by Dave Duncan
Setting the candle on the floor for safety, he lifted her and carried her over to the bed, marveling once again at how little she weighed. He could see no injuries except a few faint scratches on her face, arms, and one of her tiny breasts. There was no blood anywhere, and her breathing sounded peaceful. Her lips were crusted and her tongue swollen. Water? He would have to leave her and run for water, for the jar had been empty. It was worth a second look, though, so he took a second look and was relieved to see that he had been mistaken the first time. There was a small amount left in the bottom. He filled a beaker and took it to her.
All the time, he was saying, "Sorghie! Sorghie!"
He wet a finger and laved her lips. Her tongue moved. He sat beside her, raised her up, held the beaker to her mouth. "Sorghie! Sorghie! Wake up, Sorghie! It's Toby." Her straight black hair was crudely hacked short, like a boy's, and she smelled of fresh hay. She was even younger than he had guessed and might have been pretty had she not been horribly mutilated. Where her eyelids should be there was only white scar tissue, hideous and sunken, apparently burns. Tongue moved, lips moved, and in a moment she swallowed.
"You'll be all right," he said, over and over, although he had not the slightest idea what was wrong. Her injuries—the scratches and ripped clothes—might have come from falling into a gorse bush, but he wondered if she had dropped through some cypress trees. It made no sense, it just seemed to fit. If evil men had maltreated her, they would have done much worse. The loss of her sight, whether atrocity or accident, had happened years ago.
"Toby?" The single word was both a croak and a whisper, but very welcome.
"Yes. What do you need?" He was still supporting her in the crook of his arm.
She did not answer for a while. Then her tiny hands pulled her dress closed over her miniature breasts. "Were you looking?"
"Yes. Very pretty."
She smiled at that. "Why do you not open the door so I can see?"
"I'll have to lay you down."
She struggled feebly. "Cannot I sit?"
He eased her back so she could lean against the headboard, then went and opened the door. Chabi came in with a rush, circled the room, and soared up to a rafter. Toby scooped up the fallen hat and blindfold and went back to kneel beside the bed and offer them to the shaman. "Feeling better?"
She hastened to cover her ruined eyes, but he took the chance to run fingers through her hair. Short though it was, it was thick, and its coarseness made it heavy and somehow sensuous. She smiled at him.
"Why do you look so worried?" She was flattered by his concern.
"Are you not my friend? Should I not then be worried?"
"Are you learning bad habits from me, answering questions with questions?"
"Probably. But since we are friends, will you not tell me the truth now? The prince did not send you. He's never heard of you, has he?"
She shook her head, apparently looking down at her knees.
"Then where did you come from?"
Her tiny hand tried to close on his huge one and settled for squeezing one finger. "How well do you know the Caucasus, Little One?"
"Only that it... er, they... they are very far away." He could ask Hamish. "How did you come?"
"When I arrived, was I not limping?"
"You walked? How long did it take you? Who sent you?"
She seemed willing to tell him her story now, but her inability to speak anything other than questions made the process difficult. As far as he could tell, she had walked for the best part of two years to reach Florence—or to reach him, for it seemed that he had been her goal. She must have set out about the time he arrived in Italy to become a soldier of fortune, and she had certainly been only a child then. Why? Because the spirits had called her, of course. Hamish had mentioned that shamans were always called; the spirits gave them no choice. Of her family or what had happened to her eyes she did not speak, and he did not ask.
"You must rest now," he said. "But one more question. Tonight you traveled in the spirit world. What did you find there?"
Her mouth twisted as if in pain. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Know you anthills, Little Boy? Myriads and myriads of ants? By a lake, do you see?" She moaned and swayed. He sat on the edge of the bed again and held her. She leaned into his bulk, seeking comfort. "You know Lemanus and the Mount of Jove, Little One?"
"No."
She made a sound like a sob. "What else can we do? Am I not trying my best?"
"You are doing your best, and it is more than enough. I know who will tell me of those names. Now you must sleep, Sorghie. Will you eat first? Drink more?"
