by Dave Duncan
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"That's your third yawn in the last furlong," Don Ramon said icily. "How many bawds took your money last night?"
Whether he enjoyed a challenge or just liked to show off his equestrian skills, Don Ramon had collected a herd of the most vicious horses ever to eat the grass of Italy, and that day he was mounted on the worst of them, a monstrous eighteen-hand stallion named Brutus, which his squires were convinced was possessed—they were always threatening to put a blade through its heart. It would kick or bite anything that came within range, so Hamish was having great trouble keeping his dowdy, unassertive palfrey within reasonable distance.
"You wrong me, senor! I spent the hours of darkness doing good works among the deserving poor."
The horns of the copper mustache writhed in contempt. "Spare me your jackdaw Castilian. Your Italian cannot be any worse." His own would never be described as fluent, but that was a problem for other people. "And see you stay alert during the negotiations. How many deserving poor?"
"Four, signore."
"You're lying!"
"All four are less poor, but two remain deserving."
"I may decide to believe that," the knight conceded.
They continued their canter down the hill to Florence. Hamish was dressed as a humble clerk, being careful not to upstage the most successful condottiere in Italy, although that would have been difficult, for his companion was garbed in quasi-royal splendor—silk and sable and cloth of gold. Erratic and capricious in every way, he was especially unpredictable toward Hamish. Usually he considered him as being beneath contempt, like the vast majority of the human race, but he had noted his talents with a rapier and taken infinite pains to teach him the finer points of fencing, he himself being a master trained by de la Naza. Although their backgrounds were vastly different—son of a wilderness schoolmaster and scion of one of the oldest noble houses in Europe—they differed by less than a year in age, and their adulthood had been spent campaigning together. After the sack of Ostra, Don Ramon had presented Hamish with a bagful of priceless medieval manuscripts. Once he had led him off on a wild all-night campaign of drinking and wenching in the slums of Milan and been still in full rampage when Hamish had passed out under the table—or had it been a bed? Twice he would have put him to death had Toby not intervened. Precedents were never reliable where the don was concerned.
"I am minded, Chancellor, to give these motheaten quill-scratchers a lesson in manners. I may even choose to overstate my case a trifle, for the sake of effect. If I decide to do so and you think it would be advantageous to remonstrate with me, then feel free to speak your mind. Provided, of course, that you temper your words with proper respect."
Toby might know what that meant. Hamish did not, and his nerves were still too jangled to play foolish games. "Longdirk told me to stun you if you tried to kill anyone, signore." Wondering what sort of cataclysm that would provoke, he looked up to meet the icy blue eyes.
Briefly they measured him for a coffin. Then the don twirled up his mustache as he did when he was pleased. "Only if I am dissembling. You will not interfere when I am serious."
"Sì, signore," Hamish said resignedly.
* * *
As they trotted their mounts along the busy morning streets—with Brutus constantly trying to sink his teeth in people and other horses and being consistently thwarted by the don—Hamish saw the soaring dome of the sanctuary straight ahead, and a sudden tug at his heart reminded him that he had survived an exceedingly narrow escape in the night and had also lost a comrade.
"Signore, I most humbly beg a few minutes' grace to visit the duomo."
The don's ginger eyebrows soared high, although his stare was shrewd and calculating. "You did have a busy night, didn't you? How many deserving poor, did you say? Very well. You will attend me as soon as possible at the Palace of the Signory."
His surprise was understandable, for tutelaries had little sympathy for soldiers of fortune, men who earned their living by killing. Hamish had not made confession since he arrived in Italy and took up the trade. Nevertheless, times were a-changing. Fighting against the Fiend would never be a sin, and Karl Fischart had died in a noble cause.
Engrossed in rehearsing what he would say, he dismounted outside the duomo and allocated the reins to one of the handful of grubby boys disputing for the honor. Normally he found the facade's symphony of white, pink, and green marble fascinating, but today he strode over to the south door without an upward glance. Pigeons and beggars summed him up and ignored him. As he was about to enter, two young men emerged and blocked his path. More of them followed. His mind flashed back to the present, and he fell back a pace, reaching for a sword he had left at the villa.
