by Dave Duncan
After a moment the shaman—or her familiar, or perhaps it was both of them—tried again. “Why did you suffer when we took you into the spirit world? Where did the pain come from?”
“An old memory.” Perhaps he should have designated a deputy to take over if he fell, but it would probably have been a fruitless exercise. The coming carnage would be so confused and catastrophic that each of the six armies in the coalition would have to fend for itself. With the Magnificent dead, Sartaq would try to take more power into his own hands. He might even succeed, for he was a very shrewd and devious young …
Talons digging into his jerkin, the owl flapped her wings and screeched, much too close to his ear, even with the steel helmet between them. “Why do you not trust me? Did I not help you find your lost self? Where would you be now, who would you be without my help? What would have happened to your war?”
Women! And birds, for that matter. But Sorghaghtani did have a claim on him today.
“The demons the hexers are using were loaned to me by the College. I swore a solemn oath that they would be used only to make the armies invisible while they were assembling. They are not to be used for any other purpose, not even to heal wounded. I agreed to this because I had to, but I did not tell Maestro Fischart of the terms, so he has prepared his minions to take part in the battle.”
Smeòrach’s hooves rang in the silence for what seemed like a long time before the owl said, “You will break your solemn oath?”
“It has been broken. I have no way to stop the hexers now, and they would not obey me if I tried. You think they would stand by and watch Nevil’s demons destroy living men? Or watch men bleed to death when they can be healed? That is a greater evil.”
Chabi shifted feet on his shoulder. “Does the College not know this?”
“Yes, but the cardinal who provided the demons probably did so without proper authority. His crime can remain a secret only if I limit their use as he required. But I am not going to, so he will be exposed, and important people will discover that he broke his oath.”
“How does that explain the orders you gave? Why should it matter if your oath is seen to be broken now or in a little while from now?”
Before he could think of suitable words to explain about the death hex, Smeòrach trotted out into sunlight. Now they were on the hills south of the city, on the downstream side, not half a league from the Porta San Giorgio, and the cannon fire was an almost continuous rumble. As far as he could see, all the smoke was rising from the gun towers on the walls of Florence, so it was still defensive fire. Nothing showed yet on the crest of San Miniato.
The Roman contingent was small but so well supported by its own hexer auxiliaries that Villari had dared to pitch camp almost on top of the enemy. Whatever his personal faults, the abrasive captain-general was a fighting cock. He had not waited for Toby’s signal. His infantry was advancing with band playing, and his cavalry was already down in among the Fiend’s baggage train, silencing a ragged rattle of arquebus fire. The cats were out of the bag, and Toby could wish he was back on the dome of the sanctuary hearing the excited screams of the Florentines as their deliverance poured into view from all directions.
Or in the fight, even better.
It would be even nicer to hear what King Nevil was saying at the moment. He had arranged his whole gigantic army facing inward to assault Florence and now had the impossible problem of turning it inside out to face an attack from the rear while it was already under fire. He would not panic, but his mortal minions must be in chaos already.
The Romans had shared their camp with lesser bands from Siena and Perugia, and the lion rampant banner of Florence still fluttered over Don Ramon and his cavalry. He probably would not have restrained himself more than another few minutes, but he did not have to. The ground trembled as he brought the monstrous armored Brutus galloping across the field to meet Toby. Excitement flashed in his blue eyes as bright as dawn on his shining armor.
“Comandante! At last!” He ignored the owl.
“Senor! All is as planned, except that the guns are on wheels. If they manage to turn them on you before you get there, you will be in grave danger.”
The don’s brief scowl brightened. “But then when we take them, we can turn them on the Fiend!”
“I hope you do. I ordered the sortie to aid you, and it will include cannoneers. Good luck, Captain-General.”
“San Miniato is yours, comandante!” Don Ramon wheeled the great warhorse and cantered back to his command.
