by Ken Hood
"Don't call me that!" Oreste rubbed his face. "I, also... I have very much to atone for. But the Inquisition... May I sit, please? I am not thinking very clearly." He was in shock.
They took the lanterns and led him to a stout iron chair, strong enough to support his bulk. He sank down in it gratefully, although its purpose was to hold a man immobile while his feet were being roasted or his fingers crushed. Toby brought him the water pitcher, and he drank.
"Now, Baron. The first problem is, can you get me and my friend out of here alive? Can you defend us from the Inquisition?"
"I... I don't know." He wrung his fat hands. "I am still viceroy, I suppose. In any other crime I could just issue a pardon, but not in a case of possession. If I try to release you, even my own guard will mutiny. The Inquisition would rouse the city. There would be a hue and cry, a house-to-house search for a convicted creature. There would be riots. Nowhere in the city would be safe for you."
The don opened his mouth, and Toby held up a hand to silence him. They waited. Either the baron was a consummate actor, or he was genuinely trying to help.
"There are ships. But you are not easily disguised..."
"Montserrat!" The don's eyes glittered. "If you are truly as penitent as you profess, then you will accompany us to Montserrat and testify to your repentance before the spirit!"
The baron's bulk shuddered like jelly. He closed his eyes, but then he managed a nod. "Yes," he muttered hoarsely. "No man has ever had more on his conscience. I cannot ever hope to atone, but I should make my confession, if it will hear me. We can go in my carriage. You will not dare go to the monastery, of course, Longdirk..."
"Yes he will," the don said. "The tutelary has offered him sanctuary."
The baron ignored him. "But I could take you part of the way, smuggle you out of Barcelona, give you money." A grotesque smile writhed over his doughy face. "After all these years it is hard for me to think like an ordinary man now. I keep wanting to use gramarye."
"We are not going to open the casket," Toby said firmly, "if that's what you—"
"No! No! Never! But I can get you out of town, I am sure. Even provide an escort."
"And Jaume? We must rescue him also."
The baron sighed. "That should be easier. In his case the guards will obey my orders; they approve of anyone who slays a landsknechte."
Toby exchanged nods with the don. They would have to trust him. "Very well. You will knock on the door and order Diaz to summon your coach and bring the prisoner Campbell to you. Do not mention Don Ramon or myself, and we will try to pass as innocent monks."
The baron rose shakily. "I shall do my best, Longdirk, I swear it!"
Don Ramon drew his dagger. "You understand that you will lose a kidney if you do not?"
"Yes, yes! And you understand that death would be a welcome release for me? But I shall do my best to make recompense for all the harm I have done you. I wish I could do as much for all the thousands of others." Shuffling like a very old man, the baron headed for the door.
Toby went to replace the lanterns and fetch that precious casket.
Hope is the mother of disappointment...
PART NINE
To Catch the Wind
CHAPTER ONE
Hope was also much harder to handle than despair. Despair was simple, merely a matter of courage, and courage was only pride. But hope was a tease. Hope was a temptress who flaunted offers of life and safety, or even happiness, and whipped them away again. Hope was a will o' the wisp dancing over bottomless swamps.
Step by reluctant step, Toby was driven to belief. No matter how he fought against hope or chided himself for starry-eyed dreaming, the evidence grew that the baron and even the mad don were to be trusted. Over and over he warned himself that the more he let himself believe, the greater would be his pain when the trap snapped shut around him again. Yet still that seed of hope kept sprouting.
The first inkling was the way the baron tugged his cloak around himself, to hide his muddy clothes and ringless hands, after he had rapped on the door. He had not been told to do that.
Locks clattered, hinges groaned, Diaz appeared in the opening. "Your Excellency?" He did not even glance at the two shadowy monks so close to the viceroy's back.
"Summon my carriage immediately."
"At once, Excellency."
"And bring out the other prisoner—Campbell. He will accompany me."
A moment's hesitation. "He is technically the Inquisition's now, Excellency. I have your authority to insist?"
