by Dave Duncan
The cardinal had obviously been napping over a book in a comfortable chair. He roused himself and strutted forward like a robin, offering his ring to be kissed, but holding it low enough to leave no doubt that Toby was expected to kneel first. So he knelt and was left shivering on his knees on a very cold marble floor while his host wandered back to stand in front of the hearth. The doorkeeper, having added a few more logs to the fire, had withdrawn, still silent, and no one had mentioned warm spiced wine. No one had said anything about hospitality for Smeòrach, either, but of course he was assumed to be demonized.
“State your case,” the cardinal said. “You are wasting our time unless you have something new to say.”
The noble acolyte was small, pudgy, and chinless in his grandiose red robes; and for his manners he deserved to be kicked very hard from Sicily to the Alps.
“I have defeated the Fiend in battle, Your Eminence. That is new. No other man can say as much.”
The cardinal shrugged. “You bested one of his underlings, not Nevil himself. You did so by using gramarye, which decent men do not touch. Last week your arch-hexer died a deservedly horrible death in Siena, so now you come crawling to the … no?”
“With respect, Your Eminence, Baron Oreste remains in excellent health.”
The little man scowled. “Carry on, then.”
After that cool beginning, the audience waxed even frostier. His Eminence conceded that the College might possess a few immured demons that had not yet been destroyed, but not that it kept any great horde of them in the crypts of Rome. Even if some could be found and their names determined, the Holy Father was adamant that the College could never allow them to be used, nay not even to defend Italy from the Fiend. That would be a great evil.
Oreste believed that the College used its vast cache of confiscated demons to defend Rome itself. That, he had said, was why the cardinal had insisted on meeting Toby at Tivoli, because any attempt to ride a demonized horse closer to the city would be very quickly fatal. He also suspected that the present Holy Father was senile and the College was badly divided on the question of how far it could bend its principles in order to resist the Fiend.
“If the gramarye were to be strictly limited to defense?” Toby asked. His knees ached, and the cold of his wet tunic had soaked through to his bones.
The cardinal sniffed. “And what is defense, pray? A bowman shoots at you so you wipe out an entire army and call it defense? I see no point in continuing this conversation.”
“I am trying to save your native city from total destruction, Your Eminence.”
“It sounds to me as if you are exposing it to totally unnecessary risk. I can’t imagine why my brother would waste a moment contemplating the wild plot you suggest. The Holy Father would be incensed if he heard that I was even discussing the use of gramarye. It is an evil that has perverted many fine adepts into hexers and so damned them.”
“With respect, Your Eminence, the baron believes that he can find volunteers to handle the demons according to his instructions. They would not be jeopardizing their souls with forbidden knowledge.”
The cardinal considered that offer, pouting. It was the first time he had hesitated. Oreste thought the arrangement would appeal to the College because it could more easily deny involvement if it supplied only the immured demons and not the adepts to handle them.
“I doubt that that is possible.”
“Maestro Fischart will be more than willing to attend Your Eminence to explain how he can arrange this.”
Marradi shook his dewlaps in refusal. “I had as soon turn my villa into a public brothel as consort with anyone so notorious. The solution is of very doubtful morality. Granted that war requires taking risks, these volunteers of his, by their innocence and ignorance, would be placed in grave danger from the very demons they expected to control.”
It seemed that nothing would work. The cause was hopeless, and Toby was becoming increasingly worried about Smeòrach, shivering outside in the rain. He had only one last desperate plea left in his bag.
“If the use of the demons were strictly limited, Your Eminence? The heart of my plan is that the Allies encircle Nevil without his knowing. With sufficient gramarye, their armies could be concealed from his view until the trap had been closed. If this is evil, surely it is no more evil than resisting his invasion by the use of cold steel or black powder?”
The adept gathered his scarlet robes more tightly over his little paunch as he thought about that. “What guarantees would you give that the demons be used for that purpose only?” he asked suspiciously.
A gleam of hope flickered. “Any guarantees Your Eminence requires.”
Heavy lids drooped over the fishy eyes. “And if I require you to pledge your life on it?” the cardinal asked softly.
“I will pledge.”
“You will swear?”
“I will swear.”
The little man’s voice grew quieter yet. “Would you submit to a stronger charge than that?”
So much for the doctrine that the College never indulged in gramarye. Toby doubted that the hob would allow him to be hexed with a lethal conjuration, but if he breathed a word about the hob to this pompous little parasite, he would find himself with an iron blade through his heart in very short order.
“Anything Your Eminence requires.” He hoped that the hob, if it did rebel, would begin by frying Ricciardo Cardinal Marradi in batter.
“Mm.” The arch-acolyte seemed almost disappointed. “I shall discuss this proposal with my colleagues. Return in four days at the same hour, and I will let you know then of Their Eminences’ decision. If it is favorable, I may even have some material for you to transport to your hexer, Fischart. I warn you that you will be the one pledged for their proper use and safe return.”
The College, or some powerful faction within the College, did accept the agreement. Even more surprising, the hob did not object to the binding, and Toby had returned from his second trip to Tivoli carrying the squirrel’s horde, a sack of jewels so heavy that even he could barely lift it single-handed.
