by Dave Duncan
“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.”
“Don’t argue with us, Campbell,” said the spirit. “Do as we command.”
20
Toby was trying to come to terms with the hexer’s death and what it meant for the Don Ramon Company. As he often did when he needed to think, he sent for Smeòrach and went for a ride. The big spotted gelding was an eager mount and a very good listener. He never argued.
“We’ll have to find another,” Toby explained as soon as they were out of camp and it was safe to talk. “Rome’s full of them, even if the College won’t admit it and calls them all adepts.”
Smeòrach did not even twitch an ear back to listen. He had a meadow ahead of him, and his simple mind was engrossed in seeing if he could run fast enough to leave the ground altogether.
“In fact, a really good hexer should turn up and volunteer his services right away, shouldn’t he? That would show how skilled he is at knowing where he’s needed.” But no replacement would ever be as good as Karl Fischart, nor as unshakably loyal to the cause.
At that moment a thrush popped out of the hedge. Although it was about one-twenty-thousandth of Smeòrach’s size, he decided it was highly dangerous and went sideways so abruptly that he almost dropped Toby in the mud. For a while neither of them had time to worry about hexers. It was an hour or so later, as they were returning to the villa, that the lecture began again.
“The Magnificent won’t like it, but we have an agreement. We shook hands. All right, I kissed his, but the principle’s the same. No one’s going to miss the old man for a couple of weeks, and surely Hamish will get the condotta signed by then!”
“Hay!” Smeòrach said loudly. “Water. Oats. A good rubdown. Salt.” He spoke in horse, but his meaning was obvious enough. “More oats,” he added.
Toby chuckled and patted his neck. “I can always trust you to know what’s important.”
It was a fine morning. He headed for the courtyard, meaning to summon Diaz and Arnaud for a discussion of the Company’s fragile finances. As he ducked his way through bustling, bread-scented kitchens, he was accosted by the formidable madonna Anna, whose customary air of Vesuvian menace was even more marked than usual. She brandished a wooden spoon under his nose, which forced him to straighten up with his head among the dangling copper pans and bundles of onions.
“Condottiere! The English milady! Who is this person? By what right does she rule here?”
If he could have chosen the next problem to be added to his burdens, squabbling women would have been low on the list. How could the fugitive queen have alienated the household in less than three hours? That was certainly not the best way to remain incognito.
“By right of hereditary stupidity, monna, I expect. What has she done to upset you?”
Plenty, apparently, including commandeering messer Longdirk’s personal work site. So he stalked outside and found her holding court there, seated on a grand chair with a young woman trimming her nails and Lisa reading to her. The servant looked up in alarm—her name was Isotta, and she was the wife of one of the gunners. Lisa’s glance was probably one of amusement, but too brief for him to be sure of. She went on reading, in Latin. The countess ignored him, intent on her daughter. Could she truly be so oblivious of her offense? Anna and the others must have told her whose territory this was.
Toby said, “Leave us, ladies.”
The countess looked up and glared. The maid at once bundled up her implements in the cloth on her lap and made haste for the house. Lisa flashed her mother an I-told-you-so glance.
“Perhaps you should step indoors a moment, dear,” the countess said grimly.
Lisa closed her book and stalked out with her chin high. Toby remained standing and folded his arms.
In her youth Queen Blanche had been blessed with a fabled beauty. The hard years of flight and exile had not stolen all of it. Her hair was golden, her complexion aristocratically pale, and if the lines at her eyes and mouth could not be denied, her features were still firm. She was a buxom, powerful woman, and her gown was not only too small for her but had been intended as practical wear for some merchant’s wife, yet somehow she managed to look like a lady in it, a very frightened lady, a lady bent very close to breaking point.
“Sir Tobias! By what right do you give my daughter orders? You know who she is.”
“I do know who she is. I swore to defend her against all foes, and that includes stupidity. Do you want everyone to know who she is?”
Probably no one had addressed Queen Blanche like that since she was a child at her father’s court. A hint of true color appeared under the face powder. “You are being offensive!”
“You leave me no choice. We suggested a story to your daughter, a plausible explanation of who she is and who you are and why she is under Hamish Campbell’s protection. If I must drop to my knees every time I speak to you, or if you behave as though this camp is your personal estate, then people will gossip. It is almost impossible to keep a secret in this country, my lady. You and your daughter are newsworthy. If you will not be guided by me, then I may as well take you into Florence right away and deliver you to the Marradi Palace. You will be a welcome guest there until the Fiend’s agents are ready to kidnap you again.”
She had a glare to match the don’s, but the effect was spoiled by a tremble in her lower lip. “I am a lady. I cannot behave like the wife of a fish merchant.”
“I do not suggest you try. Gentry in exile can retain their self-respect without drawing attention to themselves. We have a marchioness and two baronesses here in the camp. A Bohemian princess and the former Queen of Burgundy reside in Florence. I would present them to you and ask them to give you lessons, but I don’t trust the men they are living with. There are many exiled ladies of rank in Italy. Their menfolk did not fare as well, but we have some of those around also. One knight in the Company is the pretender to the throne of France.”