"Certainly. Use force if you must."
A gleam of satisfaction vanished instantly. Lowering his voice slightly, the captain said, "The friars are here. They are anxious to begin the interrogation."
"Not yet. Not till tomorrow at the earliest. Wait," Oreste added as Diaz began to turn away. "Longdirk is to be left undisturbed. He... that is, he is being stubborn. We must teach him a lesson."
The captain raised his eyebrows, which for him was equivalent to a gasp of disbelief. "Left as he is, senor? Chained like that?"
"Exactly as he is. No food, no water, no inspections, even."
"But he cannot stand indefinitely, senor! He will faint eventually, and with his arms held up in that position, then he will certainly suffocate."
"I do not ask for advice!" the baron yelled. "He is not to be disturbed by anyone, for any reason whatsoever! Until I return."
"Of course, Excellency!" Diaz saluted. His face bore the nearest thing to a smile that Toby had ever seen on it—he obviously thought the baron was planning to cheat the Inquisition by granting the prisoner a merciful death.
—|—
There was another hint a few moments later as the baron and his escort walked along the arched passageway to the stair and its seductive hint of daylight. One of the soldiers who had chained Toby to the wall an hour earlier jostled him, muttered, "Beg pardon, Father," and seemed to forget him again immediately.
—|—
Out in the courtyard a wan noontime sun was trying to break through flimsy clouds without much success, but the rain had stopped. Toby clutched the ivory casket, ignoring the wide iron gates and thoughts of making a run for it—there was no safety for him in the streets. He could not walk freely under the sky like other men; he was officially certified as not human.
The baron leaned against a pillar with his eyes closed, pale as a corpse. Toby moved in close to him on one side, the don on the other with his dagger concealed in his sleeve. Guards stood around, exchanging puzzled glances, but no one showed any interest in the two Benedictines, not even a group of genuine Benedictines who wandered across the courtyard, deep in conversation. Now followed a torment of waiting, a time for hope to sicken and fear to thrive.
Then Diaz returned with a troop of soldiers, escorting Hamish, who shuffled along in leg chains. His hands were in manacles, his features puffed and discolored by the battering he had taken in the cage. He squinted against the light, holding his head high and trying to look brave—he might well be deceiving anyone who knew him less well than Toby did. He scowled when he saw the baron, but his gaze flickered past the two fake monks with no sign of recognition at all. Hope surged a little higher yet.
—|—
Eight white horses brought in the viceroy's carriage, a gilded cottage on wheels. The steps were set down, but then there was a delay while the prisoner was pushed forward, looking puzzled and alarmed. Toby squeezed past the watchers and scrambled up, into a scented salon roomy enough for a dozen people. He settled himself on a silk-padded cushion and held his breath.
It was going to work! Great spirits, you will not betray us now?
Hamish clambered up, one foot at a time, steadied by soldiers' hands. His eyes widened when he saw the luxurious interior, but he did not seem to notice that there were was someone there already. He sat down and scowled as he tried to make himself comfortable in his fetters. The baron's bulk darkened the doorway, with the don right at his back.
"Wher
e to, your Excellency?" called Diaz from the outside.
"To Montserrat."
The door was closed, orders were shouted, and the viceroy's escort began mounting in a clatter of hooves and jingling harness. The baron flopped down on the bench beside Hamish, drooping like a man exhausted. Hamish frowned at him distrustfully. Whips cracked, voices shouted, and the cumbersome machine began to roll. Eight white horses clattered out through the arch into the street, and the great wheels rumbled behind them.
Toby threw back his hood. "Ceud mile failte!" A hundred-thousand welcomes.
Hamish gaped and made a croaking noise.
"I think we have just escaped, thanks to Don Ramon here, and Montserrat, and his Excellency. You know Baron Oreste, at least by sight—and by reputation of course."
The baron looked round. "Master Campbell? I am very pleased to meet you at last, and in happier circumstances than I could have anticipated." He did not look pleased. He looked like a man going mad.
