by Dave Duncan
Lisa had never met a duchess before and to be greeted by this first one with a full court curtsey, skirts right down in the mud, was shocking. Ferrara? Hamish had mentioned that name. She was petite, face rather childish, hair bright red but apparently natural, magnificently arrayed in a gown of deep blue satin with a daring décolletage and padded epaulettes. Its slashed sleeves displayed golden lining, and at least a hundred pearls adorned it. There were another fifty on her balzo cap. A duchess did not go down in the mud like that to anyone less than a queen. The bag was now catless, obviously.
“Please do rise, Your Grace.”
Who had betrayed them?
“And, er, His Magnificence, um, messer Marradi, her brother,” Maud said.
Ugh! Lisa felt as if she had just fallen off a horse. Backward. Now she realized. This insignificant middle-aged man in drab brown doublet kneeling to her was the Magnificent, despot of Florence! His sister was the notorious Lucrezia Marradi. Hamish had told some stories about her that had made Lisa’s hair stand up, or try to. Beritola had told others that curled it.
“Oh, please rise, Your Magnificence.”
Maud did not present the third visitor, an elderly, portly man, but his threadbare garb and the way he lingered in the background indicated that he was of no importance. And Marshal Diaz would be no help. He always looked as if he had been carved out of oak. Today he had been cast in bronze.
She did not attempt Italian. Mother had been speaking French.
“Your Grace, Your Magnificence—I am most honored to meet you, although you catch me at an unfortunate moment. Dishabille! Had I known in advance of your coming, I should of course have been most delighted to enjoy, er, share your visit. I have heard so much about… I mean next time…” It was not going to work.
“You poor child!” said the duchess. “How can you have endured this horrible place? Tonight you will sleep in silken sheets on a swansdown bed, as a queen should.” Her smile would melt a portcullis.
“But…” But she was about to be taken away and locked up, and she would never be allowed to see Hamish again. She turned to glare at her mother. Why had she admitted her identity after denying it for so long? Had Lisa been here, she would have stiffened her backbone for her. Deny it! They could prove nothing!
“I have accepted Her Grace’s invitation, Lisa.”
“Well, I have not! Go if you wish, Mother. I will stay here. I am the guest of Constable Longdirk, and it would be most discourteous of me to leave when he himself is absent, and without thank—”
The notorious Lucrezia laughed most gaily. “Longdirk? I don’t think that overgrown brute will cause—”
“Be silent,” the Magnificent said sharply, stopping her instantly. He turned a pair of alarmingly sharp eyes on Lisa. “Your Majesty, we learned of your presence here and your identity only this morning, and we came at once. What we have learned, others will. I confess that our interest has now made this inevitable, but it would have happened anyway. You are no longer—”
“Learned how?” Lisa demanded. “From whom?” She was digging nails into her palms, desperately trying to dream up some valid defense, some way of staying here until Hamish returned.
“From a source I trust too much to reveal, madonna.” He was amused by her resistance and barely managing to pretend otherwise. He gestured at the third member of the group, the elderly fat man. “For many years messer Minutolo was my family’s agent in London. He was present at your parents’ wedding, and we brought him along to confirm your mother’s identity, so we should not cause trouble or distress to anyone if our information was false.”
Marshal Diaz took up the cudgel. “My lady, His Magnificence also brought a warrant from the signoria. The Don Ramon Company is in their employ, my lady. I shall inform Constable Longdirk immediately of what has transpired, but in the meantime I respectfully counsel you to be guided by Her Grace and His Magnificence.”
Stupid, stolid, stagnant Diaz! He should have been an acolyte, not a mercenary! The footman and postilion had opened the coach door and dropped the steps. The guards had closed in around the group.
“Come, dear.” Maud laid a hand on her arm.
“Where are we going?”
“My house is at your disposal, Majesty,” Marradi said.
