by Dave Duncan
"Thank you for taking the hob out of me. Master. The hob was bad."
"Yes, well we're making it badder." The baron chuckled. Perhaps he had made a joke. "It shows promise of being a truly vicious demon. At the moment I'm teaching it respect. A few hours' roasting should get its attention, wouldn't you say?"
"I don't know. Master."
"No. Well, sit down. Ah! Your new outfit. Turn around and let me see. Yes, very fair. Continue to dress like that, dear boy, and the annoying crackling noise you hear will be the breaking of innumerable hearts."
Toby wasn't sure what that meant either, but he seemed to have pleased Master, and that made him happy, so he smiled anyway.
"Sit down, Toby"
There was nothing to sit on, for all the chairs were piled with books or bundles of scrolls, so he sat down on the floor with his knees up like a grasshopper—green silk hose, very soft buskins. His fancy new outfit had cost a very big amount of money, bigger than he could count. He had never owned clothes like these before—not that he could remember—and he had three more outfits as grand upstairs in a big cupboard. He felt a fool in all of them, with his shoulders barely able to fit through doors and his feathered bonnet brushing the lintels. He knew people laughed at him behind his back and sometimes he caught them smirking at his codpiece. Every man wore a codpiece, but why did his have to be padded and embroidered with gold thread? The baron said this was the new fashion, but it was very embarrassing, and his layered, slashed jerkin was cut to gape in front and make it as conspicuous as possible. He was quite big enough already without padding, there or anywhere else. But this was how Master wanted him to dress, so of course he must.
Master began speaking, but not in a language Toby knew.
While he waited to hear why he had been summoned, he gazed proudly at the ring on his left hand, a bright yellow jewel in a thick gold setting. He breathed on it and rubbed it on his sleeve. He couldn't take it off, but that was good, because that meant he wouldn't ever lose it. (He lost things quite often.) There was a demon in that jewel! It kept him loyal, meaning he would do whatever Master told him to do, although he couldn't imagine why he would ever not do what Master told him to do.
"Tonight, Toby, you will be my guest at dinner again."
"Oh, thank you, Master!" He smiled so he would look pleased, but he wasn't really. It was wrong to be so disloyal and ungrateful, but he felt more than usually stupid at the viceroy's grand dinner parties—servants and musicians, chilled wine, raw oysters and stuffed peacock, twenty separate courses on gold plates, one plate for each guest instead of everyone sharing from a bowl. He didn't know how to talk to the sort of people he met there. Sometimes he got stuck in the wrong language. He didn't even know how to look at the ladies, because their gowns showed the tops of their breasts and he kept wanting to stare down the gap, although Master had told him not to. He didn't really slobber! Or not much. He rubbed his chin to make sure it was dry and he had remembered to shave.
"I hear your dancing lessons are going well."
The praise brought a prickle of tears to his eyes. "I try, Master. I am trying as hard as I can!"
"I know you are, Toby. And you are very nimble for a big man. At least you didn't lose that. There are two ladies who have especially asked to meet you. They want to sit next to you at dinner."
His naked face felt very hot. He bent his head between his knees. "I don't know why. I'm not witty or clever or any of those things. They ask me questions I should be able to answer and I can't." Sometimes he would cry, which was terrible.
Oreste laughed. "It is not your table talk they are interested in! Now listen, Toby, I'm giving you orders. There will be one lady on your right and one on your left. They are both older than you, but well preserved. After dinner, you will choose one of them, whichever one you like best. Invite her—or both of them, if you can't decide—up to your room."
"They wouldn't do that!"
"Oh yes, they will! And you know what happens then, don't you?"
"We take our clothes off and get into bed together?" He squirmed and bit his lip. I don't think I've ever done that with a woman. Master. I'm not sure, but I don't think so."
"Yes, you did once. And don't worry, because she will certainly know what to do, even if you don't. It will be all right, and you will enjoy what happens. Just be gentle."
"Be gentle. Yes, Master."
"But you will pleasure her most manfully."
"If she'll tell me what she wants. I'll ask both, Master." He thought that was what Master wanted him to do.