"The baron," said Toby, "is now one of us."
Hamish licked his lips. "Well now!" he whispered. "Ain't that one for the books!"
—|—
The armed escort kept the population at bay, but there was booing in the streets as the freedom-loving Catalans expressed their opinion of the hated viceroy. Had they known that the coach also contained a convicted incarnate, even Captain Diaz and his troop could not have defended it. Only when it rumbled out through the city gate and began to pick up speed on the muddy highway could the flower of hope open fully.
It was going to be a strange journey. The baron relapsed into bleak silence, but from time to time he would lift his head to stare longingly at the ivory casket like a drunkard deprived of his wine. All would be lost if that lid were to open for even an instant, so Toby wrapped it securely with the girdle from one of the now-discarded robes and kept it on the bench between himself and the don.
He succeeded in breaking a rusted link in the chain on Hamish's ankles, but the manacles defeated him. Hamish contorted himself inside out so that his hands were in front of him instead of behind his back, which was an improvement. Then he had to be told the whole dramatic story. By the end of it he was grinning like his old self.
Don Ramon, as hero of the hour, was in high spirits. "Truly, Campeador," he proclaimed, "this is a noble crusade on which we embark! We are prepared to listen to your recommendations on how we should begin."
"Crusade, senor?"
The blue eyes glittered. "The crusade on which we agreed—to overthrow the Fiend and rid the world of Rhym."
Oh, demons! "The caballero is asking me about a matter of high strategy on which I am unqualified to advise him, being only a serf. Perchance the baron may be better able to discuss it."
The don scowled at that notion. Quite apart from his ghastly reputation, Oreste was an upstart, a former scholar jumped into the minor nobility by the Fiend. His lineage was nonexistent when compared to that of Nuñez y Pardo.
Even if Toby had the slightest intention of going hunting for the tyrant—which he did not—there were still too many ditches in his immediate future for him to start worrying about Nevil. Dare he trust himself again to Montserrat? It had already sold him once. Why should it defy the Inquisition on his behalf? It would be defying Nevil also, for although Oreste was no longer a threat, the Fiend had many other hexers at his command, not to mention his never-defeated army. Furthermore, to succor the outlaw Longdirk now, the spirit would have to admit that it had made a mistake the first time, and that seemed even less likely.
The robes, though... the robes were evidence. With some difficulty, he roused the baron from his lethargy and asked about the robes. Oreste confirmed that inanimate objects could be hexed.
"Not for long, though," he mumbled. "The effect will fade in a few days or weeks at most." He relapsed into his bitter brooding.
So perhaps Montserrat really had behaved as the don claimed!
And the other problem was the amethyst, which had been an amethyst when Diaz had placed it in the warded casket and a pebble when it came out. Neither Hamish nor Oreste could suggest a solution, and if they couldn't, Toby Longdirk need not trouble his pretty little head over it, so he put the matter out of his mind.
He wanted to practice his meditation exercises, but he began sliding into sleep as soon as he began. He was more exhausted than he could ever remember, with the strain of the last twenty-four hours piled on all the hard days before. Don Ramon went to sleep, then Hamish did the same, but Toby must keep watch on the box and the brooding baron.
By the time they awakened, the setting sun was shedding a ruddy glow on spectacular precipices ahead. Now that he did not expect to die soon, Toby could concede that the world was interesting again and peered out at the scenery. The don had no such curiosity in rocks.
"When you find that amethyst, Campeador," he proclaimed, "then our duty is to deliver it to the Khan at Sarois, so that the rightful Nevil can be restored to the world of the living and reveal the conjuration."
Toby turned to the baron. "Would that be possible, Excellency? Can Nevil be reincarnated?"
"Hmm? What?" Oreste shrugged. "In theory, yes. That is what Rhym fears above all. In practice, it is more likely that the boy would emerge as a slobbering idiot or a raving madman. He would certainly not be in a cooperative frame of mind, and Nevil was no mean hexer in his own right."