"One moment, ser," said the nearest. They were fairly typical bravos, finely garbed, arrogant, dangerous, but apparently in this instance merely holding the door for someone, making sure the coast was clear.
"I bid you good morning, ser Campbell."
He looked twice at the grandly dressed lady and twice decided she could not have addressed him. It was only then that he realized that the inconspicuous, somewhat foxy-faced, nonentity at her side was not just another flunky. The bodyguards, the last of whom were now emerging at his back, were there to protect him.
Gasp! He bowed low. "I am honored, Your Magnificence!" He almost added, "I did not recognize you," and bit back the words in time.
In truth, though, Pietro Marradi enjoyed being anonymous. He also enjoyed showing off his politician's memory for names and faces—Hamish had been presented to him only once, and that had been many months ago.
"Duchessa, may I present ser Campbell, a chancellor in the Don Ramon Company?"
Lucrezia, the notorious hexer? The diminutive lady in the ermine and jewels acknowledged Hamish's protestations of undying loyalty with a nod that implied extreme boredom, but her gaze seemed to sharpen a fraction when her brother added, "Ser Campbell is a close confidant and childhood friend of comandante Longdirk." The lowly ser was to chide him for not wearing a sword.
"It is hard to imagine messer Longdirk as a child." She did not look notorious.
"Indeed he never was, madonna!" Hamish said boldly. "He sprang fully armed from a Highland bog." That felt moderately witty for spur-of-the-moment.
Lucrezia seemed unimpressed, as if she had already done her duty by a barbarian youth, but Marradi honored the jest with a smile. "Ah! You are a student of the classics?"
"An ignoramus by Italian standards," Hamish protested. "I prefer the moderns, such as your own notable sonnets, Your Magnificence." He quoted a few lines from "The Vine" to show that he could.
Truth makes the deadliest flattery, and Marradi was a celebrated poet. He bowed his head to acknowledge the compliment. "Would you be available to take a cup of wine around the sixth hour, messer Campbell? Some friends will be joining us to witness the unveiling of Maestro Buonarroti's new marble and hear a few sonnets. Bring along a couple of your own favorites to share."
Astonished, Hamish protested his eternal gratitude for such an honor. It was no trivial experience just to be talking to a genuine (if notorious) duchess and the world's richest banker while surrounded by his respectfully waiting bodyguard with half of Florence looking on. To be invited to his salon was an honor half of Florence would kill for. He wondered what his mother would say if she could see him now.
And he wondered if this stroke of good fortune might be turned to advantage. Here, after all, was the hand that held all the strings. If Hamish could wring a few fast concessions out of him, he could turn up at the meeting with a decided edge. Hastily, for Marradi was already turning away, he said, "I came into town, Your Magnificence, to assist Don Ramon in his negotiations with the dieci. Time grows desperately short."
He knew instantly that he had erred, but it was a slight tilt of Lucrezia's head that told him. Marradi's expression did not change.
"Indeed it does!" the Magnificent sighed. "The problem lies, of course, with the podestà, but I expect
you know that." Hamish certainly did not, and gaped like a fish. Before he could comment, the despot added smoothly, "I am told that His Excellency is reluctant to approve anything until the darughachi has made his will known."
"The rumors... There really is a darughachi then?"
"Oh, yes!" The Magnificent seemed politely surprised by his ignorance. "His Highness Prince Sartaq, seventh son of the glorious Ozberg Khan. He brings plenipotentiary powers to suppress the revolt north of the Alps." A shrug, a hint of a smile accompanied that description of the disaster that had engulfed most of Europe for half a generation as a revolt. "We expect him to come north, once he has completed his business in Naples and Rome." As a verbal street fighter, Marradi was unmatched—having laid Hamish on the floor, he now applied his boot: "Siena is a delightful town, is it not, ser Campbell? Did you enjoy Carnival?"
Hamish managed a nod, making faint croaking noises. So much for his hopes of wringing anything out of Il Volpe.
