Demon Knight

by Ken Hood

  —|—

  Within the grim-faced block, Hamish found a less exuberant mood. Oh, the bunting and decorations were breathtaking, the women's gowns astounding, their jewels celestial, and the orchestra Elysian. No conceivable extravagance had been overlooked. Each guest on entering was presented with a medallion displaying the Marradi arms impaled with the lion rampant of England, all set in gems. Other rich gifts would undoubtedly be distributed several times during the course of the celebration, and the meal would include twenty or more courses, each with its own wine. A hundred artists had labored on grotesque conceits around the courtyard, heraldic animals and mythological beasts taller than a man.

  All the same, the attendance was small, perhaps forty, and most of the revelers were the innermost of the innermost circle, the Marradi family en masse. They knew that all was not well. They were going to deny it for a few hours, but they must know that the next party they attended might be hosted by the Fiend, who had gruesome ways of entertaining important captives. Their jollity had a brittle ring to it.

  Lisa? Hamish peered anxiously around the courtyard, but there was as yet no sign of the bride or her mother.

  The Magnificent welcomed each arriving guest with smiles and laughter, and for once he was dressed as a dandy in multicolored splendor. Give him his due, he did not look forty. That did not mean he looked young enough to marry Lisa. He greeted Toby as "comandante," then smiled as if that had been a slip of the tongue. "We are especially overjoyed by your noble presence, for it confirms that you have already taken all the steps necessary to secure the safety of the city."

  Toby's Italian still made the natives wince, but it no longer reduced them to tears. "I left everyone enough work to keep them busy for an hour or two, Your Magnificence. You will excuse my rudeness if duty calls me away before the end of the festivities?"

  Sartaq was close to upstaging Marradi, garbed like a peacock and chattering in urgent Italian, hands swooping like summer swallows. His mustache had disappeared some weeks ago, so only his eyes and the color of his skin seemed in any way alien. Judging by the pride of lionesses around him, he was still making husbands nervous.

  And Lucrezia of course. She triumphed over her years and, in the absence of Lisa, was a clear first in the courtyard for beauty. Toby bowed low to kiss her fingers. She did not wait to acknowledge Hamish at his side before flashing her spite like a rapier.

  "Welcome, Sir Tobias. It is kind of you to put aside your personal sorrows and join our celebration."

  Toby's puzzled expression made him seem close to half-witted. "Sorrows, madonna? My only sorrow is that it is so long since I have had the pleasure of looking upon your glorious self."

  The funny thing was that the great lummox genuinely thought he didn't know how to handle women. Most of them fell on their knees as he went by, and he could knock the rest over with a smile.

  Lucrezia was not quite so easy, though. She smiled disbelievingly. "I confess that the lady still speaks of you often, but I'm sure she will grow out of that once she has a husband to comfort her."

  Hamish quelled a murderous impulse. Toby just smiled blandly.

  "Not even a rightful-born queen could ask for a nobler husband than your magnificent brother, duchessa." His eyes were innocent as owls'.

  A puzzled frown disturbed the baby smoothness of Lucrezia's brow. "And you must just learn to live with a broken heart!"

  "You shattered it the first day we met, madonna."

  Then it happened. A trumpet brayed. Sartaq, having left the courtyard unseen, made a grand return entrance, escorting Lisa and her mother. By cruel chance, the door they used was right where Lucrezia and the two mercenaries were standing and partially blocked by an enormous phoenix of fabric and paper. Lisa came around the beast and face-to-face with Hamish. She halted so suddenly that the prince stumbled and her mother almost ran into her.

  He dreamed of her every night and thought of her from dawn till dusk. He knew every eyelash, the two tiny moles by her lips, the little fleck of silver in her right eye, and yet in a month he had forgotten how beautiful she was. In her wedding gown she was unbelievably, epically gorgeous. The famous Marradi rubies burned at her throat like arterial blood.

  They stared at each other for an age, a blink, a thousand years, a trice.

  "Oh, madonna!" he said. "Will you topple the towers of Troy again?"

  "Master Campbell..." Then she was walking on with the prince and her mother, and the moment had ended.