"Besides, who is to provide a living body?" Toby asked. Valda had volunteered him to make that sacrifice, and the memory made his skin crawl.
"In such a cause, any chance is worth taking," Don Ramon insisted.
"But we don't know who took the amethyst."
This intrusion of reality made him pout. After a while he tried again: "Then the first step must be to rally an army. An invasion of France by the combined forces of Castile and Aragon would be a beginning. You will cooperate, of course, baron, since you are still viceroy?"
"Me?" Oreste shook his head mournfully. "You must not count on me for help. Rhym will very soon learn that I have escaped his binding. My days can be numbered on the fingers of one hand."
There might be people in the world worse off than Toby Longdirk, which he found a stunning realization. "Possibly Montserrat will defend you, Excellency."
"Me?" the baron said incredulously, and that one agonized word ended the conversation.
CHAPTER TWO
Darkness fell as the carriage was inching its way higher on the hairpin road, but even before it left the valley floor, Hamish's manacles and gyves fell off in a sudden clatter. He jumped, grinned nervously, and said, "We seem to be expected!"
"And welcome," Toby added. No one spoke a word after that, as if they were all afraid that the tutelary might be listening—an illogical reason, because it was just as capable of reading their thoughts.
Welcome, but what sort of welcome? If there was now a third option other than death or exorcism, why had it not been offered before? Or had Montserrat just concluded that exorcism was the better solution, whether Toby wanted it or not?
The weary horses took a long time to haul the great vehicle up to the monastery, but at last the track leveled off, and the wheels rumbled to a halt. Torches flamed in the darkness outside the windows, and male voices raised in anger. It sounded as if the monks wanted the honor of opening the door for the distinguished visitor, and the viceroy's guards were resisting. But the door did open eventually, and the steps were pulled down. Cumbersome and reluctant, Oreste heaved himself to his feet and descended to the courtyard.
Hamish followed, free of his chains. And then went the don and Toby in their enchanted robes. Toby walked unnoticed right in front of Diaz. The temptation to speak to him had to be resisted, for the captain would be better off when the hue and cry started if he did not know where the missing prisoner had gone.
Monks in black habits had already escorted the baron away, hunched and old, a broken man. His interview with Montserrat would be interesting, but he was entitled to a private confessio
n like any lesser penitent. Toby headed in the same direction, sure that the spirit could see him even if no one else could. He knew his invisibility had been lifted when he saw Hamish grinning at him. The don had disappeared in the crowd.
"Do you suppose," Toby said, "that any suppliant has ever come to Montserrat with a hob in his heart and eleven demons under his arm?"
"No, and never one as hungry as I am, either!"
"If the senores will allow me to guide them?" The speaker was a genuine monk, an elderly, dignified man with a ponderous belly extending the front of his robe. Without waiting for a reply he set off across the courtyard.
There was little to be seen of the buildings, although they were larger and more numerous than Toby had expected, huddled close together on their high shelf, backed by more sheer cliffs. The ancient holy place, clothed in wind and night and mystery, was impressive even by starlight.
They entered a vast, dim hall, and there their guide stopped and awkwardly turned his bulk. "You are invited to share our meal, senores, in about an hour, and the abbot will formally welcome you at that time. Meanwhile, you will be guided to your quarters. If there is anything you need that has not been provided, you have only to ask."
"You are too kind," Toby said politely, thinking that a little more kindness would have been welcome the previous day. The monk waddled off.
"This is more what I was expecting yesterday," Hamish said. "Wine and roast goose? Venison, perhaps?"
"Or you could ask them to take you straight to the library."
"Hmm! One of the greatest in Europe!"
"See you next year, then."
"You going to stay here that long?"
Toby had been joking. He had no idea what the future held in store for him, not a year, nor even a day, and he hardly cared. "Perhaps. This would be a good place for me to learn how to keep the hob suppressed. You'll be back in Scotland long before that." He yawned.
"No!"
"No? Lost your homesickness?" That was surprisingly welcome news.