"Drink?" she murmured, and he gave her the beaker to sip again. He kissed her cheek and stood up.
She demanded her drum and insisted she wanted nothing more. When he opened the door to leave, Chabi hurtled by him and vanished into the dawn. He sprinted for the villa and returned with water, and bread, and oil, but she was already asleep, clutching the drum and sucking her thumb like a child.
* * *
Hamish lay on his pallet in exactly the same position as before, head on arms, snoring like a water mill. He was going to have horrible pins and needles. Toby poked him.
"Hamish! The Mount of Jove—where is it? Hamish, wake up! Lemanus! Where is the Mount of Jove? And a lake. Lake Garda? Como? Maggiore?"
He grunted a series of, "Who? What?" noises. His eyes opened, wavering. He tried to move an arm and grimaced.
"Where is the Mount of Jove?" Toby shouted.
"Uh? What's the matter?" Hamish brought his eyes into focus like an archer aiming an arrow. "Toby? What time is it? Demons, my shoulders! Go roll in the honey pits."
"Answer me! Where is the Mount of Jove? And Lemanus?"
"Mount of Jove is the pass of Gran San Bernardo. And the road goes by Lacus Lemanus, Lake Geneva. Why the Latin? Why are you asking?"
Toby sank back on his haunches with a sigh. "Because that's how he's coming—the Fiend. He's on his way." It was to be Turin and Milan.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Before the city roosters fell silent, Toby was in Florence, beating on doors. The don, the Chevalier, the Magnificent, Prince Sartaq, even doddery old Carisendi, chairman of the Ten—he tried to warn all of them that the Fiend was on his way. Not one of them would believe that any shaman or hexer could see as far as the Great Saint Bernard Pass, let alone Lake Geneva. They all seemed much more interested in the grand public reception that was to be held for the young Queen of England.
When it was duly held, three days later, it was a very elaborate affair indeed. No one actually said that it might be the last one ever to be held in the Palace of the Signory, but that implication overhung it like a rain cloud heading for a picnic. The don wore his silver helmet and was almost ignored. Every flunky and officeholder and his wife crammed into the banquet hall, and most of them delivered speeches. All the rest of Florence turned out just to catch a glimpse of the two English queens arriving in their coach and then to shed a tear over their dramatic and tragic tale—and perhaps also to savor a frisson of dread that with the terrible Fiend poised to invade Italy at any moment here were his wife and daughter in the flesh. It was a stunning civic triumph, and it took all day.
Captain-General Don Ramon and his deputy had been standing in a packed and suffocatingly stuffy hall for almost two hours before they even caught a glimpse of the guests of honor, to whom in due course they would have a chance to pay their respects. Blanche looked like a well-decorated corpse, or a puppet on strings. Lisa was... was Lisa. Someone with exquisite taste had robed her in torrents of pale blue silk and sprinkled jewels all over her, and any man would have cheerfully fallen at her feet. Knowing her as he did, Toby could tell that she was nervous and upset, but she was hiding it with an aplomb far beyond her years, smiling, acknowledging, thanking. She was displaying a truly royal grace he had not seen in her before—was that an inherited trait she had never bothered to reveal, or was she just enjoying being the center of attentio
n? This was not the spoiled, self-centered brat he had known for the last two months. She was barely a woman, still some days short of sixteen, and yet her aura filled the hall. Had Hamish been present, he would have died of longing.
The don, never patient, was fretful but would control his temper because he was waiting on royalty. Mostly he passed the time accepting adulation from lesser folk brought into his proximity by the slow shuffle of the line as it wound snakelike about the hall, but once he turned to Toby and demanded:
"Have you established yet who betrayed our guests?"
Until the scene at Cafaggiolo, he had believed like everyone else that Lisa was Hamish's sister. Toby had expected him to raise a tempest over that deception, but this was the first time he had mentioned the subject.
"No, senor. When I do, I will break every bone in his body."
Don Ramon smiled. "Let me know in advance. I shall enjoy watching."
