by Dave Duncan
Toby felt no relief when the flat-topped towers of Barcelona came into view at last. They were impressive, no doubt, but they reminded him of tombstones. When the wagon rumbled through the north gate, he thought of prison. The fine buildings with their grand arches and stairways made him wonder which was Josep's and what it would have been like to be born rich, to have grown up with a family and servants, never being cold or hungry.
Morning crowds in the street cleared hastily out of the troopers' path and gaped at the ominous captives in their iron crate. A few children screamed insults and daringly threw filth, but there was no riot. The wagon rumbled unmolested along the Portal Nou to the center of the city and the Palau Reial. There, in the courtyard, the cage was unlocked. Toby emerged first to make the awkward descent from the wagon, but he was so cold, bruised, and exhausted that he hardly cared where he was or what was happening. He wondered if Baron Oreste was watching his prize being delivered and gloating over the precious amethyst.
An escort of soldiers, friars, and anonymous laymen urged him forward. Head down, he shuffled and jingled along in his chains, going where he was directed, doing what he was told. Soon he was struggling down steps and the air was foul with the fumes of candles and rushlights. He assumed he would never see daylight again.
Déjà vu arrived only when he staggered into the crypt itself. The thick pillars and slimy walls were at once familiar: stench of rot, writhing shadows, instruments of torture, the great rack halfway along on the right ... He was returning to a place he had been before, although never in this reality. So certain was he that he knew where to go that he blundered straight ahead when he was supposed to turn, and the guards jostled him hard enough that he almost fell. They led him to some moldy straw, and he sank down on it with a sensation of infinite relief. Just to sit on rotting straw and lean back against wet stonework was pure heaven after so many hours of being churned in a metal box, and much better than being spread-eagled on the wall like a tapestry. A rusty iron collar was locked around his neck and chained to a shackle.
He could not stop shivering; if he was really lucky, he would die of pneumonia. The soldiers went marching out, but the place was not dark yet—Father Vespianaso and four other friars remained, watching him. He wished they would go away and give him some peace so he could sleep. With a sigh he reached deep inside himself to find some remnants of defiance.
"Gloating, are you?"
The old man shook his head sadly. "No, my son. Any servant of the Inquisition who gloats is dismissed instantly. I am feeling sorrow for your obduracy and the sad pass the demon has brought you to. I am wondering how I may best aid you in driving it out."
"That sounds like gloating to me." He was alone! "Where is my friend? Where is Jaume?"
"He has been confined elsewhere."
Toby's spirits sank a notch lower—he would never see Hamish again! He had been counting on having company to support him in his ordeal and hoping he might be able to comfort Hamish in his. They had guessed that and would not allow it. Obviously this crypt must be warded against demons; they need not take such precautions with Hamish
"We have sent for dry clothes," Father Vespianaso said. "If you cause trouble we shall leave you as you are, but we have no wish to ruin your health."
"You have every intention of ruining my health. You just intend to do it personally, that's all."
"It is the demon that makes you think that. Believe me, my son, you will come to thank us for what we do. You will beg us to increase our efforts to aid you. Meanwhile, do you want the garments or not?"
Dry clothes? What did they feel like? It was hard to remember. To accept such a favor would probably put him deeper into his captors' power, but the temptation was too strong to resist. Angry at his own weakness, Toby said, "Yes, please."
He was very nearly asleep when servants arrived with the garments. His wrists and ankles were unshackled, but they left the collar on his neck. He stripped and was given a coarse towel to use, then a shirt, hose, doublet, no jerkin, and all the time the friars stood and stared at him like black owls until they could chain his limbs again. Yet to be dry in the torture chamber was better than being in a cage in the rain. He would soon learn to be satisfied with even lesser pleasures.
"Food? Water?"
"Water. No food."
At long last they went away and let him sleep. His last conscious thought was that they were passing up a wonderful opportunity. If they began their tormenting while he was in this tumbledown state they would soon have him weeping like a baby. The only reason they were not doing so, he assumed, was that Baron Oreste had reserved first crack at him.