"Please yourself. I'm sure you'll manage. You don't have the hob to worry about now."
The hob was gone. The hob was roasting in that brazier. The hob didn't matter any more. "No, Master. Thank you for taking the hob out of me, Master."
"Enter!" The baron turned to a knock on the door.
Captain Diaz opened it and stamped his feet without coming inside. As usual, his face bore as much expression as a tree stump. "I have the honor to inform your Excellency that the judgment has been handed down and can be carried out at your Excellency's pleasure."
"Very good. We shall be out shortly. Send Ludwig in."
Diaz stamped again and closed the door.
"Toby?"
"Yes, Master?"
"I want you to do something for me."
"Anything I can. Master!"
"You're a big, strong lad. Can you use an ax?"
"Oh, yes! I use to chop down trees often back home in ... when I was a boy, I mean." What was that place called?
"I want you to chop off two men's heads. They will lay their heads on a block of wood and you will cut them off."
"Um ... Won't that kill them?"
"That's right. I want them dead, so you'll do that for me. You mustn't talk to them. Just cut off their heads. You'll have a mask over your face."
"Yes, Master. I'll make them dead for you."
That was something he could do. That would be more fun than trying to talk with men who curled their lips at his accent or dancing with ladies who showed that gap between their breasts.
Ludwig came in carrying Master's fur-lined cloak across his outstretched arms. Ludwig was the baron's valet, a blond, sullen, square-faced man. He never spoke to Toby at all. He laid the precious thing over a chair and turned to the baron, who waved a plump hand at Toby in a flash of jewels.
"Toby, Ludwig will help you. You have to strip for this. You need freedom of movement."
Toby jumped up and submitted in silence, letting Ludwig remove his jerkin and doublet, leaving only him his cap and shirt and hose. His hose were very well tailored, snug around his waist, so he wasn't afraid that they would fall off, but his awful cod-piece showed even more than before. He took off his shirt as well. "I can keep my hose on, can't I, Master?"
The baron smiled. "Yes. You are very impressive-looking executioner, Toby! Hit as hard as you can, so you cut off their heads with one stroke."
"Yes, Master! I'm strong!" Toby grinned and bulged the muscle in his arm. "Bang! No head!"
"That's the way! Show that muscle to the ladies tonight—in your chamber, though, not in the dining room. One of these men is named Hamish Campbell, Toby."
Hamish Campbell? Hamish? Campbell? He ought to know that name! His memory was very patchy. He could remember some things clearly, and others not at all. He knew exactly how to load and prime a musket, but one night someone had asked him if he had any brothers or sisters and he was still wondering about that. One day he would ask the baron if he knew the answer.
Ludwig wrapped a cloak around him and laced cork-soled shoes over his buskins, then did the same for the baron. Toby hurried to the door so he could open it for Master.
Captain Diaz and an honor guard were waiting in the corridor. Not knowing where to go, Toby stayed close to Ludwig, and that seemed to be what was expected of him. The innumerable servants and flunkies who infested the palace cleared a path, bowing low as the viceroy and his escort marched down th
e stairs and across the hallway.
Then they were out in the courtyard with a flunky holding an umbrella over the baron. Ludwig tapped Toby's shoulder to stop him, beckoned him to a corner, and took away his cap, putting a black hood on him instead. Toby adjusted it until he could see through the eye holes. The cloak was lifted from his shoulders, letting cold rain beat down on his skin.
The world had shrunk to a keyhole framed in darkness. He scanned the court awkwardly, wondering where he was supposed to go. Master was already installed on a chair under a canopy, attended by a crowd of dignitaries, but his place must be on the platform, because he could see an ax waiting there. Pleased to have worked that out for himself, he stalked across to it and mounted the steps with care, aware of lots of eyes watching him. Everyone would laugh if the executioner tripped and fell flat on his face.
The block was a massive knee-high chunk of timber. He took up the great curved-blade ax, wishing Master had told him about this job sooner, so he could have tried a few practice strokes. It was a very heavy ax and necks must be easier to cut than trees. He stood it upright on its blade, rested his forearms on the end of the long handle, and smiled at Master to say he was ready. But of course his head was covered, so Master wouldn't see his smile.