  As Hamish returned to reality he realized that the Duchess of Ferrara was staring at him with a look that made his whole body cringe. "You?" she said, and the flames in her regard might be disbelief or incipient murder or both.

  Toby was laughing! "Of course him! You didn't think she hankered after me, did you, monna? Great clumsy me?"

  No! Hamish thought. No, Toby! Whatever you do, don't ever laugh at Lucrezia Marradi! Better to poke your finger in a lion's eye.

  But the damage, whatever it might be, was already done.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Toby was seated between young Guilo Marradi and one of the token English guests, Sir John Whitemouth, who had been knighted on the field of Rioz by Lisa's great-grandfather. He was certainly the deafest man north of Sicily, and his conversational skills were further restricted by a total lack of teeth. Hamish was at the far end of the long table, while Sartaq held place of honor in the center. The bridegroom had a chair at the ladies' table, with his back to the men's.

  Lisa in white shone with an ethereal beauty like pearls or moonlight, which was accentuated by the blood fire of her rubies. She was putting on a fine performance, chattering glibly with her neighbors—Marradi across the table, her mother and Lucrezia flanking her—as if she had been married a dozen times. Blanche looked as if she had died of some wasting sickness and found her smiles in the charnel house. Lucrezia kept staring at Toby and glancing away quickly every time he noticed, so he was certainly not back in her good books, if she had any.

  The two long, white-damasked tables were separated by a gap wide enough for the double line of servants who paraded in with every course. The meal began with wine, antipasto, and speeches. The first orations had been assigned to junior Marradis. Guilo went second and did a workmanlike job, invoking so many classical authorities to bless the union that Toby understood barely a word of it. Important people would speak later. An orchestra tuned up and began. He swallowed a yawn and an olive and turned to bellow something trivial in Whitemouth's ancient ear.

  Course followed course, armies of footmen parading in to place a golden bowl in front of each diner simultaneously. Toby had met this conceit before at banquets and considered it needlessly embarrassing, because it forced everyone to eat roughly the same amount. With his appetite, he preferred the standard custom where each diner ladled out whatever he needed from a common dish onto a trencher of hard bread. Gold tableware made the food cold before it even arrived, and he could not wipe his fingers on it.

  Whitemouth passed him the goblet, a servant filled it with wine, he drained it, and passed the goblet on to Guilo. In a little while it came around again. Servants removed one course, offered washing water and towels for sticky hands, brought another. After the carp, each guest was presented with an enameled rose; after the capon, a silver inkstand bearing the entwined insignia of the bride and groom.

  Then a steward brought in a splendid golden chalice inset with jewels and paraded it along each table in turn. The Magnificent filled it with wine and carried it across to the men's table to present to the prince. Sartaq rose and drank while the company applauded.

  A few moments later Marradi performed the same ceremony with another goblet, this time giving it to his bride. After the roast swan, all the guests were presented with fur-trimmed cloaks. And so it went: food, wine, speeches, gifts, and music, followed by more food, wine, speeches, gifts, and music. Toby wondered how large a sack he would have to carry away with him and what he would do with the stuff.

 
Tomorrow the war.

  The marriage was not forgotten. A nervous notary read out the betrothal agreement, and the couple acknowledged that they had confirmed their intentions before the tutelary in the sanctuary. An hour or so later the marriage contract was read and then signed, with the prince standing in for Lisa's father. Toby was glad he could not see Hamish.

  Lucrezia was still lobbing calculating glares in his direction. He should not have laughed at her. Had her misapprehension been encouraged by Lisa? A girl who could tell her mother that Hamish was the son of an earl was capable of just about anything.

  He would really enjoy eight hours' solid sleep. A tiled floor like this one would do.

  More toasts, more costly goblets.

  More food, wine, speeches, gifts.

  Sir John, who drank better than he could eat, launched into a long, damp dissertation on the evils of guns and how they had ruined warfare. His English was less intelligible than Guilo's Italian.

  Then came a brief ceremony in which the groom placed a ring on Lisa's finger. Oh, poor Hamish!

