Demon Knight

by Dave Duncan

  TWO

  March

  23

  The condotta was signed where important civic ceremonies were always held—under the high, three-arched loggia adjoining the Piazza della Signoria. The crowds cheered lustily to hail their dashing new Castilian captain-general and his big deputy, who could undoubtedly defeat all the Fiend’s horses and all the Fiend’s men single-handed with a club. Their betters were of another mind, though.

  The new slate of civic officials, especially the dieci della guerra, were steamingly furious, because the agreement had been finalized before they took office, cheating them of their just share of the graft. For this they blamed the barbarian giant, who had actually begun striking camp at Fiesole, preparing to move to Milan, and had thus forced messer Benozzo to ride out in haste and agree to initial the terms. Toby had been bluffing, of course, but the big mutt was a mile more devious than he looked and could outwit anyone anytime when he wanted to.

  All the two-lire politicos and their wives were now snubbing him as obviously as possibly. If that made the ceremony unpleasant for Toby, it was pure torture for Hamish Campbell. A chancellor was supposed to steer his condottiere safely through the quicksands of Italian politics. That was his job, and to plead that the sands of Florence were quicker than others or that a non-Italian could not understand their constant shifting would be a confession of incompetence. If only someone knowledgeable had written a book on the subject!—someone like that slinky messer Machiavelli who advised the Magnificent, for instance.

  However joyously the people of Florence hailed their new defender, the petty leaders were treating Toby more like a foreign conqueror than a guardian who had just sworn to defend them with his life. Most of the sumptuously garbed notables and their almost-as-sumptuously-garbed wives had just stalked by him with noses raised on their way to pay their respects to the captain-general himself before moving across to the Palace of the Signory for the banquet. The don was posturing in his silver helmet, flaunting his baton of office within a circle of fawning admirers. Apparently he had managed to overcome his dislike of taking orders from a rabble of moneylenders and haberdashers. The worst must be over, though. The slow grind of protocol was now about to bring forth the larger parasites.

  “The people like you,” Hamish muttered.

  “What people?” Toby looked down with a grin. Nobody human should be able to smile while being humiliated on this scale, but he was showing that he bore no grudge against Hamish for it, which was typical of him. “If you mean the stolid citizenry of the republic, my lad, then they’re still hard at work—weaving, dyeing, or fulling, whatever that is. No, don’t bother to explain, I have an appointment later this afternoon. Those out there are the froth.”

  True. The overdressed spectators in the square were all handpicked Marradi supporters, probably mostly officials of the minor guilds who had no effective influence over the heavyweights of the major guilds, which in turn could do nothing without the Magnificent’s approval, but a chancellor was supposed to explain such things to his condottiere, not vice versa.

  “Fulling or not, the populace approves of you.”

  No condottiere in all Italy except Toby cared a fig for any populace. He sighed. “I hope I prove worthy of their trust. Any word on the darughachi?”

  “Nothing new. His Highness remains in Rome, officially conferring with the cardinals. Unofficially, he is reported to be bedding the entire female population between the ages of thirteen and eighty. He is expected to come north later in the spring, when he has finished.”

  “It’s still spring? Feels like high summer.” Toby’s face was dewed with sweat under his bronze helmet, for he was in military garb. His doublet and breeches were so heavily padded with linen that they would stop a saber or even a pike. They were as elaborately trimmed as anything the landsknechte wore, extravagantly piped and slashed in cerise and vermilion and peacock blue. With a broadsword at his thigh, he looked even more huge and dangerous than usual, dominating the piazza. The notables of Florence might be snubbing him, but the eyes of their wives and daughters were nowhere else. When he was leaving camp this morning, even Lisa had admitted that he was Mars incarnate.

