by Ken Hood
That took some thought. Too much thought. "I don't see why."
"Because," Hamish said in the same dealing-with-an-idiot tone that his father had used on young Toby Strangerson just before he lost his temper, "if the Inquisition episode came first, and then you got to Barcelona and were yanked back again, the Inquisition vision would be wiped out, because you saw that later than the Barcelona vision, even though you think the Inquisition thing happens in Tortosa, which you get to first. Clear?"
Toby groaned. "I'll have to take your word for it."
"Am I ever wrong? You foresaw the demons before Valencia, but we went through Valencia before we met the demons. We can never know what happened the first time in Valencia that didn't happen the second, except that it must have been bad. Nothing happened the second time—the time we remember—but if you had actually died there the second time, you would never have met the demons, vision or not. Yes, you apparently got past Tortosa twice, but the third time you didn't. You may never get to Barcelona!"
"Not on this try, you mean." But how many times did he want to be tortured? Suppose the hob's rescue didn't work the next time? What of that endless loop he had discussed with Brother Bernat?
"That's why we must turn back right away," Hamish concluded triumphantly. "There's no other sane course. When the going gets tough, the smart get lost."
Toby walked on.
"You don't owe these people anything, Longdirk! In fact, you're a danger to them. Brother Bernat can look after himself. Gracia is probably safer with the don than she is with you."
"But there isn't any other road to Barcelona."
"You don't have to go to Barcelona!"
"I want to go to Barcelona."
"Idiot!" Hamish shouted. He had lost his temper now and sounded just like his father. "Turn back and join Johnson's party. We can catch up to them. We could be useful as guides. They'll let us go south with them."
"I got to Barcelona twice in three tries. Or will get."
"Oh, you stupid lunk! You don't know what was different about the third time. I think I do, though. I think it's the don and the others."
"Take me through this one slowly."
"If I go any slower I'll grow roots. Something was different the third time, some choice or chance event. I think the first two times we didn't join the don and his party. We went on by ourselves, with or without Gracia."
"But I knew the don when I cut his head off."
Hamish scowled harder than ever and then conceded that much. "So you'd met him. That doesn't mean you traveled with him. I was really surprised when you agreed to. You never accept a master unless you absolutely have to. Why did you?"
"Hmm. I'm not sure." But Toby was beginning to see where the logic was leading him, and he didn't like it. It was as ominously familiar as the scenery.
"Was it because you'd just seen yourself cutting off his head?"
"Maybe."
Hamish said, "Yes it was! It made you curious. But you couldn't have seen that the first two times, because it hadn't happened yet. So that was what was different the third time—you became Ramon's campeador, and when we got to Tortosa someone in this group betrayed you to the Inquisition. Now you're following that same route again."
"You don't know that. You're guessing." But it was a nastily convincing theory—Toby had surprised even himself when he'd kissed the don's hand. Now he'd promised to confide in him. Fortunately Hamish didn't know that yet. "If Oreste has set the Inquisition on me and given them that poster, they don't need informers."
"You and me could slip by on our own. We could swim the river if we had to. Probably that's what we did the first two times."
"We still can, I suppose. Join up again on the other side."
"And how do you explain that to Senora Collel? If inquisitors start questioning her, she's liable to accuse everyone of every sort of hexing ever imagined. If you've disappeared, she'll suspect the worst and set the dogs on you for certain."
Toby couldn't fault the logic, but it wasn't convincing him. He wasn't going to turn back. He was going on to Barcelona. Just brute stubbornness, maybe—he had said he would, so he would—or a show of courage, like shaking his head at the tormentors to prove to himself that he wasn't broken yet. Perhaps Hamish was right and the hob had driven him crazy, for what sane man would risk the Inquisition?
"I'll ask Brother Bernat's advice," he said. "I suggested to the don that we scout ahead before we advance in force."
"Force?" Hamish sneered. "He'll call for bombardment with cannon followed by a cavalry charge. Then ask your clever friend why your visions are so appropriate."
"Huh?"
The teacher's son was smirking again. "How many days were you in the hands of the Inquisition?"
Toby shrugged and winced at the results. "No way of telling. I have clear memories of an hour or two in the torture chamber, but Bernat thinks they might have worked on me for longer than that." Until they killed him. "And I can remember remembering a few days earlier—being questioned, being shut up in a stinking little cell."
"I could smell it on you when you came back. I still can. So why did the hob pick that particular hour or two? Why didn't you have a vision of the time you were shut up in the cell instead? The same with Barcelona. The hob is very choosy in what it lets you remember, isn't it?"
To that, also, Toby had no answer. Everything Hamish said made sense, even when he went on to call him a brainless mule, a goat butting an oak tree, and several other things less complimentary.
"We'll talk about it tonight," he promised, and set off up the line again.
Miguel and Rafael and the two Elinors were in even worse spirits than usual, taking their spite out on Thunderbolt with unnecessary whacks. Toby tried his faltering Catalan on them to find out why.
