by Dave Duncan
Why did it hurt so much? Was he just sore at losing? He hadn't even been playing the game, had he? So why care if he had lost?
When he was sure Rory was out of earshot, he looked up at the minstrel gallery and said, "Scram! You'll have company in a minute." There was no answer.
He heaved himself stiffly out of the chair to stand and gaze at the fire.
5
He turned at the sound of her tread on the rushes. She seemed very much a lady in a dark gown trailing to the floor with a high neck and sleeves puffed like pillows. Her hair was back in the silver net again. The string of pearls around her throat would buy all Tyndrum. He thought her eyes looked pink, and she was certainly very pale, as if the castle had fallen on her.
She winced at the sight of his face. He made a courtly bow, as well as he knew how and as much as his bruises would let him. She curtseyed solemnly, to the manner born.
"Congratulations, my lady. I am very happy for you. I wish you well." His throat hurt even more than his jaw. Why?
"Thank you, Toby."
Silence. He wished he could read the expression in her eyes. Under the shock and fear, there was a glimmer of triumph, wasn't there? Well deserved, yes? He wished he could make speeches.
"Is there anything more to say?" Meg asked. "Except thank you, of course. None of this would have happened without your help. I am very, very grateful."
What did she mean by that? His hurtful efforts to advise her might have strengthened her resolve to resist Rory's blandishments and thus provoked him into proposing marriage. Meg could never say that openly. He hoped that he had not offended her to no purpose.
"I am very sorry I said those bad things to you. I didn't mean to. I felt real bad."
She tossed her head. "You could have sent me a note."
Ah! Dear Rory!
"Well, I'm not much for writing, or for giving advice. I'm not much of anything, except muscle. I never had a family, never had friends. I don't know how to be friends, so I don't suppose I'll ever know anything about love. Lord Gregor's a fine man, and I'm sure he'll make you very happy."
She turned to the fireplace, so he could not see her face.
"Rory says love is like a flash of lightning, but it isn't like that for most people. My ma told me she was almost sick every time Pa even looked at her—after what the Sassenachs did to her, you know—and she thought her pa had done a rotten job of finding a man for her anyway, she admits that, but eventually, she says, she managed ... She says she grew to love him."
Meg must not be allowed to ramble on like that. She didn't know her fiancé was listening up there in the minstrel gallery.
"I think you fell in love with Rory that night in Glen Orchy. You just didn't realize it."
She spun around. "Really? You really think so?"
"Yes, I do. The way you looked at him, and the way you kept telling me how handsome he was, the way you laughed at his jokes...."
She blushed and turned away again. "Thank you, Toby. I'll try to believe that. Is Hamish going with you? You need someone to ... Well, Rory says I mustn't ask where you're off to."
"Ask all you want, I don't know." Oh, Meg, Meg! He couldn't keep this up much longer. "I'll always remember you ..." even if I live a whole week "... and our escape together. One day I'll be able to brag that I know the countess of Argyll!"
"You can brag that you saved her from being raped or murdered."
"No, I won't mention that. People might think you'd been stupid."
"Toby!" she stormed, but then she laughed. "I've learned sense now, haven't I? No romantic foolishness now. Hard, cold—"
"I won't kiss your fingers, my lady. I might get blood on them." Or tears. Funny—he wasn't usually a sentimental person. "Be happy." He bowed, and turned, and started to walk away.
"Toby! Wait!"
He went back.
She gazed up at him, frowning. "Will you not give me a wedding present?"
"Everything I possess—which is still nothing." He had his prize money, of course, but Meg had no need of money now.
"A promise?"
"What promise?"
"That you won't be a prizefighter anymore? Please?" Meg Tanner pleading was as dangerous and disconcerting as a wild cat rubbing against your leg.
"Why not?"
"Killing for money? Hurting people?"
"It's no worse than being a mercenary soldier."
"Yes, it is! A mercenary's only a hired killer, anyway. But at least a soldier has a chance of winning. He may not die, may not be wounded, may grow rich on his loot. But a fighter always loses. Even if you win every match, Toby dear, you'll finish up a slobbering wreck! You know you will. Promise me?"