She had seen that gloomy pile. Hamish had pointed it out to her. It looked like a fortress. “My clothes—”
Lucrezia laughed. “You will have all the clothes you can stand to try on, child, garments more suitable for a palace, I daresay.”
“My maid! Beritola?”
“We can send for her if you wish, but I can give you a dozen better.”
Reluctantly—oh, so reluctantly!—Lisa let her mother urge her toward the coach. Hamish would rescue her! No. Disloyal though it seemed, she did not believe that. The only person she could imagine who might be able to rescue her from the Marradi’s clutches was Toby Longdirk.
Unless he had been the one to betray her.
33
The conclave was a disaster. Hour by hour it became more obvious that the cities would never agree, and the Khan’s intervention had only made things worse, because Sartaq knew nothing, his advisors were incompetent, and every one of them wanted to meddle. Nevil would be receiving very encouraging reports from his agents.
The agony was that it should have worked. The men Toby had invited had all come: Giovanni Alfredo, Ercole Abonio, Bruno Villari from Rome—whose only good quality was that he fought like three rabid badgers—and from Naples, Egano Gioberti, Jules Desjardins, and even Paride Mezzo, the collaterale, who had ridden all the way in agony, knowing he was dying but anxious to do his duty to the end. All for nothing! Even the Swiss had responded. On the second day Beltramo di Nerbona rode in at the head of a delegation from no less than ten of the thirteen cantons, which was an astonishing show of cooperation. They left before dawn. They knew a lost cause when they saw one.
At first Toby assumed that the senior delegates would be able to meet privately together, ignoring all the hangers-on and political parasites, but even that proved to be impossible. Every man had a spy or two at his shoulder put there by his own government, quite apart from the dozen or so others assigned to him by other states—at times the gramarye in the air made the hob itch so much that Toby could hardly think. Hundreds of minor condottieri and would-be condottieri swarmed like mosquitoes, all trying to gain promotion by signing on with one of the major states or larger companies, while the Tartar officials and innumerable Italian politicians just kept getting in the way. It was a madhouse, worse than juggling beehives.
The meetings and conferences were all held in public. No one knew who was supposed to be included, so everyone turned up rather than insult the Khan’s representatives. Neguder was brought all the way from Florence in a litter and carried back again three days later, having not sobered up once. He slept on a throne as his interpreter read his speech again, the same speech he had given in Florence, while all the senior soldiers in Italy and half the second-string politicians crouched with their noses on the floor.
On the second day there was almost a riot. Nevil would certainly be told about the two cardinals who turned up and were very nearly hanged on a tree by enraged mercenaries. The Don Ramon Company was far from alone in being short of hexers, but the College remained obdurate. Rome’s own Captain-General Villari admitted that he lacked adequate spiritual protection and did not intend to move his forces far from the walls of the Eternal City itself.
Sartaq arrived about noon on that last day. He had sent no warning, so the sight of the long procession trotting up the slope to the villa with pennants flying and armor flashing threw the whole conference into panic. Fortunately Toby was one of the first to notice, and with Hamish’s help he organized a makeshift guard of honor on the steps—military leaders on one side, politicians on the other. There was barely even time to argue about precedence. One portly priore did try to move closer to the top, but after Toby picked him up and carried him back
down to where Hamish had put him there was no more trouble.
The grand parade halted; the prince dismounted. One of the Tartar courtiers had emerged from the villa to gabble hasty instructions. As Sartaq reached the start of the honor guard, everyone knelt and touched his face to the ground. Because Florence was hosting the conclave, Hamish had put the don at the top of the steps, with old Cecco de’ Carisendi opposite him. Toby crouched beside the don for what seemed like a very long time as the prince paced up the steps, and he was hard put to contain a rising tide of anger. He could almost dream of giving in to his frustration and letting the hob go on a rampage, blasting and smiting everything in sight. All his work was being wasted, his efforts balked. Surely there had never been a more useless council of war in the history of war itself! Men who ought to be preparing for a terrible struggle were being humiliated to honor a stripling foreigner whose only qualification was that he claimed to be descended from some notable butchers three hundred years ago. The darughachi who had been sent to save Italy was destroying it, and Italy was letting it happen.