Rafael said, "Where is everybody?" He gestured at the valley they were traversing. Sierra del Montsia was steep and wooded, but Sierra Grossa displayed a gentle and obviously fertile slope. Although houses had been burned, the overall damage was much less conspicuous than it had been farther south. "You said the war was all gone from here. Why have the people not returned?" He glowered with deep suspicion.
Toby had been wondering the same and had no answer.
He went on to converse with the women, and the first he came to was Gracia, strolling along by herself but apparently happy in her daydreams. When she noticed him walking at her side, her contentment turned to doubt.
"You are recovered from your misadventure, senor?"
"A little bruised still. A guard with two left feet is not a convincing guardian, I am afraid."
"Don Ramon would never do such a thing."
"No, I'm sure he wouldn't."
She sighed blissfully. "He is wonderful, is he not? So handsome, so strong! My voices are very happy that he has taken me under his protection."
"You have told him about your voices?"
"Oh yes! He says it is a sign that I am especially favored by the spirits, a tribute to the purity of my soul."
The don's motives in saying so cast doubt on the purity of his own soul, Toby decided, and then wondered if he was merely jealous. Of course he was jealous! The Gracias of the world were forever forbidden to him, but he should not grudge her this romantic delusion, however brief it might turn out to be. It was better than brooding about ghosts. Leaving the lady to her fantasies of noble romance, he went on to the horsewomen. High on her perch, Eulalia ignored him conspicuously. Senora Collel regarded him with open suspicion.
"How exactly did Brother Bernat heal you, Campeador?"
"He did almost nothing, senora," he said, remembering Hamish's perceptive prediction about her gossiping to the Inquisition. "I was dazed from striking my head, and from that I recovered by myself. I had also sprained my shoulder. He is skilled in massage. That is all. I should not be so clumsy."
"Senor Campbell is not at all clumsy!" Eulalia said loftily.
"You should know, child!" snapped the senora.
&nbs
p; Toby found the remark exceedingly humorous and bellowed with laughter. When he saw that the slut was blushing, he realized that he was being jealous again, and spiteful as well. He escaped from the presence of the formidable pair as soon as he decently could. He had never understood women, and according to Brother Bernat he could never hope to.
Next in line were the Brusi packhorses, with Josep leading them while chatting with Father Guillem. The stringy, unassertive youth and massive, forceful cleric were an odd but fortunate pairing for a necessary discussion:
"Father, Josep, may we have a word about provisions? The mercenaries inform us that there is food to be bought in Tortosa."
"As I am excessively tired of horseflesh," the monk declaimed in his rumbling voice, "that is good news. Brother Bernat carries no money, of course, but I shall provide for him and the child."
Josep caught Toby's eye briefly and looked away with a quiet smile. "I expect the prices will be exorbitant. Would an advance upon your fee come in useful, Campeador?"
"Very much so, senor. And while I should never dare inquire, I suspect the don may also be running a little low on ready cash."
"That would not surprise me."
As a person, the boy was twice the man his father had been. Whether he could be ruthless enough to run the family business, only time would tell.
"Would you be so generous as to have a word with Squire Francisco on the matter?"
"Ah yes, the squire." Josep smiled gently at the landscape. "I shall certainly speak with the old warrior.
There was no overt hint there, but the choice of words suggested that Josep had guessed the lady's secret. Toby wondered who else had. Certainly not Senora Collel, or she would have told everyone by now.
So the food problem was solved. The senora and the Thunderbolt contingent both seemed to have adequate supplies left, as did Josep himself. That left the Inquisition. The domineering monk was more practical than Brother Bernat, although much less likeable. Guillem still believed that Toby should have put his fighting skills at the disposal of his rightful feudal overlord, whoever that might be. The two of them had come to a wary truce, though, and the cleric might be a valuable advisor on strategy. A little tactical bending of the truth could be justified:
"Father, the mercenary we met mentioned the possibility of the Inquisition examining travelers crossing the bridge at Tortosa." Johnson had discussed the subject, after all, even if he had not brought it up himself. "Do you suppose that Jaume and myself, being foreigners, may be harassed there?"
Father Guillem uttered a deep rumble like distant thunder. "That is very bad news! The Inquisition is notoriously self-willed and answerable to no one. If the inquisitors so choose, they could hold us up for days or even weeks. They are very skilled at asking the questions that will obtain the sort of answers they want. Before you know it, you find you have accused somebody of something, or even confessed to it yourself. It may be wise for me to pass the word around about this, Campeador. You will not mind?"
"I should be very grateful if you would, Father."
"The main thing is to keep your answers short and absolutely truthful." The monk peered around Josep to fix his penetrating stare on Toby. "For example, this morning you fell and twisted your shoulder. Brother Bernat massaged it for you. There is no harm in that. But add some speculation, and it could become something the Inquisition would feel bound to investigate at length. They might devote years to it. You understand what I am saying, my son?"
He was saying that he knew a lot more about Brother Bernat than Toby did. He must know all about Toby and the hob, too, for the friar had been going to tell him the story.
"I understand very well, Father."
