The Years of Longdirk- The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  "No, senor, but I am even more grateful than I realized."

  Brusi's offer was certainly better than his father's had been, and much more appealing than Senora Collel's lascivious hints. The oak tree had fallen. Josep had escaped from his father's shadow and was starting to flourish already.

  He was not alone—unexpected death had given the whole band new life, a sense of comradeship. The men had shared in the digging, laying Salvador Brusi to rest by the roadside in an unmarked grave. Toby had put Hamish in charge of reloading the pack animals, and when he called a halt and announced that everything remaining must be left where it was or manhandled, there had not been one word of protest, even from Manuel and Rafael. Now everyone was chattering excitedly to everyone else. Long might it last!

  They did not go far that day, for they came upon a deserted casa. The unroofed walls still enclosed a courtyard that would hold both people and horses and could be defended if necessary. Toby proposed that they spend the night there, although the hour was not far past noon. The don frowned and then conceded that some of the auxiliaries might need time to reorganize.

  They built a fire and feasted together on horseflesh, tough, stringy, and delicious. Toby could not recall the last time he had eaten roast meat and tried not to recall the last time he had smelled it, in the orange grove. The ensuing luxury of just relaxing for a few hours was almost as welcome as the feast—his suggestion of a break from travel had been a good one for both people and horses. He had pickets to think about, of course, and he must insist on some more lessons in using quarter staffs ... later.

  In the lazy heat of late afternoon, he had two curious conversations.

  The first was when he was summoned by the don, who was sitting on a sawhorse stripped to his shirt so his squire could shave him.

  "Captain," he announced grandly, "I have decided to appoint you campeador of Nuñez y Pardo. Henceforth you will receive a one-twentieth share of the rewards. You may divide this with your own men or not, as you please."

  Toby thought he might feel very honored if he knew what a campeador was. He exchanged astonished glances with Doña Francisca, expressed humble thanks, and said, "What rewards, senor?"

  Mild surprise. "Plunder from the cities we sack, of course. And ransoms, when we grant quarter to persons of quality."

  "The hidalgo is most generous."

  "Not at all. You and your minions fought with distinction today." Don Roman shrugged, which almost caused his mother to cut his throat. "The musketry was perhaps not up to my usual standards. See that it improves."

  "Yes, senor." Was that madness in the blue eyes or mockery?

  "I have also," the don continued, "been considering our future campaigns when the Barcelona operation is completed. You are an Englishman?"

  "According to the English I am, senor. In Scotland we disagree on the matter."

  "But you do speak English?"

  What Toby called English the English called Scots, but the don was not waiting to know that. "Little better than I speak Castilian, senor."

  "That bad? But you are not a supporter of King Nevil?" The copper eyebrows rose inquiringly. Behind his shoulder. Doña Francisca was gaping. Whatever her son had in mind had not been shared with her.

  "No, senor. I despise him and detest him."

  "Ah." That was apparently welcome news. "But Barcelona is his."

  "I am only a landless freeman, senor. I cannot depose the master of half of Europe. Affairs of kings are not mine to question." The Earl of Argyll would not concede that he was even a freeman.

  "Hmm. Nevil's viceroy rules in Barcelona, the notorious Oreste." The don stared away at the bright courtyard and the blue sky overhead. "My own position is problematic. My estates lie in that part of La Mancha that King Pedro was forced to cede to the rebels. It would seem that my fealty now lies with King Nevil."

  Toby exchanged more puzzled glances with Doña Francisca.

  "I cannot presume to advise the honored hidalgo."

  The young man chuckled as if that were a ludicrous suggestion. He continued to study the skies, perhaps watching the lonely kites that had been passing overhead ever since the massacre. "Of course not. But tell me, Campeador ... You are a brave man, even if you are of insignificant birth. Have you ever considered the purpose of life? I realize that you cannot have the sense of honor and duty that your betters have, but you appear to have some sort of perception of ... well, manhood."

  "You flatter me, senor." You also confuse the blazes out of me.

