by Dave Duncan
At the banquet, every course was paraded in on golden trenchers by liveried flunkies—capon, veal, thrushes, pheasant, trout. Toby was seated well below the salt, down among minor merchants and their wives, but that bothered him not at all, for two years ago he would have been lucky to be allowed to beg for scraps at the kitchen door. His companions were thrilled to learn who he was, demanding to hear all about the Battle of Trent. He insisted that it was not a topic to be discussed in the presence of ladies. He was not at all sure that they were true ladies, though—hands caressed him under the table and toes nudged.
“Will the Fiend’s armies return?”
“Certainly, and this time he will come in person.”
Some of the women prepared to swoon. “Can you save us, comandante?”
“Italy can save itself, if it will just unite and support its fighting men.”
Then it was the men who turned pale, because he was talking about taxes.
The dancing began around midnight. He enjoyed dancing. For his size he was agile and could twirl and pirouette and gavotte with the best of them. It was the proposals for encores that upset him. One or two of his partners straight-out suggested they run upstairs together and find a bed as soon as the music stopped, but most just dropped hints like millstones. He lost count at eight, and the three he wasn’t sure of were probably being too subtle for him. Were there no faithful wives in Florence? Worse, his abstinence was soon noted, and beautiful young men began being charming to him. His glares made them melt back into the crowd very hurriedly.
Eventually, at long last, something meaningful did happen. He was accosted at the buffet table by a soft hand on his arm and an oily voice in his ear.
“My dear condottiere! Why on earth are you languishing out here among the riffraff? An honored guest like yourself should be with the real people.”
Toby turned to look down at the greasy smile of roly-poly Antonio Origo and was very tempted to ask him who had let him in, because he had understood that Origo was non grata in Florentine society. He was the third or fourth richest man in the city and in theory also the chief magistrate, the podestà, but the wildly independent Florentines shunned him to show how they despised the Khan’s nominee. His wife was reputed to have gone mad from grief, and he wielded no power whatsoever. That he had been included among the guests tonight was obviously a very significant development. It tended to confirm the rumors being whispered around of a special emissary from the Khan having landed at Naples.
“You honor me, sovrano. I just came to loot the tableware.”
The podestà guffawed at this brilliant humor, little knowing how close to the truth it was. The hob loved pretty things, and in the days before Toby learned to control it, it would have been running amok in such surroundings, filling his pockets with gold and jewels.
Origo eased him away from the table. “Follow me,” he whispered, and waddled off into the mob.
Wondering whether he was going to be hexed, poisoned, or stilettoed, Toby duly followed. The elegantly shaped tresses dangling below his guide’s biretta included more than the usual number of nits. That must be symbolic of something.
5
They had left the house safely and unseen, Lisa shuffling awkwardly over the cobbles in her stolen buskins, with her hand resting on Hamish’s arm, he strolling blithely, as if he had not a care in the world.
“Nice neighborhood,” he remarked. He cocked an ear to the distant sounds of Carnival. “Let’s go this way until I recognize somewhere.”
Every one of the narrow, winding canyons looked the same to her, but she was not going to let him see how terrified she was. She forced her voice to be brave and steady. “Describe, sir, your normal procedure for rescuing damsels in distress—those who don’t know where they live, I mean.”
He flashed her a grin—undeceived but approving her effort.
“Normally I escort them to the Palazzo Publico and deliver them to the signory, but there are good reasons not to do so in your case.”
“Because they don’t know where I live either?”
“There’s that. And whoever is after you may be watching there or may be in league with the signory. Also—there’s the rack. After all these years of looking up to Toby, I don’t want to start looking down on him. Selfish of me, I admit, but there it is.”
“I don’t want to put you in danger!”
“I put myself in. My decision. Don’t feel guilty about it.” He paused at the first corner to listen to the distant sounds of Carnival. “We go this way, I think. Instruct me, my lady. I am at your disposal, but I regret that I must leave Siena before dawn.”