Temptation itched like nettle rash. The Don Ramon Company controlled the villa and would follow Longdirk’s orders. He could put the prince under arrest and declare Italy free of the Khan’s hegemony. At best the states would unite in the face of the Fiend’s threat. At worst his coup would divide them worse than before and make Nevil’s task easier. Republics like Florence might split wide open. Sartaq’s Tartar bodyguard would certainly resist, and some of the delegations might side with them, so the bloodshed would start immediately.
It was an impossible dream. However bad the darughach’s leadership might be, it could not be replaced now. That was another mystery of power—it was almost indestructible.
The royal riding boots came to a halt in front of his nose; he heard a brief exchange in Tartar. Then the prince went indoors, and the honor guard could rise and hastily brush dust off their knees and hands before bowing to Sartaq’s entourage as it came up the stairs after him. The drab, unimpressive figure in front was the Magnificent himself, Pietro Marradi.
He acknowledged them all with a small bow, a smile, and almost invariably a name—right, left, right, left… Once or twice he turned his ear to a chancellor at his back, who would whisper a name he had forgotten, and no doubt he had been provided with lists of all the more important guests, but it was still a masterly performance. His smile turned toward Toby—and vanished.
Toby paused halfway out of his bow, then straightened up more slowly. “Your Magnificence?”
“Messer Longdirk!” It was understood that Il Volpe never lost his composure and would continue to smile politely under any circumstances. But he had displayed anger in the piazza three weeks ago, and he was making no effort to hide it now. “You presume far, messer, when you keep secrets from me!”
“Me, Your Magnificence? Secrets?” What was going on now? Toby could think of nothing he had withheld that was of any significance. Bartolo submitted all the required reports to the dieci. “I can only assure—”
“Very significant secrets!”
“I cannot imagine to what Your Magnificence refers.” Nor could he imagine why he had to be humiliated with this accusation before such an audience.
“Indeed?” Marradi sneered. “Does the name Blanche mean nothing to you?”
It felt like a punch in the kidneys. “What has happened?” Was Lisa in danger? Where was Hamish? … don’t let Hamish do anything rash… Lisa!
His shock had shown on his face. The Magnificent smiled grimly at this evidence of guilt.
“What has happened is that your private conspiracy has been uncovered, messer. Fortunately the lady in question and her daughter have now been escorted to quarters fitting to their rank, where they will be much less at risk than in a camp full of mercenary rabble.”
Demons! Lisa was in no immediate danger if she had been kidnapped by Marradi himself. For a moment Toby could think of nothing more except the scores of ears and eyes around them. Nevil must certainly have agents here in the villa, and would guess who Blanche was. Hamish. Was Hamish within earshot? How to keep Hamish out of trouble? He found his tongue.
“Your Magnificence, if we must discuss a lady, surely we can do so in private?” Betrayed! Who could have revealed the countess’s true identity?
The Magnificent was seething, “There is no need to discuss the lady, messer. She and her daughter are quite safe now. What we shall need to discuss is your conduct in concealing them from us when your obvious duty was otherwise.” The Magnificent stalked past the don and on into the villa.
Toby looked around anxiously for Hamish.
“How very extraordinary!” Villari remarked. “Do you always let him talk to you like that, Constable?”
Toby resisted an impulse to flatten the odious little man. Villari was a competent fighter when he had no choice in the matter. So was a rat.
The don snorted and charged to his deputy’s defense. “He is only a moneylender—what do you expect? Which bawd is he pursuing, Constable?” The copper mustache curled in a smile; the mad blue eyes were raging.
“Not the one he thinks he is, signore. I fear there has been a most unfortunate mistake.”
If that disclaimer convinced anyone at all, it was no one in Italy. The audience grinned from ear to ear, a hundred ears, one enormous multiple grin all the way around them, a forest of teeth.
