by Dave Duncan
Barely audible through the rising hubbub, the last voice of all spoke very softly in the lilt of Gaelic. “Meg, Tobias. You do not remember, but I am with you. Proud I am.” He had expected Granny Nan…
With him? None of the others had said that. Oh, spirits! No, no! Never in the years he had been possessed by the hob had he considered that it had been, in its witless, blundering, indifferent fashion, the nearest thing Tyndrum had to a tutelary. Only to the hob could the souls of the dead in Strath Filian appeal for succor. So had it cherished them? All of them or some of them? When the hob left its haunt and went on its travels in Toby Longdirk, did it in some sense take them with it? He had no time to think of the implications, for the séance was over, and Sorghaghtani toppled backward into his arms.
She weighed nothing. He stood and cradled her as he would a child while his mind scrambled to recall every nuance of those faint words. You do not remember… Of course not, for Meg Campbell had died giving birth to a bastard rape-child, and she had been only a child herself. All around the courtyard, the officers of the Don Ramon Company were shuffling toward the exit—going alone, not in groups, not speaking. But a lot of them seemed to be weeping, and Toby realized that his own cheeks were wet, and his throat ached. Meg Campbell, the mother he had never known…
The shaman mumbled and began to stir. She had proved her skills. She had turned a score of intractable mercenary veterans into sniveling children.
27
Lucrezia Marradi had two brothers. The elder, Pietro—poet, patron of the arts, head of the family bank, and, hence, head of the family—in his spare time ran city and state as a family fief. The younger was illegitimate, but bastardy mattered little in Italy, and he had followed a notable career in spiritualism, rising rapidly in the College until he was one of the senior cardinals, perhaps a future Holy Father. Early in March, Ricciardo Cardinal Marradi paid a visit to his native city, of which he was officially arch-acolyte.
Relieved that he would not have to send Hamish to Rome, Toby wrote asking for a meeting at His Eminence’s convenience. He took the precaution of routing the request through the Magnificent. He waited, with growing concern. He asked again. He took the matter to Benozzo’s successor, Cecco de’ Carisendi, but the old man seemed unable to comprehend the seriousness of the problem—there was very little he did comprehend. It was on the tenth and final day of the cardinal’s visitation that the captain-general and his deputy were summoned to the Marradi Palace to meet him. Toby took Hamish along.
He had been hoping and expecting that the meeting would be private, but they were shown into a busy antechamber, teeming with the usual crowd of sycophants and supplicants, and there they were left a long time. The snub itself was disturbing, both because it would soon become common knowledge in Florence and because anyone could guess why the captain-general needed to call upon the cardinal. Even when they were led through into the next high-ceilinged, overdecorated hall, they had not done with waiting. In the center the great man was holding court within about a score of people—mostly acolytes, male and female, but also four or five members of his family, including his brother and sister—and they were all just standing there having a loudly jolly chat, punctuated by much laughter. Clerks and stewards wandered around to no clear purpose.
The don was not noted for his patience. Cooling his heels always made his head hotter, and already he was muttering Castilian things under his breath. Eventually a chancellor arrived to confirm the visitors’ identities, as if silver helmets were two-a-penny in Florence. Another wait. Then three of the courtiers kissed the cardinal’s ring and departed. Everyone else remained, but now it seemed that the visitors were to have their audience.
Not so. The chancellor led forward a couple of very elderly female acolytes, tottering on canes.
“I see,” the don announced loudly, “that I am too young to be trusted with important concerns. I prefer to do my aging elsewhere.” He spun on his heel and strode out.
Hamish and Toby exchanged glances that included equal parts of relief and despair. No one else was reacting at all, but that did not mean that the insult had not been noted. It probably cost them another twenty minutes, but eventually they were judged to have suffered enough. Then they were led forward and graciously permitted to kiss the ring. Among the spectators, Lucrezia and the Magnificent watched in silence. Lucrezia was smiling.
Ricciardo Marradi was a plump, satisfied, and yet enigmatic man in his mid-thirties, five years younger than his brother. The Lombardy redness of his hair clashed horribly with his scarlet robes and biretta. His features were paradoxical—a sharp nose and small mouth flanked by brown eyes wide with babyish innocence, set in a soft pink complexion. He wore his power like steel armor, yet his voice was high-pitched and petulant.
“How may we aid your cause, Tobias? You understand that we are about to take our leave and cannot spare you long.”
“The matter concerns the safety of the city, Your Eminence, indeed its very survival.”
“Surely, then, it should be brought to us by Captain-General Signor Ramon de Nuñez?”
Years of practice let Toby restrain his temper. “Yes, it should, Your Eminence. I hoped it would be. But it seems that I shall have to suffice.” For a moment he thought he was going to be dismissed unheard, but then the arch-acolyte gestured with a pudgy hand.
“Be brief.” Accepting a sheaf of papers from a secretary beside him, His Eminence began to flip through them.