“Have you friends here who might assist me?”
He sighed. “Agents, not friends. It’s my gold they love, not me, and none of them could be trusted with anyone as beautiful as you. I can have them try to locate your mother, but that will take a day or two.”
“I understand.” But Mother spent her life being not-found. Must not think about that!
“I think it would be better if you held this.” He pulled a cloth from his pouch and offered it to her.
“But that’s … why?” It was the kerchief she had used as a mask.
He shrugged self-consciously. “It might be useful. Something I read in a book once.” Puzzled, she accepted it, but before she could query him further, he said, “Ah! Now I know where we are. That’s the Galluza Palace. They’re very respected citizens. The dowager’s a woman of considerable influence in Siena. I’m sure she will not spurn a maiden in distress.”
“You know her?”
They were passing under a lantern; he gave her a puzzled frown. “Lisa, I’ve told you. I’m only a man-at-arms.”
“So you expect me to sit on the steps until morning and then get past servants who speak only Italian and drag a bad-tempered old harridan out of bed to hear a mad tale of gramarye and spies? And if the authorities may be in league with whoever’s after me, then that may be the worst possible thing to do.”
He sighed. “You synopsize the situation succinctly.”
They walked on. Sounds of Carnival became clearer. Drunks were heading home, staggering all over the road, some still singing raucously. No one troubled the efficient-looking swordsman at her side.
“Take me to the sanctuary, then. I shall appeal to the tutelary.”
“A very good idea. It’s that way, on the hill west of the Piazza del Campo.”
“You won’t escort me?”
“I loosed a demon tonight, monna. I am in the service of Florence. The spirit will not be friends with me at all. At the very least it will confiscate my ring. It may help you, though.”
But not necessarily. Many tutelaries refused to aid strangers. He was warning her politely that her plan was all fish feathers.
“If you’re only a man-at-arms,” she said angrily, “how can you possibly afford a guarddemon? And don’t tell me you looted or pillaged it, because it wouldn’t be worth having if you did.”
He laughed and took her hand in his to squeeze. “I confess! I lied. It isn’t mine. Our company hexer loaned it to me for this escapade, and when I return to Florence I must give it back. Truly, I am nothing more than a soldier.”
She had never let a man hold her hand before, but these were exceptional circumstances. It was a strangely comforting sensation. “Then I offer you employment. Mother will certainly reward you handsomely for the help you have given me. We need some male retainers. Whatever you’re being paid, I’ll double it. I promise you a reward of …” She was not familiar with Italian money. Nor any money, really. “Enough to buy a first-class horse.”
Hamish coughed harshly, as if he had swallowed a fly. “Excuse me. A really first-class horse? One of the two-hundred-ducat chargers the don buys? That is a very generous offer. However … you must have heard of Longdirk?”
“The great general who defeated the Fiend’s army last year?”
“He’d laugh if he heard you call him that. He is a great man, thoug
h. I work for Longdirk. I’m his chancellor.”
Well, he had to work for someone. Condottieri could be anything from princes to brigands, and Sir Tobias Longdirk was at least famous. Or he was now, for no one had heard of him before the Battle of Trent. There was a gruesome story about a burning forest.
“What does a chancellor do?”
“Spies, among other things.”
“Spies for whom? Who does Longdirk work for?”
“Whoever will help him fight the Fiend, but Florence needs him more than the others do. You see,” Hamish said earnestly, “there’s five big states in Italy—Milan, Venice, Rome, and Naples. And Florence. None of the rest count for much. Florence is the smallest of the five, and militarily it’s far weaker than the others. It distrusts soldiers. It has never, ever, appointed a native-born captain-general, so hiring a non-Italian like Toby fits their tradition.”
“Florence is planning to make war on Siena?”