Those must be his victims there, standing in a circle of guards with their heads raised defiantly—two boys stripped to their doublets and hose, feet shackled and arms bound behind them. A gowned acolyte stood with them, giving last-minute comfort. From their bedraggled appearance it seemed they had all been standing in the rain for some time. They both looked familiar.
The first one was led forward, clanking up the steps with the soldiers behind him and shuffled forward to stand before the block. Why, it was Don Ramon! Toby smiled at him, pleased to have remembered his name.
The don stared back at him with a disdainful expression, but he didn't speak. He couldn't, because his mouth was held wide open by a wooden gag. That must be very uncomfortable. Poor don! His auburn hair had been hacked off short to expose his neck. The ginger mustache that used to curve up in twisted points hung limply over his mouth.
Why wasn't he putting his head down for Toby to chop? A clerk began reading out a long thing about Don Ramon de Nuñez y Pardo being a Castilian spy. Toby fingered the ax impatiently. The rain was cold on his bare chest.
Poor, mad Don Ramon, with his fancy airs! He didn't look frightened. His face had always been pale and was no paler now, while the startlingly blue eyes were as haughty and contemptuous as ever. When the clerk's drone ended, he shrugged scornfully and sank to his knees. He laid his shoulders on the block, turning his head sideways, away from the headsman. Good!
Quickly Toby took a step backward and raised the ax. Master wanted one stroke, one stroke it would be. He brought his foot forward and his arms down with all the power he could summon. He felt the impact as much through his feet as in his hands. Don Ramon's head hit the planks with a thud and rolled. One stroke it was! Master would be pleased with him.
The explosion of blood took him by surprise, although he should have remembered how pigs bled when their throats were cut. At first it sprayed out against the ax in a red fan, but as the corpse slid back it hosed from the severed neck in high jets—two, three, and a weak fourth before the heart stopped beating. Ax, block, and scaffold were drenched. Nasty! He must remember to wash it off his arms and chest before he undressed with the pretty ladies tonight. He worked the ax blade free of the wood, a soldier picked up the head, and two more dragged away the body. The redness was seeringly bright in the drabness of the day.
The next one must be Hamish Campbell. His face was sort of familiar. Toby smiled at him, but he couldn't smile back because of the gag. He clattered forward in his fetters less proudly than Don Ramon had, but not slowly enough to make the soldiers push him. His eyes were as wide as his gaping mouth.
The clerk began reading about spying again. The Hamish boy just kept staring at Toby and shaking his head wildly. What did that mean? Was he doing something wrong? Was his hood not on straight?
When the clerk fell silent, the prisoner did not seem to notice. A guard laid a hand on his shoulder. He squirmed away. Two men grabbed him and pushed him down to his knees. Still he struggled, making protesting animal noises in his throat—poor, foolish fellow! He might make Toby miss if he didn't stop doing that, or miss partly and have to hit again. But Master had told him not to speak, so he couldn't warn him.
Two more soldiers lifted the victim's feet. With four of them holding him level, his chest resting on the block, he could do nothing except twist his head around and wail. Squirreling like a worm on a hook was still not going to make things easy. Toby began to lift the ax and then put it down again.
The soldiers were unhappy, too, wailing for that whistling blade and the shower of blood. Fortunately Captain Diaz was nearby. "Keep still, you fool!" he roared. "You want him to botch this? You want to be hacked in pieces?"
The prisoner went rigid. Toby raised and swung, and again the scaffold trembled under the impact. The head jumped free. One stroke again! Master would be pleased. This time the body could not fall back, so the hot blood squirted in all directions off the ax blade, soaking even Toby's hood. That really was not nice. Some of the soldiers gagged and coughed, and they had gotten off much lighter than he had.
Duty done, he pulled the ax free and leaned it against the block, where he had found it. He turned his head for a glance at Master who smiled and nodded a welcome approval. Glad to have done a good job, Toby headed for the steps. A quick bath to clean off the blood, then back into his fine clothes and he would be ready for the dinner and the well-preserved ladies. He just hoped he could do as well for them as he had for the two spies, so Master would be pleased with him.