2
He had no way of knowing how long he slept, but it could only have been an hour or two. Many times he jerked awake, or partly awake—wondering where he was, why it was so dark, who was on watch, why he was so sore and so cold, what had just run over his feet. Once or twice he heard faint noises, probably just rats, although there was no reason why there might not be other captives in this dungeon. Poor devils.
Lanterns being hung on sconces shocked him to alertness and instant terror. They were about to start! He sat up in a clatter of chains, scraping neck and wrists on rusty metal, finding only a soldier laying a pitcher and a bowl within his reach; and then, as his eyes adjusted to the painful dazzle, Captain Diaz standing farther back, regarding him impassively. The other man marched away, leaving just the two of them.
"Good morning," Toby mumbled. "Or is it evening?"
"Eat. Eat quickly"
Must keep the victim's strength up. Busy day ahead? Toby reached for the bowl. It contained a sour, coarse gruel, but even that was welcome, and he began to scoop handfuls into his mouth. He was stiff with cold and ached all over from his battering in the cage.
"Where is my friend Jaume?"
Diaz shrugged. "He needn't worry for a while yet. It takes them months to prepare a case like his."
"How about my case?"
The captain shrugged again. "The viceroy is coming to see you. That's why you haven't got long to eat."
Toby scooped faster. "When are they going to start on me?" he mumbled with his mouth full.
"You really want to know that?" Diaz was probably breaking major regulations by speaking with a convicted husk like this. There was a decent man behind that dour expression.
"Yes. Yes, even if you tell me they're on their way, I'd like to know."
"As soon as they can. As soon as the baron gives them leave. In a hour or so, probably."
Toby almost choked and had to gulp down some water. Very bad news! "What's their hurry?" He filled his mouth again, although fear had knotted up his gut.
"You want to know that too?"
"Mm."
"They summoned their two best tormentors from Toledo. They've been waiting here for a week."
"I'm honored."
"I'm not." Diaz turned on his heel and headed for the door. Give him his due, the captain disliked his duties and was not afraid to show it.
Toby peered around the dungeon, realizing he had been tethered where he had a clear view across at the rack. The rack was said to be even worse than the strappado, although he found that hard to believe. Off to his right stood a horizontal beam on four legs. The Spanish horse, they called that—sit a man on it and tie weights to his feet. Braziers, metal chairs, thumbscrews. Life would not lack for variety. Perhaps he should have settled for the exorcism. No. Better him here than Gracia. Better to die as a man than live as a sheep. But how long would he remain a man? What would they turn him into with their unending ... ? And there was one of the horrors now, a black-robed figure walking in silence on the far side of the rack. His hood was up, and he seemed to be inspecting the equipment, because he was not looking at the prisoner. Toby wondered if he could throw his bowl accurately enough to hit the bugger and reluctantly decided that he could not. It was worth more as breakfast than a missile, anyway. He ate every scrap of the slop and sucked his fingers. They would be han
d-feeding him soon.
Two men arrived carrying a table and set it down a couple of paces in front of the prisoner. One of them was Oreste's valet, the silent blond Ludwig. They left without as much as a glance at him.
Why a table?
Gramarye? Déjà vu: another table in another dungeon. Valda had used a table to hold her equipment on that long-ago night when she tried to conjure Nevil's soul into Toby Strangerson and so began all his present troubles. Then he had been staked out on the floor while her four creatures stood around him holding candles. The hob had rescued him then and the hob had escaped from this crypt before—or had it? He didn't know the answer to that question, because he had not seen the end of the story; he did not know when the hob had made its move to reverse history. It could have happened days or weeks later.
Footsteps coming, but in a rhythmic military stride, not the shuffle of the friars. He had never thought he would ever be glad to see Oreste or Oreste's men, but anyone would be better than the black-robed horrors. It was not Oreste, though, not yet. It was Diaz back with three soldiers.