“Oh, no. The cities must combine again. When Nevil sent Schweitzer last year, some of them cobbled together an alliance—which was largely Longdirk’s doing, incidentally. They all knew him and trusted him, so they voted him in as comandante. He talked the Swiss into joining. Then he walloped Schweitzer, but this year Nevil’s certain to come himself. Time is running … Sorry. I’m lecturing.”
“Go on, please,” she said automatically. “It’s very interesting.”
“No it isn’t. I have this bad habit. Don’t encourage me, or I’ll harangue you all night on everything from acarology to zymurgy. Let’s solve your problem first.”
“I definitely want to hear about zymurgy later. How much does this Longdirk man pay you?”
“Four ducats a month when he has it. We’re a few months in arrears at the moment.”
“Oh. Well, my offer of the horse still stands. Two hundred ducats. And eight ducats a month. And I’ll make up your arrears, too.”
“Including my board and arms and horses? No!” he said before she could answer. “I’m joking.” Now he seemed to know exactly where he was going, heading uphill, moving along the smelly alleys as fast as she could keep up. “I’m more than just one of Longdirk’s men. He has an incredible knack of inspiring loyalty, but I can honestly claim to be his best friend. We were boys together. He was my hero, and he took me with him when he left Scotland. Nevil’s been hunting us ever since, although it’s Toby he wants. You can’t buy me.”
She knew what he wanted her to say. He was not going to suggest it himself, but he had left her no option.
“How far is it to Florence?”
“About fourteen English leagues. Say two days with the roads the way they are just now. We won’t push the horses unless we have to.”
“I’m a very good…‘We’?”
“Me and Carlo and Rinaldo. They’re waiting at an inn outside the walls. There’s no curfew tonight. We’ll have no trouble at the gates.”
We again! But he knew that she knew that she had no choice. Her heart was pounding as if she had a tertian fever.
“Master Campbell, I am very grateful for what you have done for me already, but I do wish you would make up your mind. If you are only a soldier of fortune, then name your price, and I will meet it. If you are a gentleman, then I must appeal to your chivalry. Which is it to be?”
He winced. “My lady, you don’t want either. Most mercenaries would take your money and betray you. Most gentlemen would … be even worse. Don Ramon, for example—never mind. Please just accept me as a friend. I will gladly set my men to work on locating your mother, and I will be honored to escort you to Florence and give you shelter there until they do. I will accept no payment or reward except a few of those wonderful smiles of yours, because they are beyond price.”
The rush of relief made her knees weak, but it also told her that she had made the right decision. Poor Mother would be frantic. And when she did find out what had happened to her wayward daughter—if she ever did—she would be utterly appalled. Riding off with a common mercenary to another city, another country? But what else was she to do?
“By all means let us be friends! You must call me Mistress Lisa, and I will call you Sir Hamish, for I think you really are a gentleman, a true gentleman. I have always found a man’s manners to be a more reliable guide to his true quality than his lands or the number of portraits above his banquet table.” She had also learned, over the years of a very lonely childhood, that solid men of humble status—grooms and servants—were often much more pleasant company and much more respectful to a young lady than certain gentlemen. Mother would regard that belief as rankest heresy, but Mother had never been backed into a corner by a snotty many-handed adolescent who thought he had the hereditary right to do anything to anyone. “I am very grateful and will smile like a stuffed cockatrice all the way Florence if it pleases you.”
“Oh, Lisa, I’m sorry, really sorry. I shouldn’t have mocked you. You know the danger you’re in, and you’re behaving very bravely. Pay me if you want. I am in need of money. I shouldn’t put on airs and pretend I’m not. I have a hole in my boot and can’t afford to get it mended.”
“I insulted you.”
“No, no. I was presumptuous. But whether I’m your paid bodyguard or just a friend in need, I give you my word that no harm will befall you. I promise Longdirk won’t use you.”
“Use me?”
“Politically, I mean.”
“I don’t understand. How could he use me politically?”
“Oh, nothing,” Hamish muttered. “Forget I said that. I read too many books, that’s all.”
