by Dave Duncan
“And a Queen of England as another?”
Sartaq sighed and reached for more dates. He was watching her reaction, though. “I am afraid so, Cousin. He told me that the Fiend’s wife and daughter had fallen into his hands two days earlier, quite unexpectedly, and when the time was ripe, he would … dangle you before the bull, I think was how he put it. He used some curious Spanish imagery.”
“How can this be?” Blanche demanded, her fingers fidgeting nervously on the cloth. “I admit I was not at my best then, but I am sure Constable Longdirk was never absent from the villa long enough to make a journey to Naples.”
“He did not travel by lawful means, Aunt.”
“It is true, then, that he is possessed by a demon?” Lisa asked. Perhaps she would get a straight answer at last.
Sartaq heaved his big shoulders in a shrug. “He is possessed by something, certainly. It does not seem to be a demon, not a true demon, or perhaps not yet a demon, but he wields powers honest men do not.”
“Oh, no!” Blanche said. “We were in the clutches of an incarnate?” She eyed Lisa in alarm, as if wondering what damage she might have overlooked. “You say it was he who revealed our identities?”
It must be. Sartaq had arranged this entire conversation just so he could make that indictment.
“Absolutely,” he said regretfully. “He told the Magnificent and me about you early on. Toby planned everything, including your betrothal to Marradi. He persuaded me to name Marradi suzerain, he told Marradi to let slip your existence by deliberate accident during the conclave, when we could be certain Nevil had spies in place. And so on. He brewed his plans with gramarye in secret and in public faked a monstrous disorder.”
“But …” Blanche protested. “When the Magnificent named him comandante last night at the wedding, I was watching his face, and I am certain he was taken by surprise.”
“No, dear Aunt,” Sartaq said with exaggerated patience. “He had ordered the Magnificent to do that. He had ordered me to approve it. He is an incredible actor. At Cafaggiolo I had to play court fool by naming the incompetent D’Anjou to the post—absolute idiocy! It was all Longdirk’s idea, and he had given me detailed instructions on the matter the previous night, yet when I made the announcement he turned scarlet with anger, as if he had been taken completely by surprise.
“You see now why I so disliked his proposal when he explained it at Castel Capuano? I had come west hoping to be a hero. I could just accept the notion of being bait, for there is a certain cachet in offering one’s breast to the sword. But he also required me to play the fool, to act as an incompetent. The more we could make it seem that my intervention had tangled the traces, the more likely Nevil was to swallow the lure. Very few people knew what was happening.”
Hamish had not been one of them! That was something to hold on to in all this terrible litany of deception and betrayal. Hamish had been honest. He would not have tolerated Longdirk’s treachery.
“This churl …” The prince’s bantering tone was wearing thin. “The first thing the nursery eunuchs taught me was to recite my ancestry back fourteen generations to Genghis, yet this baseborn serf cast himself in the role of Savior and me as Lord High Bungler! I could hear my brothers’ laughter already. When it comes, it will be audible all the way from Sarois.”
“But you did cooperate?” Blanche said. “You went along with his deception?”
Sartaq spat out another date pit. “I had no choice, Aunt. There was no other plan in sight, and I was certainly not capable of organizing one. When I asked people—King Fredrico, the cardinals, condottieri, anyone—who would make the best comandante, the only name I ever heard was Longdirk. He had ensnared me with that single letter, months before. I had to cooperate or slink home with my ears down. I confess that the opportunities he gave me to slight him in public have been the most enjoyable parts of my visit.”
He chewed for a moment, then said with a reluctant smile, “There is something almost noble in the way he endured it. By day, we spat in his beard. By night, when we met, he would thank us! Small wonder that Nevil discounted him.”
“And you will force me to marry this snake, Cousin? This churl, this betrayer, this demon incarnate?”
Sartaq turned to Lisa, looking startled.
“Forgive me. I express myself poorly in this language. I am aware that your heart draws you to this man, but—”
“With respect, Cousin, it does nothing of the sort! Far from it! Disregard any such rumor.”
