Anyone but the Inquisition would have classed that journey as torture in itself. Even Hamish could not stand erect in the cage, while to sit down was to be bounced unmercifully as the wagon racketted over the rough trail. Just as it began to move out, Captain Diaz appeared with some stale bread and peppery sausage for the captives. They ate it greedily after their long day, but he had either overlooked drinking water or had none to give, so they soon found themselves racked by thirst while rain bucketed down on them. Chained hand and foot, they spent the night crouching or squatting, clinging to the bars for support and trying not to batter into each other as they were thrown about.
Dawn found them on the plain, although the road was hardly less rough and the weather little better. Other traffic appeared: peasants heading for the fields or driving animals to market, traders with wagons, a few fellow travelers hastening by on horseback. They stared apprehensively at the sight of two caged men being conducted by Dominicans, knowing them to be possessed. Fear might easily have turned to rage, but Diaz and his troopers were able to deter violence.
Toby felt no relief when the flat-topped towers of Barcelona came into view at last. They were impressive, no doubt, but they reminded him of tombstones. When the wagon rumbled through the north gate, he thought of prison. The fine buildings with their grand arches and stairways made him wonder which was Josep's and what it would have been like to be born rich, to have grown up with a family and servants, never being cold or hungry.
Morning crowds in the street cleared hastily out of the troopers' path and gaped at the ominous captives in their iron crate. A few children screamed insults and daringly threw filth, but there was no riot. The wagon rumbled unmolested along the Portal Nou to the center of the city and the Palau Reial. There, in the courtyard, the cage was unlocked. Toby emerged first to make the awkward descent from the wagon, but he was so cold, bruised, and exhausted that he hardly cared where he was or what was happening. He wondered if Baron Oreste was watching his prize being delivered and gloating over the precious amethyst.
An escort of soldiers, friars, and anonymous laymen urged him forward. Head down, he shuffled and jingled along in his chains, going where he was directed, doing what he was told. Soon he was struggling down steps and the air was foul with the fumes of candles and rushlights. He assumed he would never see daylight again.
Déjà vu arrived only when he staggered into the crypt itself. The thick pillars and slimy walls were at once familiar: stench of rot, writhing shadows, instruments of torture, the great rack halfway along on the right… He was returning to a place he had been before, although never in this reality. So certain was he that he knew where to go that he blundered straight ahead when he was supposed to turn, and the guards jostled him hard enough that he almost fell. They led him to some moldy straw, and he sank down on it with a sensation of infinite relief. Just to sit on rotting straw and lean back against wet stonework was pure heaven after so many hours of being churned in a metal box, and much better than being spread-eagled on the wall like a tapestry. A rusty iron collar was locked around his neck and chained to a shackle.
He could not stop shivering; if he was really lucky, he would die of pneumonia. The soldiers went marching out, but the place was not dark yet — Father Vespianaso and four other friars remained, watching him. He wished they would go away and give him some peace so he could sleep. With a sigh he reached deep inside himself to find some remnants of defiance.
"Gloating, are you?"
The old man shook his head sadly. "No, my son. Any servant of the Inquisition who gloats is dismissed instantly. I am feeling sorrow for your obduracy and the sad pass the demon has brought you to. I am wondering how I may best aid you in driving it out."
"That sounds like gloating to me." He was alone! "Where is my friend? Where is Jaume?"
"He has been confined elsewhere."
Toby's spirits sank a notch lower — he would never see Hamish again! He had been counting on having company to support him in his ordeal and hoping he might be able to comfort Hamish in his. They had guessed that and would not allow it. Obviously this crypt must be warded against demons; they need not take such precautions with Hamish.
"We have sent for dry clothes," Father Vespianaso said. "If you cause trouble we shall leave you as you are, but we have no wish to ruin your health."
"You have every intention of ruining my health. You just intend to do it personally, that's all."
"It is the demon that makes you think that. Believe me, my son, you will come to thank us for what we do. You will beg us to increase our efforts to aid you. Meanwhile, do you want the garments or not?"