Toby said, "My compliments to the cook, Captain. Traditionally the condemned man should eat a hearty breakfast. That wasn't it, though." Was humor in such a situation courage or cowardice? Was he just babbling to hide the terror gnawing at his soul?
Diaz certainly saw nothing to laugh at, but then he probably never would. "We have to move you. Will you cooperate or make us use force?"
"Oh, I'll cooperate," Toby said. "I bruise easily, you know. I have a very tender skin." Pride would not let him ask where they were going to move him. To the rack? Oreste might be planning to engage in a little torture himself, but a hexer should scorn such primitive methods. It would be out of character for the effete baron to stoop to personal violence, wouldn't it? Even if he had ordered the babies burned in Zaragoza.
Diaz remained unamused. "Take off the collar, free his hands."
As two men attended to that, the third moved the water pitcher and slop bucket out of harm's way and put the empty bowl on the table. Ludwig appeared in silence and laid a small ironbound chest beside it, then withdrew as quietly as he had come.
"Stand up," Diaz said. "Take off your shirt."
Toby bit his lip and obeyed. While he was unfastening his doublet, he discovered that he was out of witticisms. All the signs were pointing to major gramarye ahead, and he had not anticipated that. Was this where he was turned into the devoted slave who had chopped off Hamish's head? No, he must not rely on his visions as guides to what to expect. They were not prophetic. Conditions had changed this time. Tortosa was different. Going to Montserrat was different. Both he and Hamish were prisoners of the Inquisition this time, and even Oreste could not extract them from that situation—except by major gramarye, of course.
Wait and see.
His arms and chest were covered with bruises. He threw away his shirt, expecting to be told to lie down, but he was made to stand against the wall and spread his feet as wide as he could. They threaded the chains from his wrists over pulleys and hauled his arms out sideways and overhead until the manacles bit into his flesh. When they had finished he was spread-eagled against the icy, slimy stonework. It was worse than he had foreseen in his vision, for this time he had no freedom of movement at all.
Suddenly he realized that the hexer himself was standing beside the table, watching the procedure with slitted eyes. Déjà vu again: red velvet cloak, puffed and slashed jerkin of blue and gold, crimson tights—that must be his dungeon-visiting costume—jewel-headed cane, golden hair net, wide, flat hat shadowing the lardy face, torso grotesquely inflated by the overstuffed costume, scarlet lips. The second most evil man in Europe. Or the most evil, if one remembered that Nevil was not human.
Diaz must have seen something change in Toby's face, because he turned. He saluted. "Your Excellency, the prisoner has been secured as you instructed."
"Good. Go. Lock the door. I am not to be disturbed until I knock, Captain. Not by anyone. Not for any reason whatsoever. Is that clear?"
"Yes, your Excellency."
The soldiers left without waiting for orders, moving with a haste that suggested they were terrified of the viceroy. The captain followed at a regulation pace. He had gone only a few paces when Oreste picked up the dirty bowl that had been left on his table and threw it after him. It missed, hit the floor, shattered in an echoing crash. Even the impassive Diaz jumped and reached for his sword. The soldiers spun around. Two of them were hidden from Toby by a pillar, but he saw the expression of sick terror that came over the third one's face as he realized what had happened. Someone would have to be flogged for that oversight.
"Out!" roared the baron. His Excellency was in a very bad temper.
Any faster and their march would have been a run.
Oreste scowled after them until the great door shut with a crash that echoed in waves around and around the crypt. When it had faded into silence, he raised his left hand to his mouth. "Rigomage per nominem tuum ... " He turned around to his right. " ... igne et tempestate impero ... " He turned to his left. " ... fiat lux." And again to his left. At once the blocks of the barrel-vaulted ceiling began to glow with the pale gentle lavender light that Toby remembered from the vision, growing rapidly brighter until the entire crypt was clearly illuminated and he had to screw up his eyes until they could adjust to the glare.