“Oh?” He laughed. “Then this is easier. What I am trying to tell you is that the last man in Europe I will let you marry is Toby Longdirk. He has worked wonders. He may even destroy Nevil completely before this day is out. But is he an improvement? Where does his loyalty he? I do not know. Nor do I know if he planned this, but because we excluded him from all the ceremonies, he has never performed the ritual of obeisance! Not even when he was appointed comandante yesterday.”
Lisa gasped, and a moment later her mother gulped.
“Are you telling us, Cousin, that Longdirk deliberately murdered my husband to avoid having to swear allegiance to the Khan?”
Sartaq shrugged and drew his knife to cut a slice of meat from the cold lamb. “I don’t think so.” He seemed reluctant to make that admission. “We had not planned to include the obeisance in the middle of the wedding. My advisors believe that the murder was aimed at Longdirk, and his spiritual defenses deflected it. But it is worrisome. If this battle goes Longdirk’s way, as I expect it will, then there will be no stopping him. Don’t be surprised if his men turn up at the door to take you into, um … ‘protective custody’ is the usual expression, I believe.”
51
He could see nothing. He could hear. He could smell sweat, taste blood, and he most certainly could feel.
The drum beat its slow refrain—tap—pause— tap—and after each tap the cat-o’-nine-tails crashed against his back, and the whole world exploded in fire. He was back on Mulliez’s whipping post, hanging by his wrists, being beaten to bloody shreds.
tap—pause—“Neuf!”
But this was wrong. He could not think because of—
crash!—
—the pain, but this could not be happening. This was gramarye and—
tap—pause—“Dix!”
he ought to be able to deal with it, if he could just find—
crash!—
—oh, demons!—the answer. This was not real. This was gramarye. Hex.
tap—pause— “Onze!”
—the cardinal! Hob! Help! Sorghie!—
crash!—
—oh, spirits! Help me, Sorghie! I’ve never called for help in my—
tap—pause— “Douze!”
—life before, but I need you, need you, need you…
In a dark sky on a dark field a white owl swoops low and, snatching up its quarry, is gone on wings of silence …
He had his clothes on. There was no blood in his mouth or on his back. He was lying on rough ground with his head in Sorghaghtani’s lap, and she was sobbing hysterically, weeping without tears. Sunlight through branches dappled the sky.
“Sorghie! Sorghie?”
She gasped, barely able to breathe. “Little One?”
“It’s all right, Sorghie. Thank you, oh, thank you!” He found her hand and squeezed it. Trees, early-morning sky, a few birds singing … No sign of Chabi. “How did you get here?”
“Did you not need me?”
“I needed someone, yes!” He would probably have managed without her, eventually, but the sooner the better in that sort of trap. Marradi! That nasty, small-minded—
She choked a few times. Her absurd shaman hat lay discarded on the grass, and sunlight glinted highlights in her thick black hair. Her eyes were still bandaged. “What happened, Little One?”
“A very spiteful man, that’s all.” Ricciardo Cardinal Accursed Marradi.
“He was going to kill you?”
Toby heaved himself up to a sit
ting position. His head swam a bit, but he was basically unharmed. One day, when he had time, he would try to work out what had happened. “Maybe. I don’t think so. I think he laid a death hex on me so he could tell his friends he had, but he knew I had some gramarye and could break it.” No way to be sure, though. He wasn’t even sure he could have broken it without Sorghie’s help. It had been a close call.
“You broke your oath now?”
“Let’s go and see.” The sun was still very low through the trees, but that distant rumble was the mudded-up sound of guns and thousands of hooves, war cries and dying screams, drums and bugles—the noise of battle that could inspire a man to wild killer frenzy and simultaneously make him want to crawl under a bush and hide. It could not have been going on very long yet. He rearranged himself to rise, and somehow the movement put his face closer to hers, and then it was quite natural to take her in his arms and kiss her.