“Reports from the north tell of the Fiend preparing to bring his hordes across the Alps, Your Eminence. We expect him within a month or two at most. The brave men of Italy will resist his evil, but flesh and blood and courage are no match for gramarye. Nevil is a demon incarnate and fights with demons. It has long been suspected that he has refrained from trying to add Italy to his dominions only because he fears the righteous powers of the Cardinal College. I come to ask for the spiritual aid that the defenders—”
“Rest assured, my son,” the cardinal twittered, barely glancing up from the documents, “that the Holy Father and members of the College will continue to pray without surcease for the defeat of the Fiend whether or not he invades Italy. We regularly remind all acolytes of the Galilean Order in all shrines and sanctuaries everywhere to petition the spirits they serve for assistance against the evil. Our esteemed Captain-General Villari has been told to save no expense to defend the holy city itself.”
“Are not these the same precautions you took before France was conquered, when Austria was overrun, while the rest of Europe was ravaged by the monster? I am sure I speak not only for the armies of Florence but for all—”
“You may be sure of that.” Marradi thrust the documents back at the secretary, approving them with a nod. “But we are not. If, as I fear, Tobias, you are about to ask the College itself to engage in gramarye, you should remember that the Holy Father and his predecessors for more than a thousand years have refused to countenance the use of demons under any circumstances whatsoever. The Galilean enjoined us to serve, worship, and educate the holy spirits within their natural domains. To abduct and torture them into demons is contrary to all that is virtuous. Fighting evil with more evil must always be self-defeating. Our shield must be love and goodness our sword.”
Were this meeting the confidential and intimate parley Toby had requested, he would now agree wholeheartedly and mention that the Don Ramon Company was in dire need of a good healer, as battles were not necessarily fought within easy reach of a sanctuary. In other words, he would ask for a hexer. The cardinal, if he were reasonable, would refuse sadly and later arrange for one to appear. But this cardinal was not being reasonable and did not deserve to be treated reasonably.
“That was not how Rome escaped conquest by the Tartars in 1248, Your Eminence.”
The onlookers flinched. No one contradicted an arch-acolyte in public, let alone a cardinal. Marradi’s smooth pinkness turned a fraction pinker. He pursed his little mouth.
“You were the
re, I suppose?” he squeaked.
Toby could boom. “No, but I am here, in Florence, in your city, which I have sworn to defend with my life. Why are you not willing to assist its people in their hour of need? For all of that thousand years you mentioned, the College has waged war on hexers, and rightly so. It has invariably confiscated any immured demon it could lay its hands on, and it is public knowledge that all of those hundreds, nay thousands, of—”
“Public knowledge is worthless knowledge, my son. Those jewels and the demons they contain are taken to Rome to be destroyed, not hoarded in some secret cellar as you imply.” His Eminence gibbered the words, sprayed them. “Even if we did control a legion of demons, to use it for the furtherance of evil would—”
“Is self-defense evil? If we use them only for that?”
“I have told you. Those demons do not exist.”
“Then if you will not take pity on the men who will die because of your stubbornness, will you not save the tutelaries and spirits? Do you deny that whenever Nevil takes a city he turns its spirits into demons to serve his cause and thus continues to increase his power while you and others like you close your eyes to the suffering and—”
“Insolence! Blasphemy! Chancellor, remove this man and his companion from our presence!”
Toby turned on his heel and walked out.
Hamish stalked at his side, growling low in his throat. As they clattered down the broad staircase, he said, “Did ye see yon Lucrezia? Smirking and panting like a bitch in heat.”
“I’m sure she enjoyed the performance,” Toby said tightly, “but I don’t think she wrote the music. There’s another hand behind all this.”
“Whose?”
“The shadow who arranged Fischart’s death. There’s a traitor in the Company.”
28
Never since the Tartar conquest of Europe almost three hundred years earlier had a member of the Khan’s immediate family visited Florence, and no expense was spared to honor the darughachi. The ceremonies would begin at the city gate on the Roman road, the Porta Gattolini, where bands played and banners flew above elaborate staging, where all the rich and powerful came to see and be seen, even those not required to participate. An honor guard lined both sides of the road out for more than a mile. Marshal Diaz had threatened to flog any man who did not meet his standards of perfection, be he cavalry squadriere, infantry commander, or Constable Longdirk himself. Growly old Antonio was probably capable of trying it, too, but the threat was not necessary. The entire Don Ramon Company was determined to upstage the Fiorentine provisionati, so sunlight blazed off helmets and breastplates, off shields and pikes and swords, off buttons and harness buckles buffed like silver. Even the horses looked polished. Toby had taken care that he would not be found wanting. At his post close to the gate, he flashed and sweltered in full armor like the rest.
The Company had begun deploying before dawn. Great carriages of the rich started rumbling out not long after, then the commonality emerged from the city like a noisy tide to roil over the fields, churning up the young wheat. They danced, picnicked, and generally enjoyed a sunny holiday. Hucksters and pickpockets plied their trades.
By noon the bands had given up, the honor guard was losing its glitter, and everyone was becoming grumpy. It was midafternoon before the long procession was seen winding in over the hills. It took almost another hour for the van of the Sienese escort to reach the first of the honor guard, and even then the end of the baggage train was still not in sight. The music began again, and maidens strewed flowers on the road before the prince’s steed. Cannons boomed, startling the horses. Some ambitious souls began to cheer, although that did not last long in the heat.