49
Without warning the mists wavered, and the hoof-beats lost their odd metallic note. Trees came into view, at first like wraiths and then more distinct. A wall, a gate … reality returned at the wooded uphill edge of the muddy, disfigured slope where the Don Ramon Company had camped for half a year.
Smeòrach rarely made a fuss entering the Unplace, but coming out of it was another matter. There were dangers in the real world, in this case shrubbery, walls, many men on horses, and a foul reek of burning. He brayed, bucked, and kicked up his heels. Toby was no Don Ramon. He was an adequate horseman at best, and he had no saddle. He hit the real world with a crack that blew all the air out of his lungs. Chabi went in search of a tree. Demons! That was not exactly a dignified way to begin a war. His linen armor had saved him from serious hurt, but he needed a moment to let the sky and branches stop spinning.
A banner bearing the winged lion of Venice came into view, being carried by a puzzled-looking young gonfalonier on a white horse. A knight in full armor on an armored destrier appeared beside him.
“Hawking with an owl?” inquired the mocking tones of Captain-General Alfredo. “In daylight? How many mice today, messer?”
Ignoring the scorn for the moment, Toby sat up and took stock. The villa had been sacked the previous morning—he had seen the smoke then, and now he could smell it and view the charred remains. But the Fiend’s troops had moved on, and in the night Alfredo’s had come, the army of Venice that had been treading on Nevil’s heels all the way from Bologna. The wood was full of knights and their warhorses, and there would be companies of infantry behind them. This was a small host compared to Nevil’s multitude, although it included men of Padua, Verona, Ferrara, and many humbler towns. Even villages and hamlets had sent their youth to Florence to fight the Fiend.
To his left, the dozen or so hooded figures in white robes were Maestro Fischart and his hexers. Down
slope, Smeòrach was still playing the fool, and no one had dared to go after him because they all thought he was demonized. Toby put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The first edge of the sun blazed on the horizon, but there was still time, for Fiesole was very high. Dawn would come later down on the plain, where Florence glowed pink in the morning light, with no sign of war yet. Two hundred thousand men—it was a shock to realize that Nevil himself must be down there, too. For the first time in his life, Toby Longdirk was within reach of his implacable foe.
The Fiend had walked into his trap. That felt very good.
Feeling ready to face Stiletto’s mockery, he scrambled to his feet. “Good day to you, Captain-General. Last night the darughachi appointed me comandante of the armies of Italy.”
A careful smile appeared under Alfredo’s visor. “Officially at last? Congratulations! Well earned. And what orders have you for us today, Your Excellency?” As if he did not know.
“Just one, messer.” Toby pointed to the enemy. “Kill!”
Alfredo’s grin became more convincing. He raised his silver baton in salute. “It shall be done, comandante. Drummer, sound the Prepare to Advance!”
Toby turned to give Smeòrach a pat, then heaved himself onto the big oaf’s sweat-slick back. Chabi wheeled down to his shoulder as he rode over to the waiting hexers. Volunteers they all were, officially, and he had not asked where Fischart had found them, but he was confident that most of them were skilled adepts, so he had already bent his oath to the cardinal very badly. He intended to break it into tiny fragments shortly. Four of the thirteen were women, and two of the others seemed barely more than boys. Most were keeping their hands out of sight inside their sleeves, but he knew that their fingers were weighted with rings, and they had chains of assorted gems hung around their necks under their robes. With this huge spiritual artillery they had concealed an army of more than fifty thousand from the Fiend’s demons.
Fischart hurried forward to meet him, white robe swirling around his ankles. For once the grim old man was smiling, if that wolflike snarl could be called a smile. Nothing in his world mattered except fighting the Fiend, and he was about to inflict on that monster the worst shock he had ever had.
“Success!” he shouted as he approached. “We did it! Not a sign of alarm. No gramarye yet.”
Drums were beating, bugles sounding, as the army of Venice prepared to move out down the hill.
“Magnificent! My congratulations to your associates. Lift the shield when the sun is one fingerswidth above the hills.”
“The men won’t be in contact with the enemy by then.”
“You heard my order. Use no more gramarye until battle is joined or the enemy looses his demons.”
Still panting from his run, the hexer scowled up at him. “You are hiding things from me!”
“I am comandante. I’ll hide anything I want from anyone.” Including, reasonably enough, himself. “I don’t explain orders on battlefields, Maestro. I trust you to obey and do your best.” He saluted the line of hexers, wheeled Smeòrach, and urged him forward into the Unplace.
After the morning light, the Unplace seemed like a fog at midnight. Smeòrach’s trotting hooves rang in a steady refrain.
“How do you know where you are going without a guide?” asked Sorghie’s voice.
“I don’t know. Don’t know how I know, I mean. I seem to be my own familiar.”
“And what secrets are you keeping from the man in the white robe?”
“The same ones I am keeping from you.”
His helmet saved him from suffering a bitten ear at that point. Instead, the owl leaned under the brim and nipped his nose, which was no improvement.
