The Years of Longdirk- The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  True enough. And although Don Ramon thoroughly despised the likes of the Magnificent, he was quite willing to enjoy his party. Toby would endure it only because he knew something important was going to happen during the course of the night.

  He shivered, for the air was cool, and he felt naked without cloak or jerkin. His multicolored hose clung tight as paint, but his waist-length doublet hung open at the neck to display the embroidery on his shirt. His face was razored smooth as porcelain, his hair hung to his shoulders under a hat like a mixing bowl with a brim. This was fashion. His tastes in clothes—now that he could afford to have taste—was naturally conservative, for no one his size needed to draw attention to himself, and yet this outrageous outfit had cost more money than an honest man earned in a year. Over the tailor's tears, Toby had insisted on subdued greens and grays instead of reds and mauves, but he had lost the rest of the arguments. Hip-length tunics were for the middle-aged and cloaks for the elderly, the tailor had maintained, and messer must not conceal such magnificent thighs, for which most young gallants would cheerfully execute their grandmothers with blunt spades. He had gone on to enthuse about Toby's calves and shoulders until Toby threatened to ram a bolt of Genoese silk down his throat.

  Untroubled by any qualms of modesty, Don Ramon was never reluctant to make himself conspicuous, and admittedly his lithe form suited these revealing styles. His coppery hair and thin-horned mustache were set off by brilliant blues and greens, his pearl buttons inset with rubies. The golden plume in his hat was as long as his arm, his exposure of shirt close to indecent. Even so, his garb was not as extreme as that of some of the young men there, whose use of padding was unseemly or even ludicrous.

  And the women! Every one of them was loaded with enough silk, satin, velvet, brocade, and damask to build a tent. How could they walk, carrying the weight of those skirts and sleeves? Their necklines were cut so wide and low that it seemed the slightest unwary movement would cause the entire ensemble to collapse around their wearers' ankles. It was a marvel.

  "Magnificent!" murmured the don, indulging in some gawking of his own. "That one in mulberry?"

  "What I don't understand," Toby whispered, "is how the gowns stay on them at all!"

  "Ask not how they stay on, my boy, but how easily they come off!"

  Much too easily in many cases, from what Toby had heard, but he did not have to worry about that.

  The line shuffled forward. Peering over heads, he studied the Magnificent. For a despot, he was astonishingly unassuming. It was said that Pietro Marradi could wander unnoticed along any street in Florence—he was never fool enough to try it without his bodyguard—and that evening, in the somber tones of half mourning, he was a crow among kingfishers. He had no outstanding physical characteristics at all, except that he wore his forty years well. Officially he was merely a private citizen; in practice he was the government, ruling Florence without office or title, as his father and grandfather had done before him.

  How did he do it? Toby watched in bafflement. The manners were flawless—the smile and bow were the same for ambassadors as they were for business friends or political foes—yet Marradi was too aloof to be charismatically charming. He was a celebrated patron of the arts, but no one could control a great city through its poets, painters, and sculptors. Money helped, but there were other rich men in Florence who seemed to have no political power at all. "I am not a duke or a prince," he had told Toby during their secret meeting that morning. "I am not the doge of Venice. I admit I have some influence, but my only tool is rational persuasion." He could have mentioned bribery, rigged elections, nepotism, favoritism, blackmail, coercion, and—once in a while—riot, gramarye, and assassination, but persuasion certainly seemed to be at the heart of it. Tonight he welcomed the Scottish peasant to his Carnival Ball with the same cool courtesy he had just shown to the exiled King of Austria.

  "Sir Tobias! Our house is honored by the presence of Scipio reborn." His eyes were russet-brown like his hair and glittered bright as daggers.

  Toby's knowledge of the classics was precisely zero, but fortunately he had asked Brother Bartolo to coin some suitable phrases for him to memorize. "It is for the feasting in Valhalla that the warrior fights, Your Magnificence."

  Marradi acknowledged the mot with a graceful nod. "But what he wins is glory and the gratitude of the people."

  Toby hastily reached into Bartolo's collection again. "I was but the sword that the hand of Liberty wielded."