“Perhaps it was you who mistook the name, messer Scotsman,” Villari suggested loudly. “You may have misheard because her thighs were over your ears.”
Pounding him into the ground would be too good for him. And there was Hamish in the background, staring at Toby with eyes like open wounds and white cheekbones showing through his tan as if it were varnish. Think of something, quickly, think of some reason to keep Hamish busy so he could not vault on Eachan and spur like a maniac to Florence. “Chancellor!” At least now there was no need to worry that Hamish might vanish in the night with Lisa and her mother en route to Malta. But, oh, Lisa! She was lost now. The great monster Politics had wrapped its tentacles around her, and she would never escape. A nightingale caught in a net. A sunbeam lost in fog. She had been under his protection. Whatever would they do to her? Hamish arrived.
“Lists?” Toby babbled. “You have some lists we have to go over. The seating for the banquet. Guard roster…”
Hamish looked at him as if he had taken leave of his senses, which perhaps he had. “They will have to wait.” He switched to Gaelic. “Have you gone deaf? They are calling all senior military personnel to wait on the prince.”
“Er, what?” He had not been listening …
“A council. Sober up, Toby!”
“Demons! You mean it’s actually going to happen?”
“Of course.” Hamish took him by his elbow, as if he were a child or a tottering geriatric and guided him into the villa, walking with the tide. “This way. But for spirits’ sake keep your back to the wall.”
Not only was Sartaq going to confer with the military, he had graciously stipulated that the meeting would be held in western fashion—meaning upright, not kneeling. As Toby strode into the hall and saw the senior condottieri and collaterale standing before the throne, he felt a flutter of hope for the first time in weeks. It wavered when he realized that they were far from alone, and more people were flooding in behind him. Did Sartaq truly intend to discuss strategy in public? The politicians were much in evidence already—Marradi and a group of Florentines, the Venetian commissioners, the Neapolitan ambassador, who was King Fredrico’s bastard son. Seeing Ercole Abonio towering over the throng, Toby began pushing in his direction, and none too gently, but before he arrived at his destination he heard a chancellor thump his staff on the floor and had to stop where he was. The crowd hushed expectantly.
In happier times the brilliantly decorated hall must have been the site of fine banquets. The usual tables and benches had been removed for the conclave and replaced by a single chair of state. Even so, the prince�
��s bodyguards had to push a path through the crowd for him. He advanced to the throne, but instead of sitting he just turned and stood in front of it, looking over the assembly, acknowledging the bows with a solemn nod. He was clad in Italian costume of tights, shirt, tunic, and a short cloak, all of somber browns and greens that had probably been carefully chosen to suit his coloring. He was short, but there was more than padding spreading the shoulders of his doublet, and his legs were impressive. It was the first time Toby had seen him at close quarters. He did not look like an idiot. His eyes were quick. Younger sons of Oriental potentates were traditionally sequestered at puberty with unlimited opportunities for debauchery so that they would rot their brains, ruin their health, and never become a threat to the succession. Sartaq did not look as if that had happened to him, but he was the product of a decayed system, so perhaps he had just never learned to think for himself.
His gaze came to rest on Toby. Toby stared right back. The men in front of him sidled out of the way, dissipating like morning dew.
“You are the one called Longdirk?”
Toby bowed. “Your Highness’s most humble servant.”
“You were in charge at the Battle of Trent.” The accent was strange, but his Italian was better than Toby’s, spoken without hesitation.
“I had that honor, Your Magnificence.”
“If you were in command of all my father’s armies in Italy now, what would you do to deal with the Fiend’s invasion?”
The obvious answer began, “I would call a secret and intimate conclave of the leading soldiers …” But that was what he had done when the problem had been winning agreement between the five major states. Now the problem was different. The prince could command obedience.
The second most obvious answer began, “I certainly would not announce my plans with half the population taking notes.” But that would be lèse-majesté and disaster.
