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  The don’s appointment had become known in the city, and volunteers were reported at the gates. Diaz sent word that they should wait, even knowing that most would turn out to be runaway apprentices lacking even a horse.

  They had run out of names at last. Toby arranged the letters in heaps—the good, the bad, the possible, the last resorts. He pulled out four. “Desjardins, if he is still available.” According to yesterday’s rumors, he had signed on with Naples. “Simonetta, D’Amboise, and della Sizeranne. We need those four.”

  Three heads nodded.

  All four condottieri had wintered near Naples. The fastest mail was the service run by the Marradi Bank, which was efficient—so efficient that a copy of any letter he sent would undoubtedly arrive on the Magnificent’s desk before the original left Florence—but message and response would still require at least ten days. If the offers were refused, that meant ten more days lost. A demon ride would be faster, but that option was not available to Toby himself, and he would not call for volunteers. What sort of man would risk his soul for a handful of gold? What sort of man would ask him? The Marradi mail it would have to be.

  He threw the letters on the table and sat down to reach for the quill standing in its silver inkwell. “Let’s send these ones on their way as soon as possible. Who’s next?” Biting his tongue, he began penning his signature…

  “There is one position you have not mentioned,” Diaz said.

  Toby looked up sharply, but the marshal’s face was as scrutable as mud.

  “Who?”

  “Il comandante in capo.”

  “Ah!” He went back to signing the letters.

  They were all waiting to tell him he was the logical choice for the supreme command, but that was just loyalty—they would say so if he had a crossbow bolt embedded in his forehead. Was he? Of the thousands of soldiers in Italy, many must know the country better than he did, although he had spent most of the last two years in the saddle, exploring it from the Tyrrhenian Sea to the Adriatic. Almost all would speak the language better, and most would have more experience. Who was he to take the fate of the peninsula on his shoulders? He should not try to judge his own abilities, because no man could be totally impartial about himself. All he knew for certain was that he wanted the job more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. Wasn’t that the best possible reason not to get it?

  He replaced the pen and looked around the three faces. “Not me. No, it’s impossible, never mind why. I accept your support—it’s very flattering, and I’m truly touched, but forget me. Who’s the next best man for the job? Florence will want to have a candidate, and the captain-general’s opinion should carry weight. Who’s our man?”

  He was a lousy liar. Their surprise turned at once to disbelief. Inevitably the treasurer and the friar looked to the soldier to answer the question.

  “There isn’t one,” Diaz said heavily. “Mezzo’s good, but Rome won’t ever accept a Neapolitan. Venice can’t trust Milan. And so on. If it isn’t Florence, it’ll have to be an outsider—Girolami of Pisa? Or Barrafranca? The Chevalier?”

  After a moment’s mutual repugnance, massive subterranean chuckles began to shake Brother Bartolo’s soft bulk.

  “What’s amusing you?” Toby demanded.

  The fat man shrugged doughy shoulders. “Last fall I asked messer Campbell why you were moving the Company to winter quarters at Fiesole instead of somewhere warmer. He would not admit that you hoped to succeed the late messer Vespucci as Captain-General of Florence, but he did not quite deny it either, so one night I introduced him to our excellent Chianti wines. Sometime after midnight, we agreed that Nevil must come from the north, so either Milan or Venice will be the first to feel his spite, but those two cities are ancient rivals, and neither will ever trust a capo whose first loyalty lies with the other. Temporary deafness when the cry for help went out would be just too much of a temptation!”

  Arnaud was leering through the black thatch on his face. Even Diaz looked close to smiling. What matter if they thought it had been Hamish who devised that strategy?

  “Furthermore, the admirable Campbell agreed that Milan and Venice can never trust Rome or Naples, because they’re too far away and might not get here in time. Florence, though, is right in the middle and is too small to be a threat to any of the other four.” The fat man beamed. “Sir Tobias, you do want the golden apple!”

  “Of course he does,” Arnaud growled. “And he earned it at Trent. He’s a foreigner, so he has no local loyalties. He fights in ways the old generals don’t understand. And he’s the best anyway.”