  "And you must have a rudimentary concept of ethical principles."

  "I hope I do."

  "Have you ever contemplated the possibility of striking a great blow for righteousness?" The mad gaze turned back to Toby. "Of making some demonstration of your, um, manhood, that would make your life remembered, even at the cost of making it short? Of offering yourself as a sacrifice to a noble cause, in other words?"

  Could even Don Ramon imagine that he stood a chance against a paramount hexer like Oreste, with his demonic bodyguards? A bloody head rolled across the boards of the scaffold... .

  Toby took a moment to rein in stampeding thoughts. "If the cause were great enough and the chances of success reasonable, then any man should see it as his duty, senor."

  The don sneered and turned his head away, almost losing an ear to the razor. "Reasonable? What sort of quibble is that? Reasonable? Any slight possibility that it not be impossible should suffice. I see I misjudged you, Campeador. You may go."

  Toby was very glad to go. The don was not merely mad, he was dangerously mad.

  And so, perhaps, were certain others in the party. Hamish had been babbling strange nonsense about Gracia's injuries and recovery. Gracia herself had apparently accepted Don Ramon's view of the world, because she now spoke breathlessly of his vast estates and the high honor in which his friend the king held him—which confirmed that the noble lord's honor was distressingly malleable where women were concerned.

  And then there was Brother Bernat.

  It was time for a serious talk with Brother Bernat.

  Toby found him in a shaded corner behind a shed, sitting on the ground with his back turned, so that only his pink scalp with its downy fringe was visible—that and the gray cowl covering his narrow shoulders. In front of him lay a block of building stone like a low table, with Pepita on the far side of it, facing Toby but too engrossed to notice him. They were both very intent on something. It could only be some sort of child's game, yet their concentration was so intense that he hesitated to interrupt.

  Then he saw that the girl rested her hand on the stone with a crumb held in her tiny fingers. The minute brown speck creeping toward it over the gray stone was a mouse. Or perhaps it was a vole or a dormouse or something exclusively Spanish. It looked like a mouse, but it was displaying unmouselike courage, inching forward, nose and tail twitching. Toby, too, held his breath.

  The mouse came to a halt and stretched out like dough until its nose could inspect the crumb. Satisfied, it took a few more steps, and gently lifted the crumb from the child's fingertips, then sat up on its haunches to nibble at it. With agonizing slowness, she slid a finger around and stroked its back. Toby stared in disbelief.

  The spell broke. Mouse and crumb flashed away and were gone. An immense grin split Pepita's little elfin face from side to side. Her tiny fists clenched with glee and drummed on the stone. It had certainly been a remarkable trick.

  "I did it!" she whispered excitedly.

  "You did indeed," answered the old friar. "Very well done!"

  She looked up and gasped in dismay. Fear! Guilt!

  "It is only Captain Tobias," Brother Bernat said without turning. "He can be trusted."

  Toby stepped forward and sat down at the end of the big stone. He stared into those strangely clear eyes, dark agates in a face of ancient marble. "And how did you know it was me, Brother?"

  "I knew you would be at the corner, and I could see the angle of her head. No one else is so
tall."

  An unlikely explanation. There was much secret amusement in the old man's smile, but Pepita was staring anxiously at the big stranger.

  He said, "I should like to have a word with you if I may."

  "Have as many as you wish, my son. Don't mind Pepita. She doesn't gossip either." His voice was as soft as gossamer.

  "Some do." Toby cursed himself as soon as he said the words.

  A twinge of sorrow flashed over Bernat's face. "Whatever the senora said about me, she does not understand the truth of the situation." He had been put on the defensive, though, and that was disturbing.

  But Toby was feeling defensive, also. To hint at gossip was even worse than repeating it.