"Sì, senor. Do you wish me to save you a rib or two?"
"No. I would not hinder you in any way." After a moment he added, "But I was constantly amazed that we were able to keep the secret as long as we did."
To which the only possible reply was, "Sì, senor."
Eventually protocol delivered them to the royal guests—the two queens and Sartaq, who was acting as host, liege lord of the city. When the presentation was over there would be time for only a couple of quick sentences. Toby had been agonizing over what he would say to Lisa, but even when he was bowing to the prince he had not decided.
Sartaq looked extremely pleased with himself. "Constable!" He dropped his voice to a whisper, and spoke—surprisingly—in English. "We leave out Scotland after all!"
"Your Highness?"
"Not wanting to hurt your feelings!" With a chuckle and a twinkle that seemed almost a wink, the Khan's son turned to the next in line.
Toby managed not to say, "After what you did to me at Cafaggiolo you are worried about my feelings, you young idiot?"
His family was hopelessly inbred, of course, given to congenital insanity.
Now Lisa! She acknowledged Toby's bow with a nod, but her royal composure wavered as she glanced at the line behind him—looking for Hamish and not finding him.
Toby blurted out the message, still wondering if it was a cruelty in the circumstances. "He said to tell you he will never forget."
"Tell him..." She swallowed hard. "Tell him to try. We shall never forget your kindness, Sir Tobias. Do you know who...?"
"No, ma'am. When I find out, I will kill him for you."
"Kill him again for Hamish," Lisa said bitterly.
Then he had to move on.
Queen Blanche gave him a skeletal smile. "You tried, Constable. Whatever happens it will not be your fault."
He mumbled some suitable reply. It would be his fault, of course. Had he wanted, he could have put Blanche and her daughter on a ship to Malta. He wondered why he had not. Could his reluctance to lose Hamish have been the whole reason?
* * *
The finale of the ceremony saw Lisa doing homage to the darughachi for England, Wales, Ireland, Aquitaine, and a few assorted other possessions of the English crown. Nevil had long since been branded traitor and declared deposed, of course, but this was the first time the Khanate had recognized a successor. The palace rang with cheers, which were undoubtedly mostly for the lovely madonna Elizabeth. No man would have received such an ovation.
So Sartaq had not been entirely joking about Scotland, although Toby was certain that whatever the reason it had been left off the list, his personal feelings had not been involved. He was not even sure who his rightful king was since Fergan had been caught and murdered. He made a mental note to ask Hamish when he returned to the villa.
"You know," the don remarked quietly, twirling his mustache, "Nevil is certain to hear of this. It should feel as good as fleas in his armor."
"I'm glad I don't have to break the news to him," Toby agreed. The only silver lining he could see in it all was that Lisa must now be under Sartaq's protection. He would be ringed with defenses against demon attacks, and he certainly would not hang around Italy if the Fiend seemed likely to overrun it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The following morning, couriers arrived with news that the Fiend's horde had been sighted in the pass. His advance scouts had come down into the plains two days after Sorghaghtani's questing, and this was duly reported a few days later in Florence. D'Anjou's grand plan was ashes already. Toby could take no joy of that. He had predicted a month. It would be April, blood on the lilacs. Had he been put in charge, he would have moved faster, but he still would not have had time to organize a united defense. The delays caused by Sartaq's meddling had made disaster inevitable. Nevil would be in Naples before the end of June.
The Chevalier summoned all the armies of Italy to muster at Piacenza, then rode north to take charge. The Fiend's forces poured into Savoy. The duke and his family fled Turin, which seemed certain to be the first target.
Next came word that a second army, even larger, was crossing the Brenner Pass and menacing Trent, the city Toby had saved the previous fall. That news made him grind his teeth in frustration, for had he been able to establish a base at Piacenza as he had wanted, he would have been able to strike at the two columns separately, before they could unite. Meanwhile he worked day and night preparing the army of Florence to ride out. The Don Ramon Company was ready, but too many of the other units were still in a state of muddle. He set the eighth as the day of departure.
