest thoughtfully, as might a hangman or taxidermist. "How about this one, Sisyphus rolling the boulder?"
"It is quite realistic." After an entire day in the Marradi palace, Lisa had not been tamed yet. She had a lot of fight left in her, although it was not likely to do her much good.
"The naked man or just the boulder?"
"Boulders are dull; they don't do anything. The man reminds me somewhat of High Constable Longdirk."
However well the courtesies were being observed, Lisa was a prisoner and the little smiling duchess her jailer. The Marradi Palace was a treasure-house of gorgeous things, but it was also a trap, a web shining in sunshine, and Lucrezia was the spider, the smiling spider. All of Lisa's struggles merely amused her. The one exception was Longdirk. He was the one topic that could cut through the woman's insufferable smugness. Any reference to the condottiere riled Lucrezia excessively. The man did have some uses, therefore, if he could bring a flush to Lucrezia's cheek and a flash to her eye.
As now. "I think you are indulging in wishful thinking, monna!"
Lisa attempted what she hoped was a cryptic, wouldn't-you-like-to-know smile. "About the calves, I mean. Have you never noticed those great bulges in Toby's hose? When he walks they run like rabbits up and down—"
"Come and sit here, Lisa." Mother had noticed the battle in progress. She was huddled on one of the gold-silk sofas as if she were freezing to death, although the gallery was hot and stuffy. She had aged twenty years since leaving Fiesole the previous day. Having spent her adult life staying one jump ahead of the hounds, she was convinced—as she had explained to Lisa fifty times in the night—that as soon as the two of them were identified in public the Fiend would catch them. Now it was about to happen.
Lisa ignored her. She turned her back on the Sisyphus anatomy lesson. "And what happens now, Your Grace?"
"Do please call me Lucrezia, Your Majesty."
Lisa smiled and waited.
Lucrezia smiled right back at her. "Now? Now we have a private little dinner party, just six of us. Tomorrow or the day after, there will be a banquet so the signory can welcome Queen Elizabeth of England and Queen Mother Blanche to fair Florence." Queen Mother Blanche moaned in the background, but the duchess ignored her. "You must excuse my brother for keeping you waiting like this. They only just got back from Cafaggiolo."
So the conclave was over. Longdirk would have returned to Fiesole and learned that his guests had been abducted—or rather that his prisoners had been stolen, because Lisa had no doubts that she had been just as much a prisoner in the villa as she was here. A prison with Hamish in it had much more appeal, though. Could even Longdirk do anything against the Magnificent? Did he want to? Had the goods been stolen or sold?
"Do tell me what happened at Cafaggiolo. I know that Constable Longdirk held few hopes of the conclave."
Lucrezia's smile had triumph all through it like the gold thread in her gown. "Then he would not have been surprised. Disappointed, yes, of course. The prince has appointed a comandante in capo, and it is not Longdirk."
Hamish had made no secret of the fact that Toby had wanted that title, but evidently he had not bought it with Lisa, which was encouraging. "I do hope Florence does not feel slighted. And who is the new champion?"
"You will meet him shortly."
"Oh. And who else?" Lisa realized she might be facing a long evening.
Lucrezia's smile confirmed that supposition. "Just the prince. You can ask him yourself why he did not choose your lover to be comandante."
"My who?"
Another catlike smile. "So it was wishful thinking!"
"If there is any wishful thinking, it is more on his part than mine." Lisa would not admit that she and Longdirk detested each other, snarling like cats every time their paths crossed. But she was in retreat now, like an outclassed fencer, and Lucrezia's rapier was flashing, drawing blood with every stroke—
"Then he will not be further disappointed when he learns of your betrothal?"
Squeak! "My what?"
"Dear child, what do you expect? The royal houses of Europe have been decimated and must be rebuilt. You have a lifetime's work ahead of you."
"You make me sound like a broodmare!" Lisa very nearly stamped her foot.
The duchess shrugged. "Call it what you will, I am sure the darughachi will want to br—will have plans for your early marriage. You can ask him that, too."
"I have no dowry!"
"You bring all England as your dowry, child." Oh, how Lucrezia was enjoying herself! Now it was Lisa who was outranked.
"Not very easy to collect."
"An interesting challenge. You are prime marriage material. The greatest houses in Europe would accept such a bride, even in normal times. Now, if necessary, you can be used to confer royalty on some man of lesser rank."
The footmen stationed outside the door opened it and bowed in the Magnificent, who in turn bowed to Lisa and then her mother.
"Your Majesties, my house continues to be honored by your presence. I trust that your comfort lacks nothing?"