He shrugged. As a king's man he would not be prizefighting, even if he had no hint of a clue as to what he would be doing. "That's not what Master Stringer wants me for, so I'm not planning to fight in the immediate future. And I promise I'll remember your words if I ever have the opportunity again. All right?"
That was not enough for Meg Tanner. She shook her head vigorously.
"Just say the words, Toby, even if you don't mean them. Then I'll be happy and not worry about you."
"I don't say words I don't..." He sighed. "I give you my promise."
He wasn't going to live long enough to break it.
"Good-bye, Meg."
"Good-bye, Toby."
6
He came to the castle entry and was stopped in his tracks, because King Fergan and Father Lachlan were there, being seen off by Lady Lora and Sir Malcolm. Sure he must not intrude, he hung back in the shadows. The only light came from the doorway, which was smaller than the door on an average cottage, although the door itself was as thick as his arm, studded and banded with iron. In a minute or so, the king bowed graciously, Father Lachlan muttered a benediction, and the two guests ducked out into the wintery sunshine.
He supposed he should follow his new master at a respectful distance, but that would mean he must pass by his hostess. He ought to thank her. He was no good at speeches! Why hadn't he foreseen this and asked Hamish to make up something for him to say? It was too late to hide, because the castellan had noticed him. He hurried forward.
Lady Lora was bundled in a dark fur robe and a plumed hat. As he loomed out of the dark above her, she smiled up at him, then frowned when she caught sight of his face.
"Master Strangerson! I hope you are recovering from your wounds?"
He opened his mouth and it ran away with him like a startled horse. "My lady, it was very kind and very brave and very generous of you to take in a wanted fugitive and give him shelter and I hope my visit here will not bring trouble on your house but I know that all my life I shall remember what you did for me and I thank you from the bottom of my heart." He bowed clumsily and turned to Sir Malcolm. "Sir, you and your men were very kind to a gawky lad, and I shall probably bless these days many, many times in future. I thank you."
Then he bowed again and ran out the door, ducking low under the lintel. Gibberish! With any luck they would not have made out a word he had said. However he might serve King Fergan in future, it would not be as a diplomat.
He blinked in the sunlight. The tall king and short acolyte were crossing the bailey, heading for the barbican. He followed, passing close to a cart of peat being unloaded, dodging washing hung out after the long spell of rain. Then he remembered that he had forgotten to collect his things from the tower room. Zits! It was too late to go back for them. Well, they weren't worth much. But his prize money... Hamish had the prize money. . . .
Out from behind the cart came Hamish, with his own bundle on one shoulder and Toby's on the other. He handed Toby's over without a word and fell into step at his side, straining mightily to take the necessary strides.
"No library?"
The kid looked up with his bony face twisted in abhorrence. "I wouldna' work for that man if you paid me a million marks! He was going to throw you out and hunt you down in the hills! Whatever happened to Highland h
ospitality?"
"Keep your mouth shut about that!"
"Think I'm crazy?"
"You'd best ask Father Lachlan if you can accompany him to Glasgow, and don't mention His Majesty."
Hamish grinned. "Wasn't that one straight out of the old ballads! He has a beard on the coins, but I was pretty much sure." He was understandably very pleased with his wee self, was Master Hamish.
"You were! Very smart thinking!"
"Thinking's what I'm good at. Did you hear Meg . . . Never mind."
"You mean, did I hear Meg say I needed looking after? No, I didn't hear Meg say that."
Hamish guffawed. "Just fancy Meg Tanner as countess of Argyll! They'll be lighting bonfires in the glen when the news gets out!"
The news would set the Sassenachs on Toby's trail, but Rory wouldn't care overmuch about that.
"She deserves better than yon cootie!" Hamish decided. "Does she really love him, Toby?" He gazed up anxiously, wanting an explanation from his chosen counselor in matters romantic.