Marradi sighed and let his face grow doleful. "We were all desolate to hear the tragic news of Maestro Fischart's demise. Do please convey our sympathy to Don Ramon and the constable, won't you?" He strolled away with his sister on his arm and his mastiffs around him, leaving Hamish feeling like something dropped by one of the pigeons.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
He stumbled into the cool gloom of the duomo and waited by the door, planning to allow the Marradi party a few minutes to depart, then scamper like a burning squirrel in search of the don. If the bizarre Castilian learned of Fischart's death from anyone else, he would be most exceeding wroth. If he denied it in public only to discover his subordinates had kept the news from him, he would wax homicidal.
Demons take Toby and his stupid deception! He knew it was impossible to keep a secret in Italy. All the same, granted that the Marradi Bank ran an intelligence network second only to the Venetians', and even factoring gramarye into the problem, there was no obvious way the Magnificent could have heard the news so soon. Did the Siena tutelary correspond with Florence's? Or was this again the hand of the mysterious enemy who had arranged Fischart's death?
The devout of Florence bustled by him, some seeking out booths to make confession, others going forward to pray before the altar. Perhaps some had come just to enjoy the peace and beauty of the great building. The choir was singing, and were he not so preoccupied, he could have lost himself in those intertwining melodies soaring like swallows to the lofty dome. How strange it must be to spend one's life as a musician! Would he be happier if he had nothing more to worry about than producing a pure note or well-shaped phrase—happier than he was helping Toby fight the Fiend? But that thought set him wondering what this vast building would look like in half a year if people like Toby could not stop the Fiend. There would be no singing then.
Time to go. He turned for the door, aware that he would have to admit to the don that he had lied about—
"You have not achieved what you came for, Hamish."
The whisper spun him around. He found himself nose-to-nose with a gaunt, pale-faced youth, a shaven-scalped novice several years his junior. A boy that age must always be judged guilty of mischief until proved innocent, and no doubt the vacant smile and toneless voice of an incarnation could be faked quite easily, but he had spoken in Gaelic.
"Holiness?"
"Do not kneel here. Follow us." The incarnation turned.
"But, Holiness, I have to go and find the don and tell—"
The boy stopped without looking around. "You have more important things to worry about than the wounded pride of Don Ramon."
Hamish twisted in agony. "If I may just go and tell him, Holiness, and then I will come—"
"Follow us." The incarnation stalked off with the hem of its robe swishing around ankles like twigs. It led the way to an empty booth and sat on the bench, fixing its gaze on the wall to Hamish's left and remaining inhumanly still. In the velvet gloom, there was no mistaking the filmy golden glow of the tutelary around it. Hamish knelt on the cushion and gathered up his thoughts.
He spoke at great length, slowly at first and then faster. Once or twice the tutelary demanded more detail or questioned an interpretation. When he thought he had finished, it suggested some things he had omitted, and he added them to his confession. He told everything, but without mentioning that Lisa was rightful Queen of England. That information was irrelevant.
"And what do you want of us?" the spirit asked when he had finished.
He was nonplussed. He had expected a lecture, forgiveness, penance, never that question. "First, I mourn Karl Fischart. Will Siena cherish his soul? I admit I did not like him, but I—"
"Do not concern yourself with him."
Oh! Italian tutelaries seemed to have their own rules. "Then, Holiness, did I do wrong in Siena—when I went to Lisa's rescue and when I returned with Fischart?"
"Your motives were sound," the boy's thin voice said, "but you play a very dangerous game when you consort with demons, Hamish. Had you not relied on gramarye, you would have gone to Siena with a band of strong young men at your back, would you not? Then you might have rescued Lisa without imperiling her soul or yours."
There were a hundred objections to that, such as, supposing the opposition had loosed its own demons against those strong young men? And how would they have found the countess? The tutelary in Siena might have helped the righteous, but who could guarantee that?
"Yes, Holiness." One did not argue with spirits.