“I need no lessons from them or anyone.” Her voice was shriller than before. “I have been a fugitive since you were a child, Constable. I have always lived as a lady and expected to be treated as one. Furthermore, I have a duty to rear my daughter in a style appropriate to her rank so she will be competent to take up her inheritance when the Fiend is overthrown. You realize that I have been bereft of my entire wardrobe, all my jewels, my money? What steps are you taking to recover those for me?”
“None, ma’am. Your enemy in Siena was a notable hexer. Any attempt to recover them would lead him to you, and what you recovered would probably be poisoned by gramarye. For your own safety and Lady Lisa’s I must ask you to resign yourself to your losses and just be thankful that you both survived your terrible experiences unharmed.”
She chewed her lip for a moment. He despised himself as a bully, but he could see no kindness in lying to her. Her only hope of survival was to face the brutal realities of her situation. By coming to Italy, she had left herself without a back door to use when her husband came in the front.
“I require at least two maids, separate sleeping chambers for Lisa and myself—with some decent furniture—a wardrobe of suitable garments, and a personal steward. The use of a carriage, postilion, and footmen two or three times a week. This is an absolute minimum. Anything less is a flagrant insult to my rank and person.”
&nbs
p; To laugh would be unkind. To ask her how Nevil would treat her if he caught her would be sadistic. She was a tired and very frightened woman.
“I shall see what can be arranged, ma’am. I had no warning of your arrival. Sister Bona—”
“Has children! Cohabits with a friar!”
“Can keep her mouth shut.”
They traded glares.
Queen Blanche looked away first. “Very well. Sister Bona?”
“Will assist you, ma’am. I shall have our treasurer allocate funds for your maintenance. I do believe you are as safe here as you can be anywhere in Italy. Chancellor Campbell is currently—”
“Is it true,” she inquired in a markedly different tone, “that he is a younger son of the Earl of Argyll?”
Toby wanted to shy like Smeòrach meeting a thrush, but he managed to keep his feet on the ground. Whose invention was this? He hoped it was Lisa’s. Doubtless Hamish plied many wiles and stratagems on the battlefield of love, but no man should stoop as low as that.
“Ma’am, please! I told you that secrets are never safe in this country—every leaf whispers to the wind. If the Fiend were to hear that a son of the earl were fighting against him, then his entire family would suffer for it, and perhaps the entire Clan Campbell also.”
“Ah, of course!” The countess nodded, apparently convinced. “He is a remarkable young man, isn’t he?”
“He is indeed,” Toby said with confidence. Was she unusually gullible, or was he gaining some skill at lying? He had not actually lied, of course, merely stated an irrelevant truth.
Evidently it was to be peace for now. She managed a shaky smile. “I admit I am impressed by some of your associates, Sir Tobias. Lisa tells me Baron Oreste is one of them, my old friend.”
“He played a major role in your rescue, ma’am, but he has not yet returned from—”
“There he is!” roared the don, striding in through the gate with a dozen men at his heels.
Toby summed them up in a glance. Three of them were the don’s personal squires, who would do anything he told them. Four were senior knights, squadrieri in the cavalry—Baldassare Barrafranca and D’Anjou and a couple of other troublemakers—and they, too, had brought minions to handle dirty work. Conspicuous among the supporting cast was the toothless leer of Ippolito Varano, the Company hangman, a cold-blooded horror who had not yet had the pleasure of hanging any of its members but had flogged a few. He and some others were carrying ropes. They spread out as if to come at Toby from both sides, but by that time, Constable Longdirk had his back to a brick wall, a stool in his left hand, and his sword in his right. Everyone stopped to evaluate the situation.
“Good morning, Your Excellencies,” he said. “I do not recall summoning you.”
The don’s eyes had been crazy enough even before that remark. “You do not summon me, peasant!”
“That is true, signore. Your companions I can summon, though, and I can also dismiss. Leave us, gentlemen.”
That was not strictly true, but although Toby had no real rank, he had considerable standing, and the rest of the Company would create a substantial fracas if the don and his toadies dragged him out to the gallows or whipping post. They would rather do whatever they intended here in the courtyard. He did not intend to be hanged this morning.
The countess rose from her grand chair and walked away, sensible lady. She was doubtless reconsidering her favorable opinion of Signor Longdirk’s associates. No one spared her a glance.
“Bind him!” the don roared. “A hundred lashes!” That he was crazy had always been obvious, but until now he had tempered his delusions enough to let reality work around them.
“The first and second men to touch me die,” Toby said, and was relieved when no one moved. His sword was two-edged, long as any rapier, and wrought of good Toledo steel, but he was no greased-lightning foils man like Hamish, who might be able to restrict his defense to inflicting minor wounds. He was a slugger and would kill with it. They knew that. “I remind you that we are all bound by the terms of engagement, and any man who breaks them must answer to the whole Company. Only a properly convened court can order me or anyone else flogged. Now, Signor Ramon, will you kindly reveal what has provoked your anger?”