Dry clothes? What did they feel like? It was hard to remember. To accept such a favor would probably put him deeper into his captors' power, but the temptation was too strong to resist. Angry at his own weakness, Toby said, "Yes, please."
He was very nearly asleep when servants arrived with the garments. His wrists and ankles were unshackled, but they left the collar on his neck. He stripped and was given a coarse towel to use, then a shirt, hose, doublet, no jerkin, and all the time the friars stood and stared at him like black owls until they could chain his limbs again. Yet to be dry in the torture chamber was better than being in a cage in the rain. He would soon learn to be satisfied with even lesser pleasures.
"Food? Water?"
"Water. No food."
At long last they went away and let him sleep. His last conscious thought was that they were passing up a wonderful opportunity. If they began their tormenting while he was in this tumbledown state they would soon have him weeping like a baby. The only reason they were not doing so, he assumed, was that Baron Oreste had reserved first crack at him.
He had no way of knowing how long he slept, but it could only have been an hour or two. Many times he jerked awake, or partly awake — wondering where he was, why it was so dark, who was on watch, why he was so sore and so cold, what had just run over his feet. Once or twice he heard faint noises, probably just rats, although there was no reason why there might not be other captives in this dungeon. Poor devils.
Lanterns being hung on sconces shocked him to alertness and instant terror. They were about to start! He sat up in a clatter of chains, scraping neck and wrists on rusty metal, finding only a soldier laying a pitcher and a bowl within his reach; and then, as his eyes adjusted to the painful dazzle, Captain Diaz standing farther back, regarding him impassively. The other man marched away, leaving just the two of them.
"Good morning," Toby mumbled. "Or is it evening?"
"Eat. Eat quickly."
Must keep the victim's strength up. Busy day ahead? Toby reached for the bowl. It contained a sour, coarse gruel, but even that was welcome, and he began to scoop handfuls into his mouth. He was stiff with cold and ached all over from his battering in the cage.
"Where is my friend Jaume?"
Diaz shrugged. "He needn't worry for a while yet. It takes them months to prepare a case like his."
"How about my case?"
The captain shrugged again. "The viceroy is coming to see you. That's why you haven't got long to eat."
Toby scooped faster. "When are they going to start on me?" he mumbled with his mouth full.
"You really want to know that?" Diaz was probably breaking major regulations by speaking with a convicted husk like this. There was a decent man behind that dour expression.
"Yes. Yes, even if you tell me they're on their way, I'd like to know."
"As soon as they can. As soon as the baron gives them leave. In a hour or so, probably."
Toby almost choked and had to gulp down some water. Very bad news! "What's their hurry?" He filled his mouth again, although fear had knotted up his gut.
"You want to know that too?"
"Mm."
"They summoned their two best tormentors from Toledo. They've been waiting here for a week."
"I'm honored."
"I'm not." Diaz turned on his heel and headed for the door. Give him his due, the captain disliked his duties and was not afraid to show it.
Toby peered around the dungeon, realizing he had been tethered where he had a clear view across at the rack. The rack was said to be even worse than the strappado, although he found that hard to believe. Off to his right stood a horizontal beam on four legs. The Spanish horse, they called that — sit a man on it and tie weights to his feet. Braziers, metal chairs, thumbscrews. Life would not lack for variety. Perhaps he should have settled for the exorcism. No. Better him here than Gracia. Better to die as a man than live as a sheep. But how long would he remain a man? What would they turn him into with their unending…? And there was one of the horrors now, a black-robed figure walking in silence on the far side of the rack. His hood was up, and he seemed to be inspecting the equipment, because he was not looking at the prisoner. Toby wondered if he could throw his bowl accurately enough to hit the bugger and reluctantly decided that he could not. It was worth more as breakfast than a missile, anyway. He ate every scrap of the slop and sucked his fingers. They would be hand-feeding him soon.
Two men arrived carrying a table and set it down a couple of paces in front of the prisoner. One of them was Oreste's valet, the silent blond Ludwig. They left without as much as a glance at him.