She was as tiny as a doll. She returned the kiss eagerly, moaning with delight, seeming willing to let it go on forever, child trying to become instant woman. He wanted to crush her and certainly could if he tried, while her embrace was barely perceptible through his armored jerkin.
Breaking loose was surprisingly difficult. “Oh, Sorghie! That cannot be.”
She buried her face in his neck, snuffling like a puppy. “We helped, didn’t we?”
“You didn’t just help. Without you and Chabi it would have been impossible. I would not have remembered to give the signal, and the armies would not have attacked.”
“Our walk was not for nothing then?”
“No.” He kissed her again. He did not fear the hob with Sorghie. She was so tiny in his arms that his body was not taking her seriously. Given time, though … He eased his lips away from hers. She smiled and also sighed.
“All over?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Come along.”
Smeòrach had tangled his reins in a bush not far off and was resolutely trying to eat with the bit still in his mouth, which would just plain ruin his digestion. Toby climbed aboard and pulled the blind shaman up beside him. Then he rode off into the Unplace.
Only two reserve battles of infantry remained near the Neapolitan camp. Voices were raised in alarm when the unknown horse materialized nearby, but a glance showed him that the war was not here, and he did not linger.
Smeòrach’s hooves clattered on paving, and he neighed in alarm to find himself in the crowded street outside Giovanni’s Inn. But this was home at the moment. It had oats. He neighed again, more hopefully. Other horses and even some people neighed back at him, alarmed at his mysterious materialization.
“Toby!” Hamish came plowing through the crowd like a mad bull. “Where have you been? Do you know what’s happening out there?”
Toby lifted Sorghaghtani and more or less dropped her into Hamish’s arms, then slid off Smeòrach’s back. A wagonload of fatigue seemed to land on his shoulders, making his knees tremble. Hamish was never going to forgive him for keeping him in the dark so long.
“More or less. Is Diaz ready at the Porta San Miniato?”
“He says you were babbling about a suicide sortie.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be suicide now. The don’s about to take the hill. Round up all the reserves we’ve got and get them over to Porta San Miniato to help. Tell Diaz he’ll need … No, look after these two, and I’ll tell him.” Thrusting Sorghie at Hamish with one hand and the reins with the other, Toby turned and ran.
He had never tried the Unplace on foot before. The shiny surface was oddly bouncy and yet slippery, the mists more menacing, but in a few moments he returned to reality just inside the Porta San Miniato. Even from the street he could see that there was a battle in progress on the hill as the don tried to seize the guns and the Fiend’s troops defended them. Diaz already had the gate open and was leading the infantry out at the double. Toby squeezed into the column and went with them, laughing at his neighbors’ astonishment, shouting encouragement and promises that the Fiend was heading for defeat. Once outside the walls, he stepped aside and surveyed the scene. Things seemed to be going well, as was to be expected with the don and Antonio in charge. He could leave it to them, and the army of Florence would win its share of the battle.
A riderless horse came galloping down the slope in terror. It was not one of the armored chargers the knights rode, but its trappings were too grand for the nags that archers and pikemen rode to the field. Most likely it was an infantry officer’s mount. It responded to his whistle—accompanied by some of this strange unconscious gramarye he could call upon now—and he sprang onto its back, not even waiting to lengthen the stirrups.
“Onward, Orphan!” he said, and rode into the Unplace.
52
Nevil had moved much less than half his forces across the Arno, so the battle would be decided on the north bank, where he had the advantage of numbers. Toby headed downstream again, to Ercole and his Milanese.
Set-piece encounters might last all day or several days while the opposing commanders maneuvered and countermaneuvered, and some condottieri were notorious for never corning to grips at all. Toby had broken the rules yet again by involving almost all of the forces right from the start, and furthermore most of the men and horses on both sides had just completed prolonged forced marches. The battle of the Field of Florence was likely to be brief, with one side or the other collapsing from exhaustion.