2
The wind was a restless silence in the night, quieter than the whisper of the sentry's tread on dry grass and rubbly soil. The first glimmerings of daylight were creeping in over the stony hills, not even bright enough yet to mark a horizon or distinguish a white thread from a black thread, which was how the Moors defined morning. Although he was wrapped in both his blanket and his cloak, the sentry shivered as he paced back and forth, forcing himself to stay awake. His legs ached already, and they must walk a weary way before sunset. More than anything in the world he wished he could just lie down and catch a few more hours' sleep, because three half-nights in a row had left him permanently bleary-eyed and yawning. No, more than anything else, he would like to be smelling the peaty scents of home and watching the sun come up on Ben More... .
When the scream burst forth almost at his toes, he jumped a foot in the air. It was diabolical, bestial scream, louder than a cannon barrage. Echoes answered from the steepness on the far side of the valley, and a couple of heartbeats later came a wild barking of dogs at the distant casa. Gracia wakened with shrills of alarm. By that time Toby had leaped from his bedding with his sword in his hand and was peering around to see where the noise had come from.
It had come from him.
Hamish said, "What's wrong?"
The big man dropped the sword with a clatter and grabbed him in a bear hug that seemed likely to crush his ribs. "Hamish, Hamish! You're all right! You're alive!" His hand pawed at Hamish's throat.
He fought back. "I was! Let me go, you maniac. What happened?"
Longdirk groaned and released him. "Demons!" he muttered. "Oh, spirits!" He flopped back down on the ground and put his head in his hands.
The dogs were falling silent and did not seem to be coming closer. Gracia was twittering questions.
"Senor Longdirk had a bad dream," Hamish explained. He knelt down. Toby was sobbing, heaving dry, soundless gasps of grief. He? Sooner would Ben More weep. "What's wrong? Another vision?"
"Umph." That sounded like agreement. He nodded and gulped through his tortured breathing.
Hamish put arms around him, but awkwardly, because it was the sort of thing an excitable, demonstrative Spaniard would do—Scotsmen
never hugged each other. "You're all right, though? Not injured?"
"Not me, no. Hamish, I cut your head off!"
"You did?" That ought to be funny and wasn't. Nasty shivers ran down his back. "Well, it didn't work. I mean, I'm glad it's you who comes back hurt from these things and not me. Are you sure this one wasn't just a dream?"
"It is very impolite of the senores to talk so I cannot comprehend." Gracia had begun the morning ritual of combing out her long black hair, sitting with her back to the two crazy foreigners.
Toby shuddered and seemed to realize that he was being held like a child. Instead of trying to break free, he wrapped a thick arm around Hamish and squeezed. He was still shaking. "No, it was no dream. Oreste had me. He'd hexed me, enslaved me with gramarye, and he made me chop your head off, and another man's—ax and block and black hood and everything. Oh, Hamish, I did it! I didn't even protest. I was eager to do it, just to please him!"
Gooseflesh! "I'm sure you were. Anyone can be hexed—remember King Fergan ... anyone. It wouldn't be your fault. But it could still have been a dream, Toby. You're worried about the baron and you remember the time Valda hexed you. The two got mixed up in a dream. Happens all the time."
"You had an awful lot of blood in you, friend!"
"What was this terrible dream, senor?" Gracia demanded, piqued as a child at being excluded. "I am very good at telling the meaning of dreams."
"The dream told," Toby said in his butchered Castilian, "that I was royal executioner in Barcelona and I cut off Senor Diego's head."
"How tragic! Why?"
"Because he had been flirting with you and I was jealous."
Gracia squealed at this outrage to her honor, barely managing to conceal her delight.
Hamish shivered and broke free. "We may as well be on our way." The skyline had come into view. "You're all right? You weren't tortured again?"
"No. In fact ... " He peered at his wrists. "All better. No bruises, see? Not a hair out of place. When I took hold of the ax my arms were bare, and I'm sure there were no marks on my wrists."