That left only the big Neapolitan contingent two hills over. Poor Paride Mezzo had stayed home, sending word that he would be less trouble to everyone if he died in his own bed, and the king had appointed Desjardins captain-general. That pugnacious warrior would almost certainly be on his way to join the battle by now, but he should still be given the signal promised. Toby kicked Smeòrach into a canter that took him back into the Unplace.
There was a sixth force in the Allied army, but it was far away…
“Why are you laughing, Little One?”
“Did I laugh? I was remembering the Swiss contingent arriving at the conclave, that’s all. I hadn’t taken old Beltramo into my confidence at that point. When I told him he was not welcome, the expression on his face was most wonderful to behold!” The crusty old soldier had worked miracles to wring agreement out of the cantons and hammer together the combined delegation, but when he arrived unexpectedly at Cafaggiolo, Toby’s first reaction had been less than tactful. Of course the situation had been clarified at that night’s secret session—shielded from spies by Maestro Fischart—and the Swiss had enthusiastically agreed to join the deception. They had stormed off in feigned disgust the next morning, and undoubtedly Nevil’s agents had informed him that he need not fear Swiss intervention. So today his lines of communication and the garrisons he had left to hold the Alpine passes would be chewed to rags. If he did manage to pull his forces loose from the Florentine trap, he would find the door locked behind him and no way home.
“So you have won?” asked the owl.
“Won? Won? No! Not yet. We’ve hardly started. We’re still badly outnumbered, and Nevil has beaten long odds before now. But if the don can seize the guns on the hill, then Florence is safe. If the Milanese and the Neapolitans can take the Fiend’s bridges, we’ll have cut his army in half. In an hour or so we’ll know the shape of the battle and who needs help. Why do you only speak in the Unplace?”
“Is this not part of the spirit world?”
Somewhere a demon was loosed. The hex struck. Toby screamed and fell off Smeòrach’s back.
50
Lisa awoke with her mother having hysterics beside her left ear because guns were firing and that meant the Fiend was coming to get them. Possibly so, but a screaming panic seemed an entirely inappropriate reaction, at least when there was no sturdy Hamish around to apply the treatment of choice. Grabbing Blanche by the shoulders, she administered a thorough shaking. Had this treatment not worked, she would probably have worked up to face-slapping, but that proved unnecessary. Silence fell.
There were cannons firing, and that was scary. “Let us get dressed,” she said, “and go down and find out what’s happening.” She scrambled out of bed and rang for help, although she suspected it might not appear. “Come, Mother!”
There was only room in her life for so many emergencies, and she had not finished dealing with yesterday’s yet. Was she or was she not married? The contract had been publicly signed and sealed, which ought to mean yes she was. But the, um, private parts of the arrangement had not been completed, and probably that meant no she wasn’t. She rummaged through a chest in search of fresh linen.
“I hope we can find out today,” she said as she tossed her findings in her mother’s direction, “whether I am a guest in this place—and if so who our host is—or if I own it.”
“I just hope it doesn’t get burned down before sundown,” Blanche retorted, struggling to dress herself without the assistance s
he had enjoyed all her life. The guns were growing louder.
Had any Queen of England ever been tortured to death by her own father?
Presentable, if not quite as well groomed as was their wont, they descended the great staircase hand in hand and were greeted by a low bow from Prince Sartaq, who was wearing riding boots and had just handed his cloak off to an attendant. His two villainous-looking shamans and half a dozen of his Tartar guards skulked in the background.
“Greetings, ladies! I trust you rested well after yesterday’s harrowing experiences?”
“What news?” Blanche demanded.
His smiles made his eyes disappear altogether. “Good news! Excellent news. The Fiend has been dealt such a blow as he never dreamed of. Come, let us together break our fast, and I will tell you all about this miracle.”