Why a table?
Gramarye? Déjà vu: another table in another dungeon. Valda had used a table to hold her equipment on that long-ago night when she tried to conjure Nevil's soul into Toby Strangerson and so began all his present troubles. Then he had been staked out on the floor while her four creatures stood around him holding candles. The hob had rescued him then and the hob had escaped from this crypt before — or had it? He didn't know the answer to that question, because he had not seen the end of the story; he did not know when the hob had made its move to reverse history. It could have happened days or weeks later.
Footsteps coming, but in a rhythmic military stride, not the shuffle of the friars. He had never thought he would ever be glad to see Oreste or Oreste's men, but anyone would be better than the black-robed horrors. It was not Oreste, though, not yet. It was Diaz back with three soldiers.
Toby said, "My compliments to the cook, Captain. Traditionally the condemned man should eat a hearty breakfast. That wasn't it, though." Was humor in such a situation courage or cowardice? Was he just babbling to hide the terror gnawing at his soul?
Diaz certainly saw nothing to laugh at, but then he probably never would. "We have to move you. Will you cooperate or make us use force?"
"Oh, I'll cooperate," Toby said. "I bruise easily, you know. I have a very tender skin." Pride would not let him ask where they were going to move him. To the rack? Oreste might be planning to engage in a little torture himself, but a hexer should scorn such primitive methods. It would be out of character for the effete baron to stoop to personal violence, wouldn't it? Even if he had ordered the babies burned in Zaragoza.
Diaz remained unamused. "Take off the collar, free his hands."
As two men attended to that, the third moved the water pitcher and slop bucket out of harm's way and put the empty bowl on the table. Ludwig appeared in silence and laid a small ironbound chest beside it, then withdrew as quietly as he had come.
"Stand up," Diaz said. "Take off your shirt."
Toby bit his lip and obeyed. While he was unfastening his doublet, he discovered that he was out of witticisms. All the signs were pointing to major gramarye ahead, and he had not anticipated that. Was this where he was turned into the devoted slave who had chopped off Hamish's head? No, he must not rely on his visions as guides to what to expect. They were not prophetic. Conditions had changed this time. Tortosa was different. Going to Montserrat was different. Both he and Hamish were prisoners of the Inquisition this time, and even Oreste could not extract them from that situation — except by major gramarye, of course.
Wait and see.
His arms and chest were covered with bruises. He threw away his shirt, expecting to be told to lie down, but he was made to stand against the wall and spread his feet as wide as he could. They threaded the chains from his wrists over pulleys and hauled his arms out sideways and overhead until the manacles bit into his flesh. When they had finished he was spread-eagled against the icy, slimy stonework. It was worse than he had foreseen in his vision, for this time he had no freedom of movement at all.
Suddenly he realized that the hexer himself was standing beside the table, watching the procedure with slitted eyes. Déjà vu again: red velvet cloak, puffed and slashed jerkin of blue and gold, crimson tights — that must be his dungeon-visiting costume — jewel-headed cane, golden hair net, wide, flat hat shadowing the lardy face, torso grotesquely inflated by the overstuffed costume, scarlet lips. The second most evil man in Europe. Or the most evil, if one remembered that Nevil was not human.
Diaz must have seen something change in Toby's face, because he turned. He saluted. "Your Excellency, the prisoner has been secured as you instructed."
"Good. Go. Lock the door. I am not to be disturbed until I knock, Captain. Not by anyone. Not for any reason whatsoever. Is that clear?"
"Yes, your Excellency."
The soldiers left without waiting for orders, moving with a haste that suggested they were terrified of the viceroy. The captain followed at a regulation pace. He had gone only a few paces when Oreste picked up the dirty bowl that had been left on his table and threw it after him. It missed, hit the floor, shattered in an echoing crash. Even the impassive Diaz jumped and reached for his sword. The soldiers spun around. Two of them were hidden from Toby by a pillar, but he saw the expression of sick terror that came over the third one's face as he realized what had happened. Someone would have to be flogged for that oversight.