  "I put no stock in her babbling. What brings me is something that Hamish ... Jaume, that is ... Jaume insists that Senora de Gomez was seriously hurt when she fell from her horse today. This is not surprising, considering how high those seats are. He says she was unconscious, her face was flushed, her eyes were open and the pupils dilated. Her breath was harsh and irregular, her pulse very slow. He says these symptoms exactly match some that he once read about, so he knew she was very likely to die and he could nothing for her. He went to assist Senora Collel and found that she had escaped with a twisted ankle. The next time he looked at Senora de Gomez, you were helping to her feet. She was a little shaken but not badly hurt."

  Brother Bernat smiled again. How could anyone so old endure these long marches, these hardships, the alarms of today's battle, all without at least looking tired? But he never looked tired. He never ran around like a puppy either, but he was no fresher in the mornings than he was at night. And he rarely bore any expression other than a tolerant smile. He made Toby feel like an obstreperous, bad-mannered child.

  "Sergeant Jaume must have made an error, you mean? This disturbs you. Is he prone to errors?" The smile widened, displaying very white teeth—apparently a complete set, too.

  "He is not prone to errors. I am disinclined to believe he made one today."

  The friar looked at Pepita, who returned his smile hesitantly. When he spoke, though, he was plainly addressing Toby.

  "And you decided it was time for a serious chat with the old man?"

  Suppressing a bad-mannered, obstreperous desire to growl, Toby said, "Yes I did, Brother."

  Brother Bernat turned to him again, but this time he was not smiling. "I am sorry if my manners annoy you, my son. I have had them so long that they are hard to change, but I know that I tend to counter questions with other questions. I have wandered the world a long time, and it is a dangerous place. One learns discretion or one stops wandering."

  "I have no wish to pry!" That was a lie.

  "You have a right to pry, because the security of all of us rests on your judgment. I think I can help you with your problem, Tobias."

  Toby flinched. "My problem?"

  The smile crept back, but there was no mirth in it. An attempt at reassurance, perhaps. Sympathy, possibly. "I have no problem except my manners. But you do. You ask questions, I answer with other questions, and you don't answer at all, which is your right. But it gets us nowhere. I think I can help you, but only if you will tell me the whole story. Everything." There was Toledo steel inside that cobwebby exterior.

  "I—"

  "You are not ready to do that, so it will have to wait. But don't wait too long, please. The sands will run out quickly once they start to go." He lifted a pale and slender hand to indicate he had not finished. His eyes bore their disturbing stare again, as if he were looking inside Toby's head. "Just answer me one thing, my son. How long has it been?"

  "I don't have the faintest idea what ... Three years, Brother."

  The friar winced as if that news was disastrous. "So you were what, sixteen? Seventeen?"

  "Eighteen." They were talking about the hob, although Toby had no idea how that had come into the conversation. It was the last thing he ever discussed.

  Brother Bernat shook his head in dismay. "You have done very well to last as long as you have, then. Don't wait much longer, Tobias, please!"

  He was crazier than the don, that was all.

  "Wait for what? What do you mean about doing well to last?"

  The clear dark eyes told him his denials did not convince.

  "You are going to go insane very shortly. I think you know that, and know what will follow. It is amazing that you have lasted so long. I am surprised it did not happen today in the turmoil of the fight. You must have nerves like granite, my son."

  Toby made half a move to rise and then hesitated. "I don't know what you mean, Brother."

  "Fear, Tobias. Or rage. Hatred." The dark eyes widened. "Any sort of strong passion. You must avoid them. Great remorse, also."

  Mezquiriz? He could not know about Mezquiriz! He must not know about Mezquiriz!

  Toby jumped up and strode away, and if that was not rage he was feeling, it was fear.

  3

  The room was dim, with walls and floor of dark stone and a heavy-beamed ceiling high enough to be lost in shadow. Its stifling heat came from a fireplace at one end, which provided almost as much light as the two small, high-set windows at the other. Three men garbed in the simple brown hose and doublets of common workers waited patiently at the cool end. They were all burly and muscular, but nothing else could be known about them, for their heads were concealed in black bags. Once in a while one of them would move so that a glitter of eyes showed behind the eye holes.