  Which reminded Chancellor Campbell that he had squandered every lire due him for the next six months in providing Lisa with an appropriate wardrobe, and the countess, although her health had improved until now she was well enough to be a real thorn in his flesh, was showing no signs of offering to recompense him for any of it out of the funds the Company had provided. When the first of the condotta gold arrived and Hamish received his arrears, he would have to turn it all over to Toby to start repaying his debts. Oh, women! Oh, ruin! Oh, Lisa …

  Oh, spirits! Here came Lucas Abonio with his half-witted wife on his arm and his two quarter-witted daughters at his heels. Unlike the snotty Florentine politicians whose petty noses were out of joint just because Toby had called their bluff and forced them to cut short their games at his expense, the Milanese ambassador had a real grievance against the new deputy captain-general and against his chancellor, too. Hamish had gone within an eyelash—a rat’s eyelash—of committing Toby to serving the Duke of Milan in return for various castles, fiefdoms, chests of treasure, hands of daughters in marriage, and so on. Abonio had almost certainly informed his ducal master than the deal was made, only to learn later that he had been, um, misinformed.

  Now he stumped past the waiting Scots without a glance. His face was even redder and shinier than Toby’s. At his heels stalked Jacopo Benozzo, haughtier yet. He had none of Abonio’s excuse. Reports of Nevil’s preparations were flooding in every day. Hiring a captain-general had been Benozzo’s duty, so why had he procrastinated so long? Behind him tottered messer Cecco de’ Carisendi, his replacement as chairman of the dieci. He was probably too senile to remember who Toby was.

  The big hats were coming thick and fast now … Guilo and a collection of minor Marradis … and still not a glance, not a smile! This could not be their own idea; they would certainly have been primed by the Magnificent. Hamish looked up in alarm to Toby and was silenced by a warning frown: the podestà!

  Antonio Origo oozed toward them with an elderly, almost emaciated woman on his arm—an aunt, perhaps. Was his wife unwell again? Origo was always greasy, but today he seemed more reminiscent of boiling oil, which might be a mark of displeasure or due simply to the fact that he was grossly overdressed in a jerkin of cloth of gold and a fur-trimmed cloak. Hamish prepared his most obsequious bow. The podestà ignored him and almost went right past Toby also. Then he paused, glaring.

  “This is highly improper! You can expect to be stripped of your post very shortly. His Highness sent strict instructions that no major decisions were to be taken until he arrived. He will be extremely displeased when he hears the news of your appointment.”

  Alarmed to note that Toby was wearing his stupid-yokel expression, Hamish braced himself for some outrageous taunt, such as an inquiry as to why the Khan’s representative did not boycott the free lunch if he disapproved of the occasion. Origo was having severe troubles of his own. Having ignored their titular overlord the Khan for a couple of centuries, the Florentines heartily disapproved of his reappearance in their lives. Prince Sartaq should not expect a cordial welcome when he arrived, and his flunky the podestà must be finding life even more difficult than usual.

  But all Toby said was, “I am sure His Highness is well informed about what is happening.”

  Origo swelled like a bullfrog. “I send dispatches daily!”

  “I hardly think he needs your letters, Excellency. Have you not noticed the owl?”

  “Owl? What owl? Owls at noon?”

  “On that cornice up there. Above the blue washing.”

  Eyes turned where Toby indicated.

  “It can’t be real!” Origo bleated shrilly.

  Hamish was inclined to agree with him, for once. Owls were almost never seen in daylight. When they did appear, they were invariably mobbed by smaller birds, but
that whatever-it-was up there on the roof just sat in full view, ignored by all the pigeons, sparrows, and starlings.

  “It flew in an hour ago,” Toby said. “I’ve seen it around quite a lot lately. Can you hear the drum?”

  Hamish took a hard look at his big friend. He was flushed and sweating, although not as much as Origo was. Was the glint in his eye mockery or delirium? Smaller men than he could suffer heatstroke in a padded doublet, and it was suffocatingly hot in the loggia.

  “Drum?” Origo squeaked. “What drum?”

  “A shaman’s drum, I suppose. I’ve heard it several times in the last ten days or so. The owl is usually around when I do.”

  “You are out of your mind!”

  “Whatever Your Excellency commands.”

  Origo opened and closed his mouth a few times, took another quick glance at that inexplicable owl, and then jerked his skeletal companion forward as he headed for the palazzo and the free lunch.