  "May Liberty ever be so well armed, Sir Tobias."

  Having won the match two falls out of three, Marradi gracefully passed Toby to the care of his sister, tonight's hostess. Next...

  Toby bowed to her, Lucrezia, Duchess of Ferrara. She was resplendent in cloth of gold, although her husband's death was more recent than madonna Marradi's. The gossipmongers declared that mourning would be hypocritical for her, and the only known sin that her critics never attributed to Lucrezia Marradi was hypocrisy. She was tiny, able to walk under Toby's arm in a plumed hat. With a small nose and a slightly receding chin, she had the face of a child, and those same gossips insisted that only gramarye could explain how she retained her youthful complexion and the fiery red-gold hair. She might have been a doll standing there in her superbly crafted gown and enough jewels to gravel a stable yard, honoring the giant with a disarming, coquettish smile. She could see how out of place he felt.

  "Tobiaso, you are the handsomest man in the city."

  "And you, duchessa, are the biggest liar." Feeling as clumsy as a drunken ox, he bent to kiss the childish fingers. Not all of her was childish. She held her hand where he would have a good view down her cleavage. He could almost see her toes.

  "I was hoping you would appear in a lion skin."

  Another classical allusion? "I washed it, and it didn't dry in time."

  Lucrezia tinkled a laugh that sounded utterly genuine and might be as deadly as her most recent husband's last sip of wine. "I expect to dance with you tonight, comandante!"

  "I am yours to command, madonna."

  "Of course," said the rosebud lips.

  Toby followed the don indoors, fervently wishing he were somewhere else, anywhere else. So many incredibly ravishing women, and he could not even dream...

  CHAPTER THREE

  The hexer had removed his mask. He was very tall and lithe, with waves of black hair and features just on the bony side of classical. He had placed Lisa carefully on the bed without ripping her clothes off or performing any demonic conjurations. He was doing something at the far side of the room, now coming over to the bed...

  When he laid a wet towel on her bruised mouth, her eyes jerked open in surprise. His smile displayed one of the very few perfect sets of teeth she had ever seen.

  "Do you really look like that?" she mumbled. How could a nightmare turn into a dream so quickly?

  Surprise faded to a worried frown, as if he thought she might be raving. "Do I look like what?" He removed the towel.

  "Aren't all hexers old and ugly and—"

  He laughed. "I'm not a hexer! Just a soldier."

  "A condottiere?"

  "A humble man-at-arms. My name's Giacomo, and we..." He paused, surprised. "We're talking English? So call me James. Hamish if you want to be accurate."

  First name only? But perhaps he was being tactful, hinting that it was better not to reveal too much. Her heart was pounding strangely.

  "Er, I'm Lisa. Hamish? Is that Welsh?"

  "Scots!"

  "I beg your pardon. I thought all Scotsmen were seven feet tall and had red hair."

  "Only the wild ones. I'm the domesticated variety."

  His solemn manner bewildered her for a moment, then she laughed. "I am extremely grateful for your assistance, sir! You don't look like a soldier." Any she had seen had been scruffy scoundrels. His clothes were stylish but not showy, like his manners.

  He shrugged. "I don't do much fighting. I'm mostly in administration."

  She had wanted sultry e
yes, she remembered, never guessing that eyes could be as sultry as these. Was he possibly one of the fabled condottiere princes? "You fought like a legend tonight. Against six!" A rapier was a nobleman's weapon. No mere man-at-arms could have wielded one as he had.

  He shook his head almost bashfully. "I was in no danger at all. I have a guarddemon, see?" He raised a hand to show a ring with a yellow jewel. "My only worry was that my ring would zap me out of there before I could do anything to help you."

  But the fact that it had not implied that he had been holding his own until the monster came. How could a mere man-at-arms explain these sumptuous quarters? He was at least wealthy, if not a noble, and he had behaved with perfect chivalry so far. Except that he had not summoned a chaperone. Would it be proper to ask for one, or rude? If he began making advances... how far did a lady's obligations go in these circumstances?