Insignificant, unimpressive, he was yet a dangerously clever, foxy man. Lisa did not trust him even as far as she trusted Longdirk, which was no distance, but she had to admit that Marradi was charming, with manners sweet as honey. And Lucrezia was enemy enough for now.
"I feel I have been invited to stay in Olympus, Your Magnificence! Everyone has been most kind." Lisa heard her mother
babble something similar.
He frowned and turned to his sister. "Is madonna Elizabeth dressed as becomes her rank? Could you not have—"
"We tried!" Lucrezia said. "She chose the style and fabric herself. Her coiffure, also. I offered to lend her pearls and jewels. She prefers to dress like this." Like a clerk's daughter, said the smile.
Her brother shrugged. "Then we honor your decision, monna. In truth, the lily needs no gilding."
That was very annoying of him, because Lisa had been trying to establish some independence by insisting on the simplest possible dress. Now he had turned her defiance into a virtue. Before she could comment, the door opened again. She braced herself for new battles.
Two men. The young one with the slanty eyes, squidgy nose, and stringy mustache must be the prince. Any son of the Khan took precedence over her and would do so even if she had been crowned queen in the sanctuary at Westminster. She sank into a full curtsey.
"Elizabeth! By the spirits, rise, rise!" Sartaq stretched out both hands to her. "Messer Marradi was raving so about your beauty that my thought was he was exaggerating. Reticent he was."
She rose and returned his smile as well as she could. "Your Highness is most gracious." Not exactly. He was shorter than she was. He had bad teeth and those slit eyes—even Longdirk's battlement features were better-looking. She also knew he already had two wives, and if he decided to add her to his collection, then no one in all Europe could stop him. Smile!
She expected him to release her and turn to receive Mother, who was waiting to be told to rise—it was a grim sign that she now ranked behind her own daughter. But the prince let go only Lisa's left hand and turned the other way, to the third man.
The third man was the ancient Chevalier D'Anjou, and suddenly she knew he was the new comandante. Hamish never had a good word to say about him. His nose had been shattered so often that he had almost no nose left. He stood as if his back hurt and held his head cocked sideways as he leered at her with a mouth that had lost most of its teeth. He had a grizzled beard, damp near his mouth. He made even Sartaq seem handsome.
The prince laughed. "Duchessa? Advise me. Your western etiquette for me makes a puzzle. Do I present the Queen of England to the King of France or the other way?"
CHAPTER SIX
Toby had gone to bed just after the sun did, expecting to sleep well for a change—he had done his best, and events were out of his hands now. When he realized he was awake the angle of moonbeams from the window told him it was not yet midnight. For a while he lay and cursed, certain he would not go back to sleep. He began to worry about Sorghaghtani. She had not been in the adytum, and no one could recall seeing her for two or three days. Unlike Sartaq, she was a problem he could do something about. He sat up and reached for his shirt.
"Where are you going?" Hamish was lying on his back with his arms under his head, alert and brooding.
"For a walk."
"Why don't you sleep? You've been yawning for weeks."
"I'm not very good at giving up."
"You've never tried. It's time you learned how."
Toby stuffed his feet in his hose and rose to pull them on, crouching to avoid banging his head on the rafters. "I'll try. Go to sleep."
Hamish sighed and closed his eyes and said nothing more.
The hob raised no hackles when he approached the adytum. He tapped and tried the door; it opened. The tinderbox was still in the nook where Fischart had kept it. He lit a candle, and its dancing light confirmed that there was no one there.
He walked around the big room without finding anything to tell him where Sorghaghtani had gone or when she had left. Indeed, he saw almost nothing to indicate that she had ever been there, except that the place was tidier than it had been in Fischart's time. In his torment of guilt the hexer had slept on the floor and used his bed for storage. Sorghie had covered it with straw and a blanket. Otherwise, the little shaman might never have existed. The water jar was empty.
Toby blew out the candle, replaced it where he had found it, and went for a walk in the moonlight.
—|—
He found no answers in the night. It was doubtful that Don Ramon would ever put the Company under D'Anjou's orders, and Ercole would certainly not cooperate. He might ask his duke to contribute a few lances, no more. In Florence the signory would doubtless pay lip service to the new order as long as Sartaq remained in the city, but the moment he left it would be business as usual, which was Florence first and everybody else nowhere. No, any army the new comandante raised would fly apart at the first sign of trouble. He would fail.
Toby Longdirk had already failed.
It was not far short of dawn when he was summoned. He was giving Smeòrach a rubdown by moonlight in the stable yard when a white ghost swooped over his head and cried, "Hoo!" An instant later she came again, this time lower so that he felt the wind of her passing. He had no doubt that it was Chabi. "Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!"