  “You never told me about this!” If Hamish spent less time fluttering around Lisa, he would have more time for his duties.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Toby said easily. “Tartar gramarye is different from ours, yes? Don’t shamans immure spirits in birds or animals?”

  “I don’t know if immure is the right word. They…” Hamish reined in a lecture as he would a flighty horse. “That owl may be a familiar, I suppose.”

  “I’m sure it is. It makes the hob fidget.”

  Hamish yelped. “You’re not going to lose control of the hob, are you? Not here?” Even a few thunderbolts in this crowded square would lead to a fearful massacre.

  “No. It can smell gramarye around, that’s all. It isn’t worried at the moment. Ears up, lad—here comes Himself.”

  Having seemingly appeared from nowhere, Pietro Marradi and his train were already only a few paces away. He had Lucrezia on his arm, radiant in lilac silk, osprey plumes, and constellations of rubies. Hamish drew a deep breath at the sight of her. She was easily old enough to be his mother, but he knew he would be carrying a candle for Lucrezia if he were not totally consumed by Lisa at the moment. She had not noticed his existence yet, nor Toby’s. She was not going to.

  And neither was her brother! Hamish gaped in dismay as The Magnificent and his sister walked right past, heading for the don’s admiring circle. So now all Florence knew that the deputy captain-general was out of favor already. Cooperation would drop from minuscule to negative. The money never would appear. Oh, demons! He looked up at Toby, but Toby’s face was as inscrutable as the Alps.

  “The darughachi?” his chancellor suggested, grasping for some rational explanation for this about-face. “If the prince has indicated displeasure, then that might explain why everyone is trying to keep their distance from you.”

  But if Toby and the don did not carry some sacks of florins back to camp with them, the Company would riot. Milan was no longer an option—Abonio would never again let Longdirk or his chancellor cross his doorstep. Venice, perhaps? There had to be some rational explanation for this setback.

  Obviously someone thought they could deflect Longdirk from his purpose, but that was never possible. Hamish had known him since he was a child, the unholy terror of the glen, goading and tormenting the schoolmaster with a cold-blooded calculation few adults would ever match. Even then he had never spoken a careless word or made a hasty move, as if he was frightened of breaking something with his enormous strength, but that had probably never been the case. The truth was just that Longdirk had an incredible ability to absorb punishment. As a bare-knuckle fighter he had been slow but indestructible, grinding his opponents down to exhaustion, and now he treated the world the same way—Hamish had realized that first in Aquitaine, the second time Toby had provoked Sergeant Mulliez into ordering him flogged. In his own eyes he had scored a victory, although at a cost that would have killed a lesser man. Now he needed Florence to aid him in his battle against the Fiend, so he would use Florence whether it liked him or not. Florence would have no choice in the matter.

  “Messer Campbell!”

  Marradi himself had shouted and was beckoning. Hamish scurried over to the group, registering trouble writ large on every face in it, including the don’s. Marradi seemed close to an explosion.

  “Your Magnificence?”

  “What is this we hear about you organizing a party at Cafaggiolo?”

  For a moment every word of Italian Hamish knew deserted him. He stood there with his mouth open while Latin, French, and Castilian buzzed around his head like wasps. Gaelic, Breton, English, Catalan, French again … Italian.

  “But, messer … Magnificence … I was given to understand that Your Magnificence had most graciously placed his, er, your villa of Cafaggiolo at the disposal of the captain-general for three days so that—”

  Obviously not.

  “No?” Hamish whispered faintly, thinking of all the letters he had sent, all the hours of planning with Arnaud and Bartolo.

  “I cannot imagine where you received such a notion. My honored sister has already invited some friends there for that week.”

  Lucrezia, Hamish observed, was staring over his shoulder—obviously at Toby, who must have followed him, for no one else was so tall—and her face bore an expression of satisfaction such as he had never seen on a woman except in the rapture of lovemaking. The sight was so startling that he again found himself at a loss for words.