  "Is that the end?" Toby asked. "Are they married now?" He ought to be out on the battlements watching the disaster unfold, except that he had already done everything he possibly could.

  "Not quite," Guilo said. "We see them to the chamber door. As soon it shuts, they're considered married."

  "Seems a little hasty. He'll need at least fifteen minutes at his age."

  Guilo had been drinking heavily. He found that remark so hilarious that he had a coughing fit, and then had to whisper the joke to his other neighbor. While it was going on down the table, he turned back to Toby to explain how the bride and groom would complete the ceremonies by visiting the sanctuary next morning as husband and wife. In this case, that would be when the prince would recognize Cousin Pietro as King of England, Ireland, and other barbarous places.

  Assuming Nevil's ghouls had not broken through the gates by then.

  Toby fidgeted, wondering how the war was going. The sun no longer shone into the courtyard. Servants removed the canopies over the tables. He should return to duty, although there was no reasonable chance that Nevil would be in a position to attack before tomorrow at the earliest. Sartaq would undoubtedly speak at some point in the evening. He should wait for that.

  Another glittering goblet was paraded along the tables. Who was going to be the lucky one this time? Marradi took the goblet, filled it, and rose to his feet. He was pinker than usual, but so was everyone after all the food and wine. "Your Highness, my lords..."

  Obviously it was to be Toby himself. He gritted his teeth, wondering what he could possibly say in his response. A few words of thanks were customary, but they would want more than that from him. What was there to say—that he was sorry? That they had entrusted their city to the wrong man? That he would have tried to do better next time but there wasn't going to be a next time? Try to lay the blame on Marradi himself and the Khan's son?

  Now the Magnificent walked across, but he did not at once give Toby the goblet. Smiling, he looked around to include the ladies, then spoke to the men. "This is an unusual announcement at a wedding, friends, but in this case a very appropriate one. You all know that the Chevalier D'Anjou was wounded in battle and is now reported to have died, although that has not been confirmed. In his place, with the permission and enthusiastic agreement of His Highness, in my capacity of suzerain for His Majesty Ozberg Khan the Glorious, I name Sir Tobias Longdirk comandante in capo of all loyal armies in Italy, and charge him to drive the rebel forces from the land!"

  What a good idea! It came three months too late, though.

  Loud applause. One or two of the men were drunk enough to cheer. Toby rose and leaned across the table to accept the gift. It was heavier than he expected, his fingers were still greasy from the lamb ragout... or perhaps he felt a prickle of warning from the hob. Whatever the reason, he dropped the cup. It hit the board between him and Marradi and exploded rich red wine all over the Magnificent. He fell back with a cry of anger.

  Somebody screamed very shrilly.

  Marradi wiped his eyes with a sleeve, waving his other hand for a towel as servants came running to assist. He dropped his arms and gaped incredulously at Toby... slid limply to his knees... toppled facedown... and lay there, motionless.

  Many people screamed then. Guilo and even old Whitemouth leaped to their feet, knocking over their stools in their haste to get as far as possible from the scarlet stains on the white cloth. Prince Sartaq vaulted nimbly over the table and was the first to reach the corpse. He knelt to see, but he did not touch it. Several Tartar guards came roaring into the courtyard, with two shamans at their backs. Screaming, shouting, and hysteria.

  Toby said nothing, did nothing. That was more than poison. That wine had been hexed. That was supposed to be him lying there.

  "Silence!" Sartaq was on his feet, and his bellow echoed over the tumult. Despite his youth, his voice had a royal resonance that compelled respect. He pointed at the women, who were all on their feet by now. "Which of you screamed first? Who was it?"

  In the icy moment of horror while the accusation gelled, all faces turned to face one face.

  "Lucrezia!" Lisa shouted, backing away.

  "Lucrezia!" said another.

  Lucrezia shrank as if she were arching her back like a cat. She raised a clawed hand to her mouth, gabbled a command, and was gone, vanished as she had vanished when the statue fell on the night of the Carnival Ball. More screams. Women swooned. Men rushed around the ends of the tables to reach them and comfort them. The shamans began thumping their drums, either exorcising the poison or trying to locate the culprit. An ashen-faced Hamish had his arms around the widow, who was clinging to him fiercely and sobbing on his chest. That was not going to reduce the scandal any.