  Probably a long way, she decided nervously. She fingered her swollen lip.

  "Are you well enough to walk yet?" he asked. "We ought to leave here before someone comes. I expect they're all out at Carnival, but—"

  Oh! "Where are we?"

  Again that appealing smile. "I haven't the faintest idea. It must have been safe at the time, or my demon wouldn't have brought us here, but we should leave as soon as possible. It won't defend us against social embarrassment."

  "Mine didn't defend me against anything at all!" She scowled at her ring. The stone was only garnet, but Mother had always said the gold setting would be very valuable even without the demon immured in the jewel. It had been less than useless tonight.

  Hamish frowned, took her hand, and peered at it closely. "It's very old, isn't it?" He did not release her hand.

  "It belonged to my grandmother. Mother gave it to me on my—" what would he believe? "—eighteenth birthday."

  "Older than that. The setting looks Carolingian."

  "How do you know that if you're not a hexer?"

  "Mm? Oh, I read a lot." He grinned briefly, then turned serious again, frighteningly serious. "Are you royal, my lady? Ordinary people don't need guarddemons and certainly can't afford them." His eyes were no longer sultry; they were rapiers.

  She had no choice but to trust him. If he meant to take advantage of her, he would have done so before now. "My mother is the Countess of Ely, and no, we're not royal, or rich. Not poor, of course. My father died many years ago. Mother has strange fears. She travels a lot, and never stays in one place more than a few months. She imagines a lot of enemies, that's all. That's why I have the ring. I was always told it would protect me. It must be a fake!"

  He lit up the room with his smile again. "Not necessarily. My guarddemon is conjured to move me out of danger, but perhaps yours works by bringing help."

  Did he realize what a wonderfully romantic notion that was? "You were the answer to a maiden's prayer tonight, sir."

  "Ah, maidens are always telling me that. Come along." He pulled on her hand to help her sit up. She smoothed her gown, which was utterly ruined. Oh, she must look a sight! But he smiled, and she smiled back. She wasn't just dreaming this.

  "Madonna, I will escort you safely to your residence. I will also steal some shoes out of that closet for you, if there are any there to fit you—you may have heard how skilled we mercenaries are at looting and pillaging. Otherwise, I am afraid you will have to hop." He headed for the closet. "In which contrada do you live?"

  "I don't know."

  He stopped and looked around. "You cannot even venture a wild guess?"

  She shook her head and felt a huge lump rise in her throat, as if she were about to burst into tears. "We just arrived in Siena last night. I don't know the name of the street, or even what the house looks like. I came out the back. Over a roof."

  "That makes things a little difficult!"

  He did not believe her, naturally. She herself could not believe that she had been so stupid. She did not approve of people being stupid, especially herself, because she normally wasn't, but tonight she seemed to be blundering into every pothole in sight. "I wanted to take a look at Carnival. I had my ring. I was only going to the corner, wanting to watch the revelers going by. But some young men pulled me into a dance. I can't speak Italian. By the time I escaped from them, I was in the square, and I didn't know which way I'd come."

  He did not laugh at her tale of folly. "But, Lisa, the attack on you wasn't just a random assault. Those ruffians knew who you were—I heard them. One of them said something like, 'That's her!' In English."

  She nodded. "Yes."

  "So it must have been gramarye of some sort, either a summoning or an ambush. The one holding you was a hexer. He invoked that demon. And he had it on a very loose rein—just a couple of words and gestures. That is extremely dangerous! I think you should take your mother's fears more seriously."

  "You're saying I've been a terrible fool."

  "I'd say your mother was the fool, for not confiding in you. She probably thinks of you as still being a child."

  She looked up quickly, then turned away, afraid she was blushing. He was not making that mistake.

  "I am very grateful for your help. You'll take me somewhere safe until we can find Mother?"

  "Of course. Go and see if there are any shoes you can wear."

  If he believed her story, would he be giving her orders like that? Or were the orders a sign that he did believe her story and thought she was stupid? "Very well, my lord. I'll give you some lessons in looting and pillaging."

  He grinned hugely, and that made her feel better.