  “Swiss won’t serve under an Italian,” Diaz added. “But they worship a man who once massacred a whole troop of German landsknechte single-handed.”

  Toby scowled. “That we shall not discuss, if you please!” He let a smile emerge. “Yes, I do want it. I want it so bad I wake up sweating. I think the politicians will accept Florence. How do I convince the soldiers to accept me?”

  “They voted for you last time,” Bartolo objected.

  “Last time was a panic.”

  After everyone had observed a moment’s polite hesitation, Diaz said, “Call a conclave of the captains-general and collaterali—in the don’s name of course. Here in the villa: Alfredo from Venice, Mezzo or Gioberti from Naples, Villari from Rome, and from Milan… Ercole Abonio, although he’ll probably send di Gramasci. When the big boys have accepted, you can invite some of the small fry—Genoa and so on. Wait until you have the Italians behind you before you involve the Swiss or the Tyroleans or the Savoyards.”

  That was certainly the ram-it-down-their-throats-and-damn-the-cannons approach to be expected from him, but even Hamish had devised no better plan in months of thinking about it.

  The friar coughed gently: “?”

  Toby raised an eyebrow. “Brother, we have eight elbows on the table and yours are the only Italian elbows, so I suppose we may allow you a word or two.”

  “Condottieri are touchier than prima donnas,” Bartolo said sadly. “Every one of them wants to be the loudest rooster in the barnyard, and you are going to summon them here to a conclave? You think you’re still capo, young man?”

  “Demons!”

  “Upstart foreign stripling! Cocksure, arrogant, little… no, perhaps not little, but—”

  “I’ve gotten the gist. You’re right!”

  “Ha!” said Arnaud. “They may think that, but it won’t stop them coming. None of them will stay away in case someone else gets chosen. But you don’t hold the council here, my lad. Get Il Volpe to lend you one of his country houses and leave the rest to me.”

  Brother Bartolo scowled reprovingly. “Arnaud, is this some evil you learned in your nefarious import-export business?”

  The former smuggler donned an expression of virginal innocence, although the effect was spoiled by his ogrish beard. “Evil? No, no! Merely generous hospitality, brother! You fill the house with the finest wine and food, plus many voluptuous, but properly reticent, maidens. You drag your guests out on arduous wild-boar hunts every day, postponing the crucial discussion until after dinner on the last night, when their bodies are limp from exhaustion, their wits are dulled by good cheer, and their hopes are inspired by the vulnerable maidens weeping at the prospect of their departure—believe me, they’ll agree to anything to end the meeting and—”

  “Impossible!” Don Ramon roared, striding into the courtyard and cutting off the laughter. “Pettifogging money-grubbers! Artisans, merchants, word-splitting advocates and bureaucrats! Republicans!” he howled, that being the worst obscenity he knew.

  All the men scrambled to their feet. He hurled a bundle of papers onto the table and glared up at Toby with his coppery mustache writhing as it did only when he was close to homicidal. “You told me you had an agreement with Marradi!”

  “I certainly thought I had. He made the Ten For War agree.”

  “Never mind the dieci! What about the podestà? What about the gonfalonier della giustizia, t
he buonomini, the priori, the consiglio del commune, the consiglio del popolo, and the seven wise monkeys?” Blue eyes blazed.

  “The who?”

  Eight hands grabbed for the papers, eight eyes scanned them. They were passed around. Demands, restrictions, impossible conditions—matters were much worse than before.

  Bewilderment, dismay…

  “Demons!” Toby said. “Someone explain!”

  “Democrats!” howled the don.

  Arnaud clawed at his beard with both hands. “I fear so, signore. Il Volpe is an autocrat in fact, but officially Florence is still ruled by a hierarchy of officials, committees, and infinitely detailed regulations. The dieci will do as he wants, but only when you have met their price.” No one knew more about bribery than a smuggler.