6
Toby followed pudgy podestà Origo past unobtrusive guards to an unassuming door and into a warren of dimly lit smaller rooms where another sort of party was under way. In spite of his ability to look over heads, he had trouble making out who was present in the gloom, but they were all men, all standing, all discoursing in whispers.
“You know the noble Guilo, of course?” Origo vanished into the crowd with the air of someone who has just scraped something unpleasant off his boot.
Toby did know Guilo, a weedy, slightly pop-eyed young man, a very minor member of the clan. They bowed, flattering each other as “comandante” and “magnifico,” respectively. “Your Magnificence” was a servile way of addressing a man who lacked any official title, but it was understood in Florence that the Magnificent was one man in particular. He would be around here somewhere. And Toby had long since given up trying to convince the Florentines that his title of comandante in capo had been a field appointment, good only for the day of battle.
Obviously Cousin Guilo had been designated sheepdog, to make sure the mercenary spoke with all the right people and none of the wrong. When they arrived at a group, the whispers would stop abruptly. Fulsome greetings would lead into the standard questions: Would the Fiend invade Italy? How soon? Could he be stopped? How much was it going to cost? Toby gave standard answers: yes, this spring, yes, plenty. Then he would be led away, and the muttering would start up again at his back.
They came at last to a brighter room, where a single glance identified enough of the top politicos of the city to show that this was the center of the web. A massive, florid-faced burgher in the center was pontificating in a wine-slurred roar. He was the current chairman of the dieci della guerra, the council for war, messer Jacopo Benozzo, and the kindest word the don ever used about him was “buffoon.” According to the unsupported word of Master Hamish Campbell, his nose was much in demand in winter for roasting chestnuts. Marradi himself stood at the edge of the group—silent, unobtrusive, observing.
The moment of truth was approaching.
Until that day, Toby had left the negotiating to the don, who was much better at it. Unlike Toby, he could tell lies with a straight face, because he believed whatever he wanted to believe. Truth was anything he needed it to be. He despised money in any form, considered fighting for money shameful, and thus genuinely hated to agree to anything, especially with merchants like Benoz
zo or even Marradi, who were lower than the dirt under his horse. He drove them crazy. Why not?—he was crazy himself, oblivious to reality. Yet he was creepily perceptive at divining what Toby wanted to do and ordering him to do it. When they had first met, he had been leading an army that existed only in his muddled mind—noble knights, infantry, bands, guns, everything. Toby had made his dream come true, putting him at the head of the finest mercenary company in all Italy.
But that morning Pietro Marradi had summoned messer Longdirk to Florence, taken him into a very small private office, and shut the door. Alone, the two of them had negotiated the condotta that had been under discussion for months. Now all that remained was to ram it through the proper channels.
Introductions, bows, the usual stately minuet of banalities … War slid gently into the discussion. So did Antonio Origo. In fourteen years the Khanate had done nothing to oppose Nevil’s rebellion, but the presence of the podestà in the inner circle suggested that this might be about to change.
“Yes, the Fiend can be beaten,” Toby said for the hundredth time that night. “But only if Italy will unite. The cities must agree upon a comandante and give him the forces he will need. Time is running out. If Florence does not soon replace the late and sadly missed Captain-General Vespucci and start building a sizable army of its own, then it will not only be pitifully vulnerable, it will have no seat at the allies’ table.”
There! How did that feel? Marradi had told him to pull no punches, and punching was one thing Toby Longdirk did very well indeed.
“Indeed?” Pietro murmured. The listeners shuffled themselves quickly to include him in the group. “This news disturbs me.” It could hardly surprise him, for nothing in Florence was concluded until he had approved every detail. “What is delaying the negotiations, messer Benozzo?”
The fat man wrinkled his grotesque nose in disgust. “The Spaniard. The man is a maniac!”
“He has very high ideals,” Toby murmured sadly.
“And very few wits. However, we have made some progress.”