  It was understood that Il Volpe never raised his voice. Except now.

  “Well?” he barked.

  “Well?” scowled the don, wiggling his baton as if about to lash out with it. He knew invitations had been sent out in his name.

  Hamish’s instructions had come from Toby, and Toby had made the arrangements with Marradi himself. Or so he had said. Someone had gone crazy. Or was about to—

  “There has been a misunderstanding?” he croaked.

  “More a lack of communication,” rumbled a deep voice behind his left ear. “It would seem that either my secretary failed to notify yours, Your Magnificence, or yours omitted to inform you of what must have seemed both utterly trivial and self-evidently already known to Your Magnificence, and that is that while we used the name of your villa when inviting certain grandees to the conclave, this was merely a blind to deceive the enemy. It was, indeed, suggested to us by your own illustrious chancellor, messer Niccolò.”

  After the momentary silence produced by this breathtaking falsehood, Toby continued in the same bland vein. “We are all aware that the Fiend has spies everywhere. He has been known to use demon assassins before now. We plan to meet the guests on the road and conduct them to the true rendezvous—which of course I shall not reveal here. I am confident that this will in no way interfere with the duchessa’s festivities, and I deeply regret any distress this misapprehension may have caused, either to Her Grace or Your Magnificent self.”

  Lucrezia bared her teeth at him in an expression of lethal hatred.

  Marradi was less revealing. “What guests?” He looked to the don. “The republic has hired you to defend it against its enemies, signore, not to entertain your friends at its expense. And if you are meddling in political matters, you may find yourself facing serious charges.”

  Hired? The don would never admit that he was a common employee, subject to restraints. While Hamish was still hoping the loggia would just collapse and kill him quickly, the don laughed.

  “Magnificence, the last member of my family to meddle in politics was beheaded by the Visigoths. I instructed messer Longdirk to summon the leading military men from other cities—Venice, Naples, and so on—so that I might hear reports on their respective readiness to take part in the coming campaign. When I have had a chance to appraise the forces and ordnance they have available, I shall instruct them on what more we will require of them. Naturally I shall then inform the dieci of the situation and present my recommendations.” He twirled up the points on his mustache.

  By luck or his eccentric brilliance, he had struck e
xactly the right gong. The notion of Florence summoning the other great powers of Italy to a council rippled through the bystanders like a wave of rapture. He had bewitched them with his own vainglorious delusions.

  It must have been many years since anyone so upstaged the Magnificent. Scowling, he offered his arm again to his sister and headed for the palazzo and the banquet. Hamish stared after them, stunned by the detestation he had seen on Lucrezia’s face when her plot against Longdirk failed—for no one could seriously believe that she had conflicting plans for the villa. What on earth could the big man have done to provoke such hatred?

  24

  Lisa had decided to tackle her mother on the subject of Future Plans. She was hard put to believe that she had known Hamish for close to a month now, except when she looked at Mother. Fiesole had done wonders for the old dear. She was gaining health and spirits at an astonishing rate, visibly plumper and glowing with a good cheer Lisa could barely remember seeing in her from the days of her own childhood. She had completely recovered from the weeklong sleeping fit that beset her after she arrived. Unfortunately, in some ways. Then she had been unable to do much about chaperoning her daughter. Now she could, and no young lady wishes to be treated like an imbecilic infant. It was almost three days since Lisa had been properly kissed.

  Longdirk and Hamish having ridden into Florence for a meeting, the courtyard was available. It was unquestionably the choicest place to sit and enjoy the glorious spring weather. The countess had ordered her favorite chair carried out to a shady place under the trellis where she could relax in peace while digesting a meal of unladylike heartiness. Her gown was a voluminous cloud of pale green silk, unadorned but very finely made, swathing her completely from the neck down. Her faded golden tresses—even her hair seemed to have recovered some of its former sparkle—had been coiled and pinned up, covered with a simple white bonnet. It was tragic to see a lady of her rank not adorned with pearls and gems, but she had not mourned her lost jewels in Lisa’s hearing for at least two weeks.