He opened the stable door and slapped Smeòrach's rump. "Go to bed, big fellow!" With a snort the gelding lumbered inside, heading for his stall. Toby took off at a run, with the owl plunging and swooping over his head as if pleading for haste. Even when he reached the narrow path through the cypresses, she stayed with him. He thumped on the door and hauled it open at the same time, but pulled it shut behind him before the owl could follow, knowing Sorghaghtani rarely allowed Chabi inside.
"Sorghaghtani? Sorghaghtani! Sorghie?"
The cypresses were shadowing all the windows, but something had changed in the darkness. His hands shook as he fumbled with the tinderbox. Fortunately the first spark caught, and he breathed it up into a flame for the candle. The darkness lifted then, showing her sprawled on her side in the middle of the floor, one arm stretched out as if trying to reach her drum, which lay just beyond her fingers. Her headdress had fallen off, her dress was ripped in several places.
Setting the candle on the floor for safety, he lifted her and carried her over to the bed, marveling once again at how little she weighed. He could see no injuries except a few faint scratches on her face, arms, and one of her tiny breasts. There was no blood anywhere, and her breathing sounded peaceful. Her lips were crusted and her tongue swollen. Water? He would have to leave her and run for water, for the jar had been empty. It was worth a second look, though, so he took a second look and was relieved to see that he had been mistaken the first time. There was a small amount left in the bottom. He filled a beaker and took it to her.
All the time, he was saying, "Sorghie! Sorghie!"
He wet a finger and laved her lips. Her tongue moved. He sat beside her, raised her up, held the beaker to her mouth. "Sorghie! Sorghie! Wake up, Sorghie! It's Toby." Her straight black hair was crudely hacked short, like a boy's, and she smelled of fresh hay. She was even younger than he had guessed and might have been pretty had she not been horribly mutilated. Where her eyelids should be there was only white scar tissue, hideous and sunken, apparently burns. Tongue moved, lips moved, and in a moment she swallowed.
"You'll be all right," he said, over and over, although he had not the slightest idea what was wrong. Her injuries—the scratches and ripped clothes—might have come from falling into a gorse bush, but he wondered if she had dropped through some cypress trees. It made no sense, it just seemed to fit. If evil men had maltreated her, they would have done much worse. The loss of her sight, whether atrocity or accident, had happened years ago.
"Toby?" The single word was both a croak and a whisper, but very welcome.
"Yes. What do you need?" He was still supporting her in the crook of his arm.
She did not answer for a while. Then her tiny hands pulled her dress closed over her miniature breasts. "Were you looking?"
"Yes. Very pretty."
She smiled at that. "Why do you not open the door so I can see?"
"I'll have to lay you down."
She struggled feebly. "Cannot I sit?"
He eased her back so she could lean against the headboard,
then went and opened the door. Chabi came in with a rush, circled the room, and soared up to a rafter. Toby scooped up the fallen hat and blindfold and went back to kneel beside the bed and offer them to the shaman. "Feeling better?"
She hastened to cover her ruined eyes, but he took the chance to run fingers through her hair. Short though it was, it was thick, and its coarseness made it heavy and somehow sensuous. She smiled at him.
"Why do you look so worried?" She was flattered by his concern.
"Are you not my friend? Should I not then be worried?"
"Are you learning bad habits from me, answering questions with questions?"
"Probably. But since we are friends, will you not tell me the truth now? The prince did not send you. He's never heard of you, has he?"
She shook her head, apparently looking down at her knees.
"Then where did you come from?"
Her tiny hand tried to close on his huge one and settled for squeezing one finger. "How well do you know the Caucasus, Little One?"
"Only that it... er, they... they are very far away." He could ask Hamish. "How did you come?"
"When I arrived, was I not limping?"
"You walked? How long did it take you? Who sent you?"
She seemed willing to tell him her story now, but her inability to speak anything other than questions made the process difficult. As far as he could tell, she had walked for the best part of two years to reach Florence—or to reach him, for it seemed that he had been her goal. She must have set out about the time he arrived in Italy to become a soldier of fortune, and she had certainly been only a child then. Why? Because the spirits had called her, of course. Hamish had mentioned that shamans were always called; the spirits gave them no choice. Of her family or what had happened to her eyes she did not speak, and he did not ask.
"You must rest now," he said. "But one more question. Tonight you traveled in the spirit world. What did you find there?"
Her mouth twisted as if in pain. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Know you anthills, Little Boy? Myriads and myriads of ants? By a lake, do you see?" She moaned and swayed. He sat on the edge of the bed again and held her. She leaned into his bulk, seeking comfort. "You know Lemanus and the Mount of Jove, Little One?"