  The closet was almost as large as the bedchamber, and its racks and rods and shelves held an impressive collection of gowns and cloaks and accessories, clearly belonging to a large woman. Anyone so rich would not grudge help to a lady in distress. Lisa found a pair of stylish buskins that she could walk in and not walk out of, and added a warm, dark-colored cloak of soft wool that fitted very well and would be much more suitable than her own for the sort of midnight adventuring that must lie in store. She discarded the balzo and exchanged it for a dark floppy hat that concealed her hair. After what must have been the fastest lady's dressing in history, she returned to the bedchamber.

  "How do I look?"

  Hamish stared at her for a moment in wonder. Then he sighed. "Lovelier than Venus. Beauty like yours drives men out of their wits."

  "Thank you, Sir Hamish!" She knew she was blushing. "Brave knight deserves fair lady."

  "Demons! I shouldn't have said... Lisa, I am not a knight! I'm not even an honest soldier—I'm a spy."

  Her smile died, cold on her lips. "A spy for whom?"

  "Not Nevil, I swear. Florence. But the Sienese might even prefer the Fiend to a Florentine. I'm not a nobleman in disguise, if that's what's in your mind. I'm a spy, and if the Sienese catch me, they'll rack me on principle."

  The ruffians had spoken English, and so did he, but she had no one else to trust. She held out a hand so he could tuck an arm under it.

  "Then I won't let them catch you. You're quite tall enough already."

  "I'd like to stay the way I am, I admit. Now, the first problem is to get safely out of here. We'll just walk downstairs as if we owned the place. If a servant sees us, I'll do the talking. If I speak to you, smile as if I'm discussing Carnival."

  The candle she was holding trembled and wavered. "And if we meet the owners?"

  He shrugged. "I'll think of something." He opened the door with a cheerful grin. "Hold on tight in case I disappear."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Toby was out of his depth in recitals of music and poetry, but the jugglers and buffoons made him laugh. He saw many parts of the palace he had not visited before, gazing in wonder at great salons so decorated with frescoes that gods and heroes lurked on the edges of the crowd and cherubim flitted overhead. The air was heady with the scents of perfumed bodies, beeswax, and intrigue.

  He knew many of the men already and was introduced to a hundred more, but the problem was never remembering a man's name,
it was judging his importance, because the standard term of office in Florence was a mere two months, and titles tended to be meaningless anyway. Undoubtedly at least a quarter of the persons present were in the pay of other states and would be filing reports the following day, so he was much in demand as a potential source of interesting material.

  The Veronese ambassador inquired smoothly why the noble condottiere spurned his old friends who had so well rewarded his magnificent services in their righteous struggle against the Venetian dogs.

  "Florence pays better," Toby replied, just to watch the man wince. It paid in prestige, not money, but it was prestige he needed now if he were to influence events.

  Within the hour, representatives of Ravenna and Naples, both former employers, made similar inquiries and received similar answers. They met frankness so seldom they had trouble dealing with it.

  Frankness was barely enough when he was trapped in a shadowy corner by Lucas Abonio, who was a cousin of the Duke of Milan and brother of its collaterale, Ercole Abonio. The brothers could hardly have been more dissimilar, for Ercole was completely admirable, a shrewd and competent old campaigner, respected equally by his own men and his enemies. He had taught the young foreigner many things the previous summer while the Don Ramon Company fought for the duke against Florence—a trivial squabble that had been solved with a few thousand ducats and a few score dead mercenaries. Ercole was a true knight, Lucas a lurker in dark corners, a scavenger of scandal, a sniffer-out of secrets. He oozed along on a trail of intrigue like a slug on slime.

  "Have you reconsidered our offer, comandante?"

  Toby backed away a pace and collided with a wall. "You honor me beyond words, Your Magnificence. Alas, Don Ramon has already committed to the Florentines."

  The spy bared a few yellow teeth. "Not according to my sources. The don's appointment was a temporary replacement for the late and unlamented Captain-General Vespucci. I have it on excellent authority that Florence has not yet met your terms for a new condotta."