  The Magnificent was dead. Florence had no ruler.

  The suzerain was dead.

  The Fiend was outside the walls.

  "Longdirk!" Sartaq roared.

  "Your Highness?"

  "Did you mean to do that?"

  "No, Your Grace. I didn't know. It slipped through my fingers." Was that true? Had he been incredibly lucky or had the hob saved him?

  The prince stared very hard at him, as if trying to read his thoughts. "Very well. Your appointment stands, comandante. Go and attend to your duties. Go and save the city."

  Where had this vibrant royal leader come from? Why hadn't he appeared months ago, when there had still been time to save the city?

  Hamish was still consoling Lisa.

  Toby bowed and hurried from the courtyard.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  He commandeered a Marradi horse and galloped through streets darkened by evening shadows but still breathlessly hot. An ominous hush had settled over Florence. The revelers had dispersed—many to the sanctuary to pray, no doubt, and others to the walls or bell towers to watch the Fiend's armies digging in. The shock of the Magnificent's death was still to come.

  In the stable yard he hit the ground running, yelling for Smeòrach to be made ready even as he dived through the low door into the inn itself. Brother Bartolo was holding court there at a table littered with papers and several abacuses; clerks and pages were streaming in and out the front door like ants provisioning their nest. "Report!" Toby roared, and went up the stairs at a rush, which risked breaking an ankle or stunning himself on the beams, but he made it to the top safely and ran along the gallery, hauling off his doublet. Shirt and hose followed it as soon as he was in his room; he grabbed up the fighting garments he had left there ready: shirt, breeches, padded jerkin.

  Floorboards creaked outside, then Bartolo's great bulk filled the doorway. His normally rubicund face was pale as parchment.

  "Well?" Toby demanded, stamping his feet into riding boots.

  "Two hundred and three thousand. Still coming."

  "From Lucca, too? Well, they won't be much good for a few days." Nevil's fondness for exhausting his armies with inhuman marches would betray hi
m sooner or later—but not this time, because there was no enemy to oppose him. "You can stop counting now. Did you organize the bell towers?"

  "We have reliable watchers in every campanile, and a sharp-eyed youngster as well. If they try any sort of sneak attack anywhere, the nearest bells will start ringing. The guards on the walls have been told how to use the bells to call for help."

  "Good work. Put the criers into the streets right away—I've been appointed comandante in capo."

  The friar beamed. "Well, that is certainly the best—"

  Toby buckled on his sword. "And the Magnificent is dead."

  Bartolo's gurgle of horror was a fair warning of how Florentines would react. Florence without a Marradi to run it was unthinkable, and there was no obvious heir ready to take over.

  "What? How?"

  "Murdered. Announce my appointment first!" Toby squeezed around him to reach the door. "Keep the other thing under your"—he ran along the gallery—"cowl!" He avalanched down the stairs. Clerks scattered out of his way like chickens.

  —|—

  He rode first to the Porta al Prato, near the stadium, which was an obvious site for an attack and close to where he guessed the army from Lucca would have pitched camp. The myriad campfires starting to shine in the gathering dusk showed him that his instincts had been correct. Nor was he alone in his inferences, for there he found Antonio Diaz.

  The Catalan was haggard with exhaustion, but his dogged confidence had inspired his troops. The cheers with which they greeted Toby were both gratifying and appalling, so he did not know whether to weep or clap his hands over his ears and scream. Instead of doing either, he made a rousing speech from Smeòrach's back. What lies he told hardly mattered, because he kept twisting his head around to speak to everyone, and also his horse was very restless, clattering hooves on the cobbles all the time. Besides, his accent was so bad that no one would be able to catch much of what he said, but they cheered him again anyway, even louder. It was bad enough that he was condemning most of these men to die, but far worse that he must deceive them into thinking their deaths would serve some useful purpose.