  A table along one side bore two tall candlesticks and a green crucifix inlaid with colored jewels, too large to be anything but colored glass. Behind the table sat three elderly men in the white supplicars and black robes of Dominicans, the Black Friars, all with their hoods back to display their tonsures, all sweating profusely. The one on the left fumbled endlessly through a pile of papers and parchments. The one on the right kept scribbling in a large book, recording the proceedings with a quill pen that he dipped from time to time in a silver inkwell. Two shaven-head novices stood at the door opposite.

  In the exact center of the room hung a rope.

  On one side of it stood a soldier holding a musket erect beside him, and he must be the most uncomfortable person present, because he wore a thickly-padded blue doublet, black breeches, and a polished wide-brimmed helmet, and was burdened with sword, ramrod, slow match, powder horn, shot bag, and the other paraphernalia of the professional military. He looked utterly miserable, as if this was one of the worst days of his life, and perhaps more than the heat was responsible for that.

  On the other side of the rope stood Toby, stinking of his jail cell. He was trying to hold up his head with a show of courage he did not feel while he glared stubbornly at the friar in the center, the one in charge, the inquisitor.

  His name was Father Vespianaso. He was a frail-seeming, elderly man, with thin white stubble around his tonsure, thick black eyebrows, and a close-trimmed, piebald beard. His eyes were red-rimmed and droopy, full of such sadness that they must have viewed all the sorrows of the world. A sagging blister of flesh under each of them was the only padding on his face, which otherwise was only a skull wrapped in skin so dry that it seemed ready to crack and flake away completely.

  He looked up from the document he had been reading for the last ten minutes.

  "Is the accused now ready to disavow his demon and reveal its name so that it may be cast out?"

  Toby understood most of the proceedings and knew that particular question by heart, but the Inquisition had its rules, and the presence of an interpreter during the examination of foreigners was one of them. He waited until the soldier translated.

  "The inquisitor asks if the accused is now ready to disavow his demon and reveal its name so that it may be cast out." His English was not much easier to understand than the original Castilian. His vivid blue eyes stared fixedly ahead, as if trying to see through the prisoner's chest.

  "Tell him I do not have a demon."

  The friar had heard that familiar protes
t many times during the last four days. "Tobias, Tobias!" He shook his head sadly. "If the accused will not confess, he must be put to the Question."

  Toby understood that only too well. Examination of a suspect went through clearly defined stages. They had begun three days ago in a cheerful, airy room upstairs. The questioning had grown steadily harsher and more menacing until, at the end of yesterday's session, they had brought him down to this cellar and shown him the whips and branding irons, the pulleys in the ceiling, the runnels for water torture, and the ladder-like grid to which the victim would be tied during their use. Today they had brought him straight to this chamber, where the fire was already lit and the three tormentors waited. That had been at least two hours ago. So far the tormentors had done nothing more than stoke the fire.

  What was the question this time? Didn't matter.

  "I do not have a demon. If I did, how could I possibly cast it out? Does he think I would voluntarily harbor a demon? Does he think such a demon would tell me its name? I do not have a demon!"

  No demon, no name. Of course the hob would count as a demon in the inquisitors' eyes—at times Toby himself found the distinction fuzzy.

  There was no way out of this trap. They had explained it to him many times, being patient, aggressive, understanding, and menacing by turns. A demon could only be controlled by its name, so the accused must reveal it. If he refused, he must be forced to comply. If he still would not talk or did not know the demon's name, then the demon must be driven out of him by making it suffer. That, unfortunately, meant making the accused suffer, but suffering was better than possession, wasn't it? Supposedly an incarnate would keep its husk alive, or at least operational, indefinitely. The only way a man could prove that he was not possessed was to die.

  Another question.

  Same answer: "I do not have a demon!" He must keep to the same answer. How much did they know? How sure were they? Demons could detect the hob in him, so was the inquisitor himself possessed? A demon looking for employment would find nothing more congenial to its tastes than being an officer of the Inquisition. But it didn't matter whether they were guessing or certain or had just chosen him at random. Once they started asking questions, they could never admit they had picked on the wrong man. There was no escape.