He emerged from the Unplace close behind the Milanese carroccio, which had come to a halt. No one even noticed him. The whole army had come to a halt, infantry and cavalry alike drawn up in battle order, cheering and roaring approval as the famous Genoese and Pisan crossbowmen poured arrows into the plunging chaos of the Fiend’s forces. His infantry had been advancing to assault the city walls; his cavalry had apparently been caught napping or at breakfast, still in quarters. Now knights were struggling to don armor, squires were trying to saddle up horses, about thirty thousand noncombatants were milling around in panic, and the men-at-arms were fighting their way through the camp to face the threat from their rear—while all the time that deadly hail fell from the sky.
The archers would run out of ammunition very soon at the rate they were going, but the terrain here was flat and open, perfect for the cavalry charge Ercole was about to launch. The effort to imagine what would happen when that hit the massed disorder was enough to raise Toby’s flesh in goose bumps. Obviously this part of the battle was proceeding satisfactorily, meaning there was going to be a massacre. With a shudder, he rode back into the Unplace.
Next port of call must be the upstream north bank, where Alfredo’s Venetians were seriously outnumbered, but Orphan was not Smeòrach. Disapproving of the ringing mirrored surface, the pearly mists, and the looming darkness behind them, he was skittish and unruly, more inclined to go sideways than forward. Toby was so intent on controlling his mount that it took him a moment to realize that they were not alone. Something was tracking them, several somethings. The hob knew them better than he did—dark, low shapes bounding along, closing rapidly. He kicked Orphan into a gallop. Idiot! He should have remembered the Fiend’s enormous stable of demons. He had been detected.
At least six of them. He sensed fangs and claws, giant nightmare weasels with eyes glowing green. Orphan had seen them, too, and needed no encouragement now, but his best turn of speed was not going to be enough. The monsters were closing in, claws skittering on the shiny dreamscape.
Spirits! How did one get out of the Unplace in a hurry? Even if he knew some way to jump back to reality, he might land himself in the middle of Nevil’s army. Time was unrelated to distance, so changing his destination now might merely prolong his danger. Orphan was going flat out and had already worked up a fine lather, his eyes wide with terror, yet still the monsters drew closer—coming in on the left, where Toby could not get at them with his sword, even if a blade would be any use against discarnate demons. Or perhaps they were trying to drive him to the right. Right, left, front, or back all s
eemed exactly the same here, but he strongly suspected that once he let them choose the direction they could also choose the destination and force him to emerge where they wanted him to emerge, which might be right in front of Nevil himself.
Water! If the shiny surface were water, it ought to hinder those low-slung horrors more than it would hamper Orphan. He called for water. Orphan’s hooves began throwing up splashes, and the surface rippled wildly. Deeper, make it deeper, up to Orphan’s knees … Now the weasel-things were floundering, splashing, slowing down. But water had its own dangers. It continued to grow deeper of its own accord, and he could not stop it. Orphan broke out of his gallop, to a canter, then a trot, and the dark tide was washing at Toby’s boots. The weasels had vanished. Something else was raising ripples behind him and drawing closer on his left. Water had not been a good idea. If he did not reach Fiesole soon, he wasn’t going to reach it at all.
A spinning ball of flame soared in out of the mists ahead and plunged into the water barely a span from his left foot. Something huge and dark reared up, burst into flames, and screamed. Orphan plunged forward in terror. Another ball of flame, then more, all hurtling overhead to smite the unseen pursuers. When he glanced back, he saw six pillars of fire roaring in the water, boiling up columns of steam.
Orphan stumbled out of the Unplace onto grass, and came to a shivering halt, frozen by gramarye, with his eyes wildly rolling.
“That was excessively stupid, even for you!” Maestro Fischart had to shout over the shrieking wind that was thrashing his white robe around. The dozen or so adepts gathered behind him were similarly being roiled and buffeted, staggering as the gusts changed direction. The sky overhead loomed low, black clouds hiding the sun, but the storm was local, confined to the area between Fiesole and the river.