Lisa was still not sure whether she liked the Khan’s son or not. She had been prejudiced against him by Hamish, who had foamed at the mouth when denouncing the prince’s meddling. An idiot, he had said—a libertine who wantoned with loose women when he should be attending to business, a procrastinating popinjay who claimed the right to make all the decisions and then refused to make them or made stupid ones, and so on, with other complaints fortunately being expressed in languages she did not comprehend. Now she had lived in the same palace as Sartaq for almost a month, and he did not seem so contemptible. He had insisted they adopt the royal habit of addressing each other as “cousin” to avoid awkward considerations of precedence. He could be witty and even charming once you got used to his horse-stepped-on-it face. From the neck down he was impressive. Although Mother had mumbled some embarrassed warnings, and the chambermaids had told very scandalous stories, he had behaved like a perfect gentleman to Lisa. Despite his lack of years, he had more self-esteem than a peacock and could brandish his father’s authority like a battle-ax when he chose. He had taken charge of the whole palace after Pietro’s death and evidently still retained it.
Now he commandeered a minor dining room and demanded fast service. While waiting for results, he explained: “The Fiend has fallen into a brilliantly planned trap. Yesterday he brought his two armies together at Florence. This morning he was taken by surprise when comandante Longdirk attacked. The battle still rages, but I am confident that Nevil is doomed to a major defeat.”
“Praise to the spirits!” Blanche cried, dramatically clasping hands under her chin.
“So the big man really is a military genius?” Lisa inquired uneasily. “Did he burn any forests this time?”
Sartaq glanced at her inscrutably. “No, Cousin, but he conceived one of the greatest deceptions in the history of warfare, and then managed to pull it off. With a certain amount of assistance, I add in all modesty. Let us sit here, Aunt. We have still found no trace of Lucrezia the wicked. Perchance we never shall. No one knows who will succeed to leadership of the family and city. I expect the cardinal will make the final decision. This need no longer concern us, for Florence has served its purpose.”
As soon as food had been laid out, he shooed the servants away. “I shall myself wait upon you, ladies,” he declared, “for I have secrets to impart unheard. Red wine or white?”
When he had poured wine for everyone, he settled on the other side of the table. “A toast! I am confident that the threat to Italy is over. Nevil has met his match at last.” He raised his goblet in salute. “To his fall and destruction!”
“To the fall and destruction of Rhym.” Blanche had recovered much of her color, although she was not yet about to smile at anything.
“Ah, true! Forgive me. If your unfortunate husband can be restored, then we shall all applaud that outcome. However …” Seemingly quite unabashed by his slip, he looked thoughtfully at Lisa.
She dropped her eyes and noticed the basket of rolls in front of her. One day she had told Pietro how much she had enjoyed the French-style rolls she had met in Savoy, and they had appeared on every table since, fresh baked. She would not pretend she had ever loved him, but he had been a considerate host and a generous fiancé. She had grown accustomed to the prospect of being married to him, comfortable with it. He had not deserved that shameful death. She knew she might yet do a great deal worse in the husband market than Pietro Marradi.
The prince was still appraising her like a dealer at a horse fair.
“Am I now a widow, Cousin?”
Sartaq chuckled. “You mean can you claim a share of the Marradi fortune? I doubt it very much. Even if there is a way for a woman to own property in this city, which I doubt, and if you can hire a skilled advocate to take your case, which I doubt even more, to expect any Florentine court to rule in your favor would be optimism verging on fatuity. Whatever gifts the Magnificent gave you will still be yours, I expect, and you can probably extract a generous settlement if you just promise to go away and stay away, so you are a wealthy woman by most standards. Without even counting your claim to England, I mean.”
“But it is my claim to England that is chained around my ankle, isn’t it?”
“Lisa!”
“It’s true, Mother. There are men dying out there, so let us not play games in here. You are already wondering who to marry me off to, aren’t you, Cousin?”
The prince acknowledged her argument with an amused nod and reached into the fruit bowl. “Not exactly.”
“You’ve already decided?” Her heart sank. No, it dived under the table and tried to creep out of the room unnoticed.