The hexer was taking a risk, surely, in letting his victim hear the name of one of his demons? Did that mean that Toby would not live to repeat it to anyone, or just that Oreste knew he did not understand Latin? Oh, if only Hamish were there! He would have been able to tell the conjuration controlling the demon from the command it had been given. But if he were there he would undoubtedly be chained to the wall, too, and hence unable to perform the actions that were required by the ritual.
Oreste minced around the end of the table and peered up at his captive with a plump smile. "I am, of course, Karl Fischart, Baron Oreste of Utrecht, currently his Universal Majesty's viceroy for Aragon." He bowed.
"I am Longdirk."
"Yes. I knew that already, actually. You are even bigger than I expected. You don't look as frightened as you should be."
"I'm quite stupid. I expect you will educate me."
The baron stared at him for a moment and then uttered a childish titter. He turned to lay his cane on the table. "No, you are not stupid, Tobias. You are the wiliest and most resourceful opponent I have ever encountered. Oh, I suppose a few others like the late and unlamented Lady Valda have held me at bay for longer, but she had infinitely greater resources than you. You had only your native wits and an astonishing resilience. I truly regret that our long contest must end so tragically for you." He opened the chest on the table. "I have long dreamed of conscripting you as an ally—with gramarye, of course. I would not insult you by suggesting you would ever aid me voluntarily, but any man can be hexed into cooperation. Alas, that will not be possible."
So one outcome had been eliminated, and if it had been the worst that Toby had feared, that probably just showed how limited his imagination was.
The baron began removing objects from the chest and setting them on the table: a silver chalice, a dagger, two candlesticks. "Ah, excuse me! I tend to forget that your remarkable calm stems from courage and not stupidity. I give you my solemn assurance that you are not going to suffer the fate that the odious Vespianaso is planning for you."
Toby licked dry lips. "That is welcome news, Excellency. Will I be pleased when I hear the alternative?"
"No, but it is better. Truly, Tobias, I would spare you if I could, but I have my orders. This is a mercy is it not?" The baron paused in his business and peered across the table with his tiny eyes.
"If you gave me the choice I would take that, yes."
Nodding as if reassured, the hexer continued his preparations, laying out glass vials, a parchment scroll, a mortar and pestle ... the casket of carved ivory. "You have nothing more to fear except a few minutes' suspense wh
ile I get ready, and the trivial indignity of having some arcane sigils drawn on your chest."
Dignity? What need had a man tied to a slimy stone wall with his hose settled down around his hips to worry about dignity? And yet he was trying very hard not to jangle his chains as cold and fear made him shiver. Twenty-one was young to die. He had hoped to live twice that long. Some men even reached fifty, although that was rare.
"I shall not be sorry to cheat the Inquisition."
"Ach!" said the baron. "I disapprove of the Inquisition, I really do. I find their practices obscene. I am not an evil man by nature, you know. I never wanted to be anything more than a humble scholar. All the vast knowledge of gramarye and conjuration I gathered I never used for any wicked purposes. I had a European reputation as a man of lore and wanted only to be honored for that." But this soft-spoken, pudgy gentleman was the monster who had sacked Zaragoza, an ogre with a reputation for savagery second only to that of the Fiend himself. "Alas, I was susceptible to flattery, and when the youngest son of the king of England begged me to take him on as a student, I accepted. What an unhappy day that turned out to be!"
If the Inquisition heard that confession, it would burn him at the stake, or try to, at least—Oreste and Vespianaso must be very uneasy partners. There had been a friar snooping around earlier, who might still be there, lurking behind pillars, spying on what the viceroy was up to with a convicted incarnate. Toby could not recall seeing him leave and saw no reason to mention him.
"A bright lad, he was, young Nevil." Oreste fussed cheerfully with his vials and potions. "Now I need a lock of your hair, dear boy." He picked up the dagger and came around the table, smiling his scarlet lips.
Suspecting trickery, Toby stiffened as the blade approached, but he lost nothing more than a twist of hair. Oreste took it back to add to the concoction in the goblet.
"He was a dreamer, though. I doubt if he would have held the throne of England very long. Everyone noticed the change when Rhym took him over."