“You deceived me!”
“Never, signore.”
“Where is the hexer? Where is Oreste?”
Try to look surprised, dummy …
“I do not recall discussing the maestro with you in the last week, so how can I have lied about him? Last night he went to Siena. So far as I know he is still there.” Not quite a lie.
“He died there!”
Now try to look disbelieving. He hoped Hamish had not strayed from the agreed story, or he might be about to save his own neck at the cost of putting Hamish’s in the noose. “Sad news, if true! Who says so, senor?”
“All Florence knows!”
Not Hamish’s doing, then. Toby threw down the stool and sheathed his sword. He felt the wind change as he did so—men shuffled feet and exchanged glances. “Florence is a stew pot of rumors, senor, always. If Maestro Fischart died in Siena last night, how could the news possibly have reached here already? I shall be happy to discuss the matter further with you in private. Kindly dismiss your escort.”
Don Ramon turned on his heel. The crowd opened to let him through, then slunk after him. The confrontation was over, but not the trouble. His wretched Castilian pride had suffered, and he was quite clever enough to guess that he was being kept in the dark. It was fortunate that nobility could not duel with the lowborn, else he would certainly call Longdirk out and fill him full of holes. For the first time in Toby’s experience, the don had lost his temper and made a fool of himself. There was nothing to be done about it now.
Word of the quarrel would be all over Florence within the hour.
21
It was all over the camp in much less time than that, of course. Toby sent for Colin McPhail, who was taciturn and surly and had more brains in his elbow than most men had in their heads, and ordered him to ride like the wind into Florence to find Hamish and warn him of the problem. Then he summoned Diaz and Arnaud for that delayed discussion of the ledgers.
The three of them were still chewing their nails over the account books when the don came striding back into the courtyard. They sprang to their feet, as was expected of them.
“Constable!” The crazy blue eyes sparkled too brightly, but there was no frenzy in them now and no armed mob at his back. Evidently he had adjusted reality to fit his needs. “Rumors are going around Florence that the baron was slain in some sort of spiritual duel in Siena last night.”
Diaz and Arnaud must have heard of the morning’s argument, for they went very still, looking nowhere.
Toby frowned. “That is bad news. Hamish was worried about him.”
The don bared his teeth but held on to his temper. “He did not mention anything to me.”
“I ordered him to be discreet. He may have construed my instructions too rigidly. You understand that he returned here yesterday? With his customary efficiency, he had located the abode of the sordid Gonzaga in Siena. When Maestro Fischart heard of this, he decided to go and neutralize the hexer before he achieved his nefarious ends, whatever they might be. Hamish agreed to return to Siena, show the learned adept the house, then come back here. In the instant before he left Siena, he saw a brilliant flash and heard a dreadful sound. He was not sure what this portended. Hence my command that he make no comment until we had confirmation of events.”
Who said he couldn’t tell lies? The problem was whether his lies would be believed, and the don’s scowl was discouraging on that score.
“The rumors speak of a demonic battle, monsters in the streets, dead men and horses, extensive material damage, and also of a dramatic sword fight. The baron was no swordsman.”
Toby frowned, which was not difficult, and shrugged, which was, and sweated, which he did not intend to. “Campbell may have withheld some of the details.
At times he displays a foolish tendency to excessive modesty.”
The don glared, snarled something unintelligible in Castilian, and stalked out of the courtyard.
The remaining three resumed their seats in delicate silence, nobody meeting anyone else’s eye. Diaz stabbed a finger at the open ledger.
“Next item,” he said. “One hundred shovels, four ducats.”
22
On the fifth day of her stay in the villa, Lisa came prancing out… was prancing a suitable gait for the rightwise born Queen of all England? Perhaps something equally eager but more dignified—sweeping, say?
On the fifth day of her stay in the villa, Lady Lisa swept out to the stable yard in the new riding costume of forest green linen she had ordered on her first shopping trip into Florence with Hamish—one of three such outfits, all of which had been delivered last night, together with the fur-trimmed hats and cloaks she had bought on the second day … all charged to condottiere Longdirk’s credit by Hamish.
There he was, waiting for her with Eachan and Dapple already saddled. She was a little late. Ladies were expected to be late. Sometimes even this late. Hamish tended to be early, which was appropriate behavior for a gentleman, but today he might have been earlier than usual, for he was leaning one arm wearily on Eachen’s neck and staring morosely at the mire as if he had taken root. Then he sensed her approach and glanced up, and the flood of joy that then transformed his face was extremely flattering. She would forgive him for being early.
“My lady!” He gazed at her with an awe so overpowering that she would have dismissed it as faked in any other man, but she knew Hamish was always genuine. “You are… You are unbelievably beautiful in that outfit. Artemis herself.” He took her fingers and kissed them. Yesterday, when they had dismounted to rest the horses, she had kissed his lips. He had told her sternly never to do that again. Naturally she had done so again, at once—and was planning to do much the same again today as soon as she got the chance.