“The choice is very limited.” He popped a date in his mouth. “Fair lady, I would most eagerly marry you myself. That solution creates new problems, though, because I gave my father and certain significant brothers my most solemn oath that I would neither name myself suzerain nor otherwise attempt to seize power. This condition they insisted on before they would approve my meddling in the affairs of Europe. It is written into my accreditation, and I am fairly sure they also hexed me so that I will drop dead or my head will fall off if I break my word. Trust“—he turned his face to spit out the pit—”is not a prominent trait in my family.
“The situation let me explain, Cousin. My mother was my honored father’s third wife, one of those chosen for political reasons, and of his sons I am seventh born. I am not sure how many of us there were at last count, but enough for any reputable purpose. In recent centuries it has become customary for the succession to pass to the Khan’s eldest son by his principal wife. Eldest surviving, that is, for mortality has always been fairly high among the leading candidates to rule the Golden Horde. Nevertheless a run of six misfortunes—accidents, sudden fevers, or suicides—is not reasonably to be expected. I seemed foredoomed to limit my interests to falconry and camel racing.”
Lisa had not heard him discuss himself or the royal family before. She was not at all sure she wanted to. “You are being cynical.”
His slit eyes narrowed in what might have been a smile. “I enjoy the chance to speak freely, Cousin. In Sarois these remarks would be suicidal, even within the family. Especially within the family. Where was I? Oh, yes. We have known for many generations that the Horde is not what it was. The descendants of fanatic steppe warriors have become fat cattle, indolent and timorous, who will one day be conquered and enslaved just as our ancestors enslaved the known world. Nor were we at all surprised to see Europe rise up against our rule. Our claim to overlordship has been largely a fiction for at least a century, although we did provide a useful service by maintaining the balance of power. If any ruler grew too powerful, the Khanate would assign the suzerainship to whomever seemed most likely to bleed him back to health, but such dominion must ultimately rest on the power to enforce it, and Nevil exposed our bluff for all the world to see. We regretfully concluded that our hegemony had ended.
“A confession: In my youth, being somewhat ambitious—within the limits of my loyalty to my dear Brother Kublai, of course—I always harbored a secret dream of striking some dramatic blow to bring the rebel lands back into the fold, and even had hope that such a demons
tration of martial prowess might win me advancement.”
Lisa raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“That and a couple of murders,” Sartaq agreed, helping himself to a pastry.
“Including Prince Kublai’s?”
“Especially Kublai’s, definitely. When news came that Nevil had finally lost a battle, I ventured to write and congratulate the young unknown who had achieved this feat. In my father’s name I wrote. He replied, a most interesting message. Over the previous dozen years, appeals have poured into Sarois by the hundred, all of them saying, in effect, ‘Send help! Come and fight for us! Send men, guns, horses.’ This one was different. It said, I can defeat Nevil, but it would be advantageous if Your Majesty would send an envoy.” He did not say very clearly why or how, and he admitted that the man in question should be expendable.” He chuckled. “My brothers were all in favor of sending me. Especially Kublai. So here I am.”
The general direction of this conversation was highly unsatisfying! Not Longdirk? Surely not marry Longdirk! Lisa’s fingers were systematically crumbling a roll to dust. “I did not realize you came to Italy to assist Sir Tobias.”
He noted her tone and paused. “I have just explained that my intention was to use him. Why are you surprised?”
“Well …” she said. Not Longdirk! He must not marry her to Longdirk! “Do please understand that he never discussed such matters in my presence, but the general chitchat around the camp was that he found your actions to be somewhat at cross-purposes with his own.”
Sartaq did not take offense. Indeed, he chuckled and refilled his goblet. “If that was the worst you heard, then I failed utterly. My first encounter with that human bull came a few nights after my arrival in Naples. He turned up at Castel Capuano in the middle of the night and won admittance to my bedchamber—which was a hair-raising achievement in itself. Having dragged me from my bed, as it were, he explained to me just how he intended to set a trap for King Nevil. You understand, I had come on this wild escapade in the hope of winning renown? Longdirk wanted me for bait. He was setting a trap, right here in Florence, and needed every minnow he could find on his hooks, with the Khan’s son as an especially juicy morsel. He also—”