Without shifting its gaze, the incarnation held out a hand. Reluctantly Hamish gave it the Lupus and Zangliveri rings and watched them vanish into a belt pouch. A well-trained demon was worth a king's ransom.
"Did you tell Elizabeth you love her?"
"Yes, Holiness."
"How many women have you told that to?"
Squirm! "Two or three."
"How many?"
Hamish dug nails into his palms. "Four or five. But not always. I mean not always seriously. Maybe eight. But not quite like that. It's not the same when a man's, um, in bed with a..."
"Or trying to get into her bed," the boy said. "Is that what you want of her?"
"Me? Lisa? No! No! She's a lady, far above my station." He was surprised to realize that this denial was the truth. He had never considered trying to seduce Lisa—not seriously considered. He could have done it on the journey, at the inn. He'd thought about it, decided that there would be no sport in a victory so easy. She was too vulnerable. One glass of wine and some sweet words... Even if she was almost past marrying age by Italian standards, she was still only a child emotionally. And she was a queen.
"Do you love her?"
Yes. No. Yes. "Um, if things were different... Yes. Yes, I do." Were she not who she was, he might even be giving a thought or two to marriage—if he were not who he was, a penniless adventurer... He tried to imagine himself carrying her over a doorstep. She wore flowers in her hair, and she smiled at him. The prospect was not very terrifying. "Yes, I do." He sighed. Things would have to be very different, though—little things like the history of Europe.
"Hamish," said the tutelary, "all you have confessed is forgiven. These are hard times, and you stand between great dominions in contention. You must be ever vigilant and prepared to make hard choices. If you have time, come and discuss your problems with us before you decide."
"Yes, Holiness. I thank you." Was there to be no penance?
"Your penance is this: You are to guard Lisa with your life."
Hamish stole a glance at the spiritual aura gleaming around the boy and was reassured that this could not be a hoax. "I have never heard of such a penance, Holiness! I will gladly..."
Pause. Mm!
"Gladly?" said the tutelary. "With honor? Without asking or accepting the sort of shameful favors a man might demand of a maid? And with your life?"
"It is a fair penance," Hamish admitted. His mouth felt awkwardly dry. It was a demon of a penance! "My resources are limited, Holiness, considering the contending
dominions you mention. What foes do I guard against? What foes can I guard against? Nevil?" He laughed uneasily.
"Primarily your accomplice, Longdirk."
"What? I mean... Toby? But Toby can't... Toby wouldn't!"
"Wouldn't what?" asked the boy's high voice. "Rape her? No, even if he did not fear the hob, he is a decent man who does not use his strength unfairly. But exploit her politically? Can you defend her against that, Hamish Campbell?"
He glared at the incarnation, wishing it was human so he could knock its teeth out. "You know who she is, don't you? Did you tell Pietro Marradi that, too? Is this another secret all Italy knows?"
"You are the only man in Florence who knows at the moment. Her safety depends on that secret being kept."
"You're saying Toby won't? That he'll throw Lisa to the hyenas? Why? For some sort of personal gain? I've known him all my life, and I don't believe that. Not for a moment!"
The boy turned his head, and it seemed as if the tutelary looked out of his eyes at Hamish. The illusion was startling, terrifying, and fortunately transient. The blazing intelligence faded back to a blank stare.
"Don't you? The struggle against Nevil is still to come. The contest now is to decide who will lead that struggle. All the princes and powers of Italy are contestants, and Longdirk is one of the leading players."
"But—"
"Hamish, Hamish! You are not the same boy who left Scotland six years ago, are you?"
"Well, no, Holiness. Of course not."
"Longdirk is not the youth who left with you. He has grown and changed. He is not even the young man who came into Italy, for now he knows how good he is. He has won renown. He has discovered ambition, Hamish, and ambition feeds on success. He wants to be comandante again, because he truly believes he has a better chance of stopping Nevil than anyone else does. Do you disagree?"
"No," Hamish agreed sulkily. "But you're wrong about him! He's not a schemer, he's an uppercut-to-the-jaw man. He doesn't deceive people. He plays stupid and lets them deceive themselves."