All this was only preparatory, for the main events would take place in the city, in the Palace of the Signory. But before the speeches and masques, before ceremonies in the piazza and services in the sanctuary—before anything else at all—the city leaders must make the Tartar ritual of obeisance, which was so ancient that it had been conveniently forgotten in Tuscany centuries ago. Nevertheless, it was required now, however much republican blood might boil.
A herald proclaimed the name and rank of the Khan’s official deputy, the despised Antonio Origo. The podestà advanced on foot, bowing seven times. Then he had to kneel and touch his face to the ground, rise to his knees, and kiss the prince’s boot. Later, when Sartaq sat enthroned in the palace, there would be formal oaths of allegiance, with each participant lifting the royal foot and placing it on his own head, but that could not conveniently be done when he was on horseback. Even this ritual was more difficult now than it had been in ancient times, for where the prince’s world-conquering ancestors had ridden shaggy little Mongolian ponies, he sat astride a long-legged Arabian stallion, and the dumpy messer Origo had considerable trouble reaching his lips to the boot without lifting his knees off the ground. Muffled sounds of amusement could be heard from the distant ranks of citizenry. Even the notables around Toby shimmered a little. As Origo rose and backed away, bowing seven more times as required, his face was observed to be redder than the rich wines of the Chianti Hills. Truly, the lot of a podestà in Florence was never easy.
Sartaq seemed younger than Toby had expected, although those unfamiliar Asiatic features were hard to judge. Under a towering, many-colored and many-layered hat, his complexion was the same olive-brown shade as Sorghaghtani’s, plump and unlined, with a thin black mustache curving down almost to his jaw-line. He was short, probably stocky, although little of his shape showed through the grandiose robes of bejeweled and emblazoned silk—not for him the simple furs and leathers of his horseborne steppe ancestors. He looked very bored, but possibly he was merely wearied by a long ride on a hot day.
None of the twenty or so glorious-garbed courtiers behind him seemed likely to be the military attaché Neguder. They were all elderly and could be assumed to have been sent along to keep the young prince in line.
All the innumerable priors and other dignitaries of Florence had now to be proclaimed by the heralds and then follow Origo’s footsteps over the crushed flowers. Pietro Marradi was not there, because formally he was only a private citizen. He was also too much of a realist to feel slighted by the omission, although all the lesser politicians, while denouncing the ceremony as barbaric and antiquated and humiliating, had been ready to riot if they were excluded.
The military were to come next, starting with the captain-general. Don Ramon might well be the haughtiest man in Italy, but an abasement that shocked republicans was no problem for him. He understood the rights of rank. He probably believed that he was entitled to much the same sort of veneration himself—after all, he could trace his lineage back six or seven centuries farther than the prince could, for the Khan’s line had been undistinguished before it produced the great Genghis. He strode forward cheerfully, a limber, athletic contrast to the stodgy, overfed burghers who had preceded him. He was the first to perform the obeisance with grace.
Then the captain of the city’s own troops, the provisionati, but no one put any stock in him. Toby was next. He braced himself…
“His Royal Highness,” bellowed the herald, “the Duke of Anjou, knight of the Order of the Golden Sword, companion of the Crystal Star, Sieur de la Loire, seigneur of Anjou, of Beaupréau, of Les Herbiers, of—”
Toby had swayed slightly on the balls of his feet, but he regained his balance without giving onlookers the satisfaction of seeing him flail his arms. His immediate companions were hissing in astonishment as the catalogue of seigniories rolled on and on.
And on …
“… of Sablé-sur-Sarthe, of Aiffres, Viscount Chateauroux, Baron Bonneval, castellan of La Roche-sur-Yon.”
The old scoundrel had never admitted to any of those honors before. Even now, he was obviously laying claim only to the titles he had possessed before the war, before Nevil turned his family into dog food. Since then he had inherited a third of Europe.
The catalogue ended, the rangy old mercenary limped
forward to greet the prince. Granted that D’Anjou himself had probably instigated this royal recognition, who had worked him into Toby’s spot in the ceremony? It was universally assumed that the main purpose of the darughach’s journey west was to choose the next suzerain. If blood was what mattered, then D’Anjou must be the logical choice, but there was certainly no chance of D’Anjou then appointing Toby Longdirk comandante.
That crashing noise was the sound of plans collapsing.
D’Anjou rose and retreated, bowing. The herald proclaimed Baldassare Barrafranca, certainly one of the most incompetent fighters ever to sign a condotta and pretender to one of the least justifiable hereditary titles. Obviously Toby Longdirk was not going to be called forward at all. He supposed he should be feeling anger, but his inner calm remained unruffled, almost as if he had expected this; the hob slept on.
“They did it again!” said an irate whisper at his elbow. Even Hamish was polished up like a silver wine jug today, but now his face was scarlet with wrath. He was speaking out of the corner of his mouth, of course, as all attention was supposed to be on the ceremony taking place in the road.
“Did what?”
“Insulted you! Deliberate public humiliation!” He managed to spit the words without moving his lips, quite a feat.
“You mean I’m supposed to feel slighted because I’m not allowed to kiss a man’s boot?”