“Stop that!”
“Will you tell me now, or must I hurt you more?”
“Well. It’s a long story,” he said. He did not know what the truth of it was. The cardinal had no reason except personal spite to want him dead. The hob probably would not have tolerated a real death hex. Enchantments on people faded quickly, and it was more than two months since his second trip to Tivoli—although Marradi might have renewed the gramarye when he was in Florence in March.
Before he had to answer, Smeòrach left the Unplace, trotting out of the mists onto green pasture. This time Toby calmed him and kept him under control, although he could no more have explained how he did it than he understood his own navigation. It seemed his wishes were commands now.
They were on the north bank of the Arno, a league or so downstream from Nevil’s invading army—less than a league, for he could make out individual tents in the Fiend’s camp. But vision could be deceptive here, for when he looked around, he was only a bowshot away from another army, already advancing at a slow march to the beat of a drum, and obviously the enemy had not seen it, nor the camp behind it. He turned Smeòrach and cantered to meet the vanguard. His appearance had coincided with the moment when the first sliver of the sun’s disk peeked over the ridge, and a great cheer went up to greet him.
Wonderful, wonderful sight! This was to be Longdirk’s day even if it killed him, as it might do very shortly. Here was an army larger than the one he had led at Trent, yet still merely a quarter of the forces he was now sending into battle. Even if he lost, he would be remembered for having achieved one of the greatest surprises in military history, while if he won … Time enough to think about that when he did.
He was surprised that Ercole had put his cavalry squadrons on the right and the infantry marching in six battles on the left. He would have placed the men-at-arms on the other wing, so the river would protect their flank, but doubtless the old warrior had his reasons. Out in front rumbled the carroccio, a flat-bottomed, rectangular cart, garishly painted and drawn by two armored oxen. Traditionally the hexers rode in this absurd battle wagon, but it was also a mobile headquarters and a symbol of sovereignty. The finest troops in the army would guard the carroccio and perish to the last man around it if need be. Above it floated the serpent banner of Milan.
There were other banners in the background—Savoy and Genoa, Pisa and Lucca, others, too. All the ancient rivalries had been set aside, and for that Toby could claim no credit. Well, perhaps a little bit. They had rallied to the standard he had raised.
Ercole Abonio was riding forward to meet him, accompanied by a knight whose surcoat bore the blazon of the Black Lances and who must therefore be di Gramasci. Two of the finest military leaders in Europe roared a welcome as soon as they were within earshot. In the far distance, cannons rumbled a reply. He glanced around, but it was too soon to discern smoke. He hoped it signified only Florence’s defenders warning off an attack, not the battery on San Miniato opening fire on the city.
“I was getting worried!” Ercole shouted.
“I couldn’t find a clean shirt!”
He halted, and they reined in on either side of him, eyeing the owl on his shoulder with surprise and noting the curious absence of a saddle, but the terror-thrill of upcoming battle was making them beam like children under their raised visors. On closer inspection their faces also showed the wear and tear of the long forced march, although less on the condottiere’s, for he was the younger. Abonio had visibly aged since the conclave at Cafaggiolo, a month ago. No matter, Nevil’s army had come farther and would be even wearier.
“You’re late,” the old collaterale said. “Trouble?”
“No trouble.” The comandante just forgot what he was doing, that was all. “That’s a truly dainty army you gentlemen have brought. Why don’t you go and do something useful with it now?”
“We await only your word, Sir Tobiaso.” Di Gramasci was not normally pompous. Did even these seasoned veterans suffer from battle nerves?
“Then here it is: Destroy the enemy! Have your hexers drop their shielding when the carroccio reaches that tree. Tell them to do nothing more until the fighting starts. That’s important.”
The two men exchanged puzzled glances, but did not argue.
Di Gramasci raised his baton in sa
lute. “As you command, signore!”
But Ercole hesitated. “Forgive me if I ask one last time, lad. Must it still be no quarter?”
He was a good man, Abonio, an honorable soldier who had been loyal to his cousin the duke all his adult life. This savage new warfare was foreign to him, hard to take. Even Toby’s heart twisted at the thought of the orders he had given, the suffering he must now cause. The two of them had argued this through most of the night at one of their secret midnight meetings in Milan, but Toby’s view had prevailed in the end and must prevail now.
“You know what quarter the Fiend gives. Your orders are to show no mercy whatsoever. Announce that any man doing so is to be shot. Let the burden be on my soul.”
He turned Smeòrach away and rode off into the Unplace.
The mists had hardly swallowed them before Chabi asked, “Why must there be no quarter?”
“Because it must.” Did she think he could not feel pity? She did not see the visions he saw, of thousands and tens of thousands of Nevil’s troops surviving as lordless fugitives, starving outlaws, rabid dog packs overrunning Italy. There was no way to imprison so many, no money nor organization to escort them back to their own lands.
“Why is it important that the hexers do nothing before the fighting starts?”
“Because it is.” What had he forgotten, or overlooked? If the cardinal’s hex killed him soon, as it well might, could the alliance forge ahead to victory without him?