"Maybe not today, but she will by tomorrow. Don't worry about Meg! She's quite capable of handling Rory." Struck by a sudden thought, Toby bellowed out one of his awful guffaws, earning a stab of protest from his ribs. As he was then passing through the arch of the barbican, the result sounded like an artillery barrage. King Fergan and Father Lachlan turned their heads to see what the noise was.
"What's so funny?" Hamish demanded.
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
Rory had won the battle for Meg—even if he had been the only contestant—but he had also won Fat Vik as a brother-in-law!
"Wait a minute!" Toby said, before he could be questioned further. "You overheard Meg? You were still in the minstrel gallery when she came?"
"No," Hamish said innocently. "I never was in the minstrel gallery. It's kept locked."
"Then how... ?"
"There's a spy hole from the servants' pantry—so they can keep an eye on the diners' progress, I suppose."
"And how did you find out about that?"
Hamish preened. "In the muniment chest in the library—I found a set of builders' plans for the castle. There's a secret passage from the earls' bedroom, too, but I didn't dare explore that."
After a moment he added, "Guests shouldn't pry, you know."
EIGHT
A Foggy Dawn
1
In the gathering gloom of a fall evening, the Maid of Arran lay against the pier of the royal burgh of Dumbarton. Geese were trailing overhead, a few lights glimmered amid the buildings, and sounds of wheels and horses and voices drifted through the dusk.
Toby leaned on the rail, having trouble finding unbruised forearm for the purpose. He brooded. He had spent most of two days in the hold, healing . . . being seasick... getting steadily more hungry, too, for he still had trouble eating. In all that time, he had spoken with his new liege lord only once. Fergan had come to see how he was faring, but he had not dallied long in that smelly hold. Toby had asked how he might serve his king, while feeling that he was incapable of cleaning out a fireplace at the moment.
"First, we must solve this mystery of your superhuman powers, lad. Father Lachlan is sorely perplexed by you. So you will go to the sanctuary, and there you should be safe from the vigilantes, too. After that, we shall see. Don't worry, I'll find a use for you!"
The sorry vassal was supposed to be comforted by that, but he was not deceived. Men who would scorn a reward to betray their king would jump at the same money for turning in the corpse of a demonic husk. Even the two or three men on board who were fully in Fergan's confidence had eyed him narrowly. There was one called Kenneth Kennedy, a wizened, scrawny man, who seemed to be the senior. He had asked many questions and answered none.
Hamish had spent the entire voyage pestering the sailors. Now he was advancing his friend's education by describing The Maid of Arran in great detail. "She's a cog of a hundred tuns! That means she can carry a hundred barrels of wine. Of course she's bearing hides, now, bound for Portugal. Hides are one of Scotland's biggest exports. Just think—there may even be some from Fillan on board!"
Toby's nose had told him what the cargo was even before he had boarded.
The king had already departed. His hired demon would disembark under cover of darkness. Toby was even more conspicuous than usual, with his bruises at their ripest. His arms and chest were swollen in yellow and purple. What his face must look like, he could not imagine. A layer of stubble would not be improving it. He did not even have proper town clothes to wear yet, only his plaid.
"There's more than four hundred houses in Dumbarton!" Hamish declaimed. "They all crowd into the middle to be as close to the sanctuary as possible. Biggest port on the west coast. Glasgow's even bigger, because its tutelary is ... urn, better known."
If he was wondering whether the Dumbarton tutelary could know what he was saying, out here at the end of the pier, then he was right to wonder. It probably could. Toby could detect it.
"Can't sail to Glasgow, of course, because the river's too shallow. Pa took me there in a coach! That's the castle."
Of course that was the castle. And the spire in the center of the burgh must be the sanctuary, because there was something there. It wasn't visible, unlike the Fillan hob, or the specter Toby had seen in the hills, but he could sense it somehow, even at this distance. He wondered if it knew of him already. It gave him goosebumps.
And there was another something off to the west, either just outside the burgh or just inside. Valda? Baron Oreste?
Thirdly, there was Toby himself, with his mysterious guardian. Superhuman powers were gathering in Dumbarton.