  Brother Bartolo waggled his chins from side to side in worried disagreement. “Marradi should have foreseen that problem. I wonder if there is worse spite involved? The Fiend must have agents in Florence, spreading poisons. Others certainly do. The cities have been feuding for centuries—that is a hard habit to break.” He narrowed his piggy eyes. “And you have enemies of your own, Constable, men jealous of your success.”

  “The Fiend, yes,” Toby protested, “but surely everyone else will set aside petty quarrels…” Then he remembered Lucrezia. Was it possible? Did she have enough power to balk him? So quickly? Wishing he had Hamish around to advise him, he looked to the one man who had not spoken. “Marshal?”

  “Back in Barcelona,” Diaz said with his customary impassivity, “in the Palau Reial we had a saying, ‘The hand to watch is the hand of the king.’”

  “Meaning?” the don barked.

  “It means, Captain-General, that in Florence you should never turn your back on the Magnificent. Nothing happens here that he does not approve.”

  13

  Lisa’s first view of Florence was from the high ground at the Porta San Piero Gattolino, with Hamish pointing out city landmarks as proudly as if he had built them all himself: the duomo, the various towers, gardens, and palaces. They descended the Via Romana to the Arno and crossed by the teeming Ponte Vecchio, which bore many busy stores, most selling meat and poultry. She admitted she had never seen a city bustle like this one and certainly none as clean, for the streets were paved with stone slabs; they had gutters and raised footpaths along each side. He showed her the Piazza della Signoria, with its astonishing statuary and soaring palaces, then the Old Market, where the noisy crowds were haggling over textiles and leatherwork and pottery set out on booths. She could tell from Carlo’s amusement that he was sidetracking to let her see the sights, but she was in no especial hurry to be turned over to the ominous condottiere Longdirk.

  The afternoon was heading for evening, and yet she was not at all weary—possibly because she had enjoyed a wonderful night’s sleep. Hamish had stopped at an inn he knew and spared no expense, providing her with a room all to herself, which was an extraordinary extravagance when most travelers slept three or four to a bed.

  They left Florence by the Porta Pinti, heading through fertile country toward the hills. Soon he was pointing out their destination, the camp of the Don Ramon Company, bright tents like jewels scattered over the hillside. All too soon her horse was pacing the muddy grass between them, and coarse men were hailing her companions in several languages, hooting at her, making loud comments about the bookworm having done a little looting and so on, very vulgar.

  “They are insolent!” she said.

  Hamish seemed not at all angry. “I’m sorry they’re insulting you, my lady. To me, it’s a form of respect. Two years ago they just ignored me. Ever since San Leo, I’ve been worthy of insult. You should hear them lipping Toby! They don’t think much of book learning. I’m not good at the things they regard as important.”

  “You fought six men and—”

  “With a rapier. To them, that’s a toy. Battles are fought with pikes or guns or broadswords.”

  Louts! They were a chilling reminder of the sort of man who might have rescued her. And the women were a chilling sight, too—an astonishing number of women. Some might be wives, but most probably weren’t. Many carried babies on their backs, and children ran wild everywhere. This raw city of tents was unlike any place she had ever seen, and she dared not think about the future awaiting her if she could not be reunited with her mother.

  At the door of a strange complex of buildings, seemingly half fort and half farm, Hamish dismounted and lifted her down. Carlo took charge of the horses, beaming bashfully when she thanked him for his help on the journey. The interior was dim and cool, with tiled floors and tiled ceilings; delicious odors of cooking made her mouth water. There were more women, more children, and more lewd greetings, more laughter.

  The women’s banter upset Hamish much more than the men’s had. Scowling and tight-lipped, he hurried her through the building and out to a small enclosed courtyard, paved with mossy flagstones and partly roofed with trellises for vines. Two men were sitting at a massive stone table. They looked up at the interruption. Then the young one rose.

  Hamish had mentioned that Longdirk was big, but he did not seem so at first. When she reached him, she realized that his breadth concealed his height. He was big in all directions. No one could ever describe him as handsome, for his face was all heavy bone—big jaw, brows like gables. Had she seen him in the street without his sword, she would have assumed from the size of his shoulders that he was a blacksmith or a woodcutter—unless she had noticed the penetrating brown eyes, which were appraising her now with worrisome concentration.