On the seventh he and the don were summoned to a meeting of the dieci. Doddering old Cecco de' Carisendi, who usually gave the impression that he might have been someone of note in the silk weavers' guild early in the previous century, was that day surprisingly clear spoken and effectual. He stood erect with his nine fellow councillors at his back in the gloomy, paneled chamber, and he minced no words. There would be no march north. The army of Florence was to remain in Florence.
The don roared like an artillery barrage. Wars were not won by defense, he declared. This was cowardice, betrayal, and folly. The Fiend would like nothing better. After he had repeated everything twice, he fell silent, glaring. He had not quite threatened to take the Company north anyway, but he was obviously considering it. All eyes turned to Toby.
"Am I correct in assuming that His Highness has left the city?" He tried not to let the question sound like a sneer.
Carisendi shook his head and blinked his bleary eyes. "No, indeed, messer. I saw the prince not an hour ago. He is preparing a... He has no plans to leave Florence yet."
That was a surprise, if true. "And he approves of this action?"
"That is not your concern, Constable. Under the condotta, you are bound by the directives of the dieci della guerra."
"I am well aware of this. Why do you buy a guard dog and then chain it?"
Ten hapless burghers twitched and fidgeted; they scratched and shuffled their feet, and few of them could meet his eye. They all knew that what they were demanding was wrong. He wondered who was twisting their cords—the Magnificent? or Sartaq? or perhaps it was the Fiend himself.
"You must understand," Carisendi bleated, "that the forces of Rome and Naples have not yet made their way north. Florence cannot denude herself of defenders while two great armies are due to pass through Tuscany. Once they have gone by, then the matter will be reviewed. Your advice will be solicited at that time, Captain-General; yours also, of course, Constable."
That was never. Bruno Villari had repeated loud and often that unless the College provided more spiritual protection—meaning hexers well supplied with demons—he would refuse to move his men out of sight of the city walls. Conversely, while Rome retained its potential for attack, King Fredrico would not strip Naples' defenses. Nobody was coming north.
"You can expect a large influx of refugees, Your Magnificence," Toby said. "I haven't heard any news today, but I imagine Trent and Turin have both burned by now. Verona will fall tomorrow or the day af
ter. If Nevil sees no sign of organized opposition, he may even tackle Venice and Milan at the same time before—"
"I have not finished issuing you your instructions, messer. Effective immediately, you are to post guards on all gates to prevent any mass exodus."
"So we are not your defenders? We are jailers?"
The chairman scowled. "Certainly not. You will allow people to pass freely, but not carry away their household possessions. Trade must continue, but panic could be extremely deleterious. And henceforth you will concentrate all your energies on preparing Florence to withstand a siege."
Somehow even this ultimate stupidity was not a surprise. "Florence cannot withstand a siege. Your walls are two hundred years old, and while they may have been adequate when they were built, cannons have made them obsolete. The Fiend will set up his artillery on the hill of San Miniato and blast you to fragments."
"We have cannons!"
"But they cannot throw a shot high enough to reach the hilltop."
The dieci exchanged shocked glances.
"Cannot you extend the walls to include the hill?" Carisendi asked weakly.
"I can try," Toby said. If the citizens were to be held in the city at sword point, they would be happier being kept busy building walls. "The timing will be very tight, but if Milan manages to hold out for a month or so, the Fiend won't get here before the middle or end of June."
The old man sighed. "Take whatever steps you can, messer. Your written instructions will be delivered by noon." He looked very frail as he returned the two mercenaries' bows.
Side by side they marched across to the door.
* * *
"Absolute insanity!" the don barked, even before he was outside the chamber. "This is what we get for prostituting our honor to a stinking gang of dyers and weavers!"
For once Toby was inclined to agree with him. He had signed the condotta, so he was bound to obey orders. In the past he had always contracted to perform a specific deed and retained some freedom to choose how he would do it. He had not seen that Florence's terms were different. Too late now, for he could not march away in a snit, leaving the city with no defenders.