"For my part," Josep said cheerfully to no one in particular, "on this journey I have neither heard nor seen anything worth bothering any learned inquisitors with."
"Good!" Father Guillem boomed. "But if they tell you that others have said they did and ask why you are not confirming this testimony, what do you say?"
Josep looked at him in surprise, then at Toby. He frowned, less sure of himself now. "That isn't very nice, is it? I stick to my original statement, of course."
"And if you are told that you yourself have been accused of demonic practices?"
"I deny it vehemently."
"And you stick to your original story?" Father Guillem demanded.
"Like glue," Josep said nervously. "What of Senora de Gomez?"
The monk frowned. "I shall speak with the women at once, if you will excuse me."
He stopped to wait for them. The others walked on.
"What about Gracia?" Toby inquired cautiously.
"She has strange fancies, poor girl. You understand," Josep said apologetically, "that I am much concerned about my father. It is a bad thing when a man must be buried in unconsecrated ground, far from the domain of a spirit to nurture his soul. Father Guillem has been of much consolation to me. But on the night after my father's death—we had not gone far, you will recall—Senora de Gomez came and told me that she had seen his wraith and had taken it into her care! She is going to transport it to Montserrat, she said. Naturally, I pretended to believe her and to be comforted by her words. I fear the loss of her husband and children has addled her wits, Senor Toby."
"I think you are right. It is very sad. There is no harm in her delusions, except when they upset other persons, such as yourself."
"The Inquisition might disagree with you," Josep said softly.
"It might indeed. Let us hope she will be discreet if we meet the inquisitors. But may I ask what solace Father Guillem offered you?"
"Ah." The boy smiled as if to imply he did not really believe what he was about to say. "He admits that when the rebels ravaged the land, their hexers also plundered all the shrines and sanctuaries of the guardians, but he insists that other spirits will eventually replace them, and that they will then gather any wandering wraiths to them, so the souls of the dead will be comforted. He has almost persuaded me to continue to Montserrat with him, so that the tutelary may confirm what he says. He is an acolyte there, after all."
"And a learned one." Very odd! Where were these new spirits to come from? His hob plight had made Toby curious about the ways of the immortals, but this doctrine was new to him. He would not ask more, for it seemed unkind to scratch at Josep's emotional scars. He would query Father Guillem or Brother Bernat some time. "That is good news, for how else can this land ever recover? Who would live in a town without a tutelary?"
After a few more minutes, he left Josep and caught up with Pepita and the friar. The old man eyed him with a tolerant smile.
"How is your breathing coming, my son?"
"I find I need my lungs too much for talking, Father, but tonight I will practice very earnestly, I promise you."
"I still see two of you!" Pepita said mischievously.
"Little demon!" The friar tweaked her ear fondly. "She will not say such things to any strangers we may meet."
Could a child resist the Inquisition's cunning interrogation?
"Father, I know I promised not to ask questions." Toby presumed that the questions he was not to ask concerned Brother Bernat himself and his strange little ward. (Why and how did the child see two of him? There was a real mystery there.) He hoped that queries concerning his own problem would be permitted. "My friend Jaume has asked one that I cannot answer. May I report his doubts to you, on the understanding that you are not required to comment?"
The old man guffawed in a way Toby had not heard from him before. "Report it, then."
"He wonders why the visions I see are so apt. Out of what may be many days or weeks, the hob lets me remember each time only a few hours or even minutes. He points out that it seems to choose intervals that are especially significant. Most of them have been very dramatic warnings."
Brother Bernat nodded approvingly. "He is a perceptive young man. It even chooses episodes that are of particular concern to you—like you cutting off Jaume's head, fo
r example—and ignores what should be of importance to itself. You do not recall the baron exorcizing it, or the moment at which it realizes the tormentors are killing you."
"Exactly! Neither of us believes that the hob is smart enough to be so selective."
The friar walked on in silence for several minutes, wielding his staff, staring at the ground. Eventually he said, "My son, I am not quite ready to answer that. You will have to be patient and trust me."
Toby made some polite response, nettled but trying not to show it. The question seemed simple enough; the answer should be. Whatever the old man was hiding from him could only be more bad news. Hamish might suggest that there was no answer and the backward-in-time theory was all moonlight and mirrors. Toby decided he would not agree. The friar was being cagy, but he did have an explanation in mind.
"Tell me about your homeland, my son, for it is one place I have never visited. Your countrymen have a reputation for valor."
"We are a pugnacious people, you mean? This is true, but you must realize that we have the English for neighbors..."
Eventually Toby realized that it was almost noon and they were not far from the end of the valley, which he had identified as a possible ambush site. If the don was going to accept his suggestion that they scout ahead for trouble, then it was time to call a halt and do so. Excusing himself, he strode forward to join Atropos and Petals and their riders. As he came level with the don, he said, "Senor..."
But then a horseman rode from behind the trees just ahead, with a file of pikemen trotting behind him. In moments they had blocked the road, and a backward glance confirmed that a second squad was closing the trap in that direction—not so many, but armed with arquebuses. The ambush had come a little sooner than he expected.