  Golden hair was rare in Italy, but she had her head covered, and her clothes were nondescript and inconspicuous. Yet the giant was either very perceptive or an excellent guesser; he addressed her in English even before Hamish spoke.

  “Your servant, ma’am.” Bow. He moved gracefully for his size. His voice was a rumbling bass.

  “I am truly honored to meet the famous Constable Longdirk.” Curtsey.

  The other man struggled belatedly to his feet, looking much like an old beggar, wrinkles and wild white hair, or perhaps some sort of crazy prophet. His eyes were certainly mad enough, staring at her. When Hamish named him as Doctor Fischart, she realized that this was the erstwhile Baron Oreste, the notorious hexer. He did not speak, so she ignored him.

  She took the stool Hamish indicated and folded her hands in her lap. He pulled another up alongside her, comfortingly near, while the adept and condottiere settled themselves on the far side of the table. The expectant pause began to drag, as if Hamish were at a loss for words, for it was obviously up to him to speak first.

  Longdirk said, “Perhaps we should order in some wine in celebration?”

  “Celebration of what?” Hamish snapped. “Are you jumping to conclusions again?” His petulance surprised her. Was he nervous, too?

  The big man grinned. “Not a one. I’m going to be very interested to hear what the correct conclusions are. You look like a retriever that’s just brought in a phoenix. You’re hiding something, my lad, something big.”

  Lisa took a hard look at Master Campbell without detecting any resemblance to a retriever.

  “Don’t be so vulgar,” he said. “Listen. I was minding my own business in Siena on Carnival Night when I chanced upon some bravos molesting a lady. I used my guarddemon to rescue her. Then I introduced myself.”

  “How astonishing,” Longdirk muttered. He flashed Lisa a grin that she found hard not to return. “Then he gave you a long lecture on Egyptian pottery, I presume? Or underwater Gregorian chanting?”

  Hamish scowled. “This is serious! I had unwittingly put her in considerable difficulty, because my demon had moved us to another part of town. Having only recently arrived in Siena, she did not know the way back to her residence.” (That was a very charitable way of explaining her predicament, Lisa decided.) “Moreover, it was obvious that the thugs had been looking for her specifically, and one of them was certainly a hexer.”

  The bi
g man’s hands closed into fists. “Gonzaga?”

  “Probably. He was masked. In the circumstances, Lady Lisa agreed to accompany me back here. I sent word to Landolfo, telling him to try and locate her mother and inform her that her daughter was safe. That’s all.”

  The big man studied him for a moment, then laughed. He had a very big laugh, to match his size. “That’s a start. The rest of the camel is still outside the tent, but it’ll come. May I inquire your mother’s name, my lady?”

  “Maud, Countess of Ely,” Hamish said. He glanced uneasily at the ugly old hexer. “We must find suitable quarters and a suitable companion for Lady Lisa. Sister Bona, perhaps? A lady’s maid, too. I fear her reputation may suffer if this tale gets out.”

  “I fear more than that,” Longdirk growled. “I am at your service, ma’am. Your companion’s keeping something from us, I think.”

  “And from me also, Constable. Is he always so elliptical?”

  The condottiere grinned. “He’s usually more egg-shaped. It’s getting chilly, but let’s stay out here a little longer, because it’s one place we can’t be overheard.”

  “Whatever you wish,” Lisa said. Her hand was entwined with Hamish’s, although she did not recall that happening. He had never mentioned anyone called Gonzaga to her.

  Longdirk took a hard look at the bizarre old man, who had never taken his mad eyes off her. Longdirk was well aware of that. “Maestro, would you care to comment?”

  “Blanche!”

  Hamish must have felt her start, and Longdirk certainly noticed it.

  “That name means something to you, my lady?”

  “No. Nothing at all. I don’t know anyone called Blanche. Why should I? Nobody called Blanche.”