"Ah, there you are!" Father Lachlan arrived, a flustered little ghost in his white robe. Hamish's flood of statistics came to a merciful end. "Almost dark enough now."
"Father?" Toby said. "Have you any idea why Master Stringer wants me?" The only real orders he had been given so far had come from Kennedy, never, ever, mention Fergan by name, and speak only English to him. Yes, the sailors were trustworthy, but...
"He is a very shrewd judge of men, that's why!" The acolyte chuckled, tugging his robe tighter against the evening chill. "You are strong, hardy, courageous, and—I hope—loyal. I am sure you are loyal, because you are not the sort of man who breaks his word. You have no distracting ties to clan or family. I think Master Stringer is rightly congratulating himself on acquiring a most valuable follower!"
"But I am a danger to him!"
"Do you mean a demonic danger or a mortal danger?"
"Not demonic!" Hamish protested. "If Toby had wanted to kill him, he could have broken his neck easily by now. Couldn't you have, Toby?"
Toby growled. Hamish knew that Stringer was Fergan, but did anyone else on the ship know that he knew?
"Maybe I ought to break yours! No, Father, what I meant was that I may get mobbed, or betrayed. The trail could lead back to Inverary, to this ship—to all of you."
Father Lachlan believed in staying cheerful. He set off for the gangplank. "You needn't worry about the ship, at any rate. She's leaving on the dawn tide for Lisbon. The sailors haven't heard about your problems, and they won't. Captain MacLeod has forbidden shore leave, because he's been delayed by the long wait in Loch Fyne. Ah ... here he is. We're going ashore now, Captain."
MacLeod was standing watch himself—undoubtedly to enforce his ban on leave. He was a thickset, weathered man, presently only a solid shape in the gloom. He wished them well in his Moray accent as they trooped down the plank.
"Where was I?" Father Lachlan asked, bustling along the pier. "Oh, yes, Master Stringer. You needn't worry about him. He is a highly respected burgher and merchant in Dumbarton. He is under the tutelary's protection, just as you will be, I trust."
Toby shivered. "Is there some doubt about that?"
"Doubt? Oh, no. Not at all. I have told you that I don't believe you are possessed. In fact, I'm sure of it now, because here we are in Dumbarton! The tutelary will not allow such cre
atures into its realm."
Toby was fighting a strong reluctance to proceed any farther into its realm. Was that the tutelary's doing, or plain fear, or the work of his guardian demon? If the demon did not want to be exorcised, it could take him over and turn him around. Perhaps it was as uncertain as he was.
They reached the land and a narrow street between houses and the seawall, cluttered with carts and fishing gear. Father Lachlan turned to the right. Toby felt a surge of relief, and his feet began to move more easily. The streets were very narrow, very confining, very dirty. They followed no pattern at all, but the acolyte seemed able to find his way in the dark like a bat. Most of the buildings had stores or warehouses at street level, with homes above. They were constructed almost entirely of wood, few having any more stonework than chimneys. Many of the upper stories protruded over the road, low enough to be a hazard for a very tall man.
"This isn't the way to the sanctuary," Toby said.
"No, it isn't. How do you . . . Oh, you saw the spire, of course. Well, you see, my son, it seems wiser for me to approach the tutelary first, on your behalf. Explain matters."
So dear Father Lachlan was not sure of the reception Toby would meet, or not as sure as he implied. A group of men rolled by in the darkness, singing tunelessly. They did not notice the oversized outlaw, whose death could make them all rich.
"Toby can get refuge at the sanctuary, can't he?" Hamish asked indignantly.
"I expect so. Normally, a tutelary will not harbor strangers, but when there is a manifest injustice, then it will often make an exception. The fact that he has been allowed into the burgh at all is very encouraging."
"You mean the tutelary can sense demons at a distance?"
"Incarnate demons, creatures. Not the bottled variety, usually, unless they are activated by gramarye. Turn here. I will leave you at Master Stringer's house and then go on to the sanctuary."
"I want to come!" Hamish said. "I can offer a silver penny!"
Toby wondered which of his bruises that penny represented.