"Out!" roared the baron. His Excellency was in a very bad temper.
Any faster and their march would have been a run.
Oreste scowled after them until the great door shut with a crash that echoed in waves around and around the crypt. When it had faded into silence, he raised his left hand to his mouth. "Rigomage per nominem tuum…" He turned around to his right. "…igne et tempestate impero…" He turned to his left. "…fiat lux." And again to his left. At once the blocks of the barrel-vaulted ceiling began to glow with the pale gentle lavender light that Toby remembered from the vision, growing rapidly brighter until the entire crypt was clearly illuminated and he had to screw up his eyes until they could adjust to the glare.
The hexer was taking a risk, surely, in letting his victim hear the name of one of his demons? Did that mean that Toby would not live to repeat it to anyone, or just that Oreste knew he did not understand Latin? Oh, if only Hamish were there! He would have been able to tell the conjuration controlling the demon from the command it had been given. But if he were there he would undoubtedly be chained to the wall, too, and hence unable to perform the actions that were required by the ritual.
Oreste minced around the end of the table and peered up at his captive with a plump smile. "I am, of course, Karl Fischart, Baron Oreste of Utrecht, currently his Universal Majesty's viceroy for Aragon." He bowed.
"I am Longdirk."
"Yes. I knew that already, actually. You are even bigger than I expected. You don't look as frightened as you should be."
"I'm quite stupid. I expect you will educate me."
The baron stared at him for a moment and then uttered a childish titter. He turned to lay his cane on the table. "No, you are not stupid, Tobias. You are the wiliest and most resourceful opponent I have ever encountered. Oh, I suppose a few others like the late and unlamented Lady Valda have held me at bay for longer, but she had infinitely greater resources than you. You had only your native wits and an astonishing resilience. I truly regret that our long contest must end so tragically for you." He opened the chest on the table. "I have long dreamed of conscripting you as an ally — with gramarye, of course. I would not insult you by suggesting you would ever aid me voluntarily, but any man can be hexed into cooperation. Alas, that will not be possible."
So one outcome had been eliminated, and if it had been the worst that Toby had feared, that probably just showed how limited his imagination was.
The baron began removing objects from the chest and setting them on the table: a silver chalice, a dagger, two candlesticks. "Ah, excuse me! I tend to forget that your remarkable calm stems from courage and not stupidity. I give you my solemn assurance that you are not going to suffer the fate that the odious Vespianaso is planning for you."
Toby licked dry lips. "That is welcome news, Excellency. Will I be pleased when I hear the alternative?"
"No, but it is better. Truly, Tobias, I would spare you if I could, but I have my orders. This is a mercy is it not?" The baron paused in his business and peered across the table with his tiny eyes.
"If you gave me the choice I would take that, yes."
Nodding as if reassured, the hexer continued his preparations, laying out glass vials, a parchment scroll, a mortar and pestle… the casket of carved ivory. "You have nothing more to fear except a few minutes' suspense while I get ready, and the trivial indignity of having some arcane sigils drawn on your chest."
Dignity? What need had a man tied to a slimy stone wall with his hose settled down around his hips to worry about dignity? And yet he was trying very hard not to jangle his chains as cold and fear made him shiver. Twenty-one was young to die. He had hoped to live twice that long. Some men even reached fifty, although that was rare.
"I shall not be sorry to cheat the Inquisition."
"Ach!" said the baron. "I disapprove of the Inquisition, I really do. I find their practices obscene. I am not an evil man by nature, you know. I never wanted to be anything more than a humble scholar. All the vast knowledge of gramarye and conjuration I gathered I never used for any wicked purposes. I had a European reputation as a man of lore and wanted only to be honored for that." But this soft-spoken, pudgy gentleman was the monster who had sacked Zaragoza, an ogre with a reputation for savagery second only to that of the Fiend himself. "Alas, I was susceptible to flattery, and when the youngest son of the king of England begged me to take him on as a student, I accepted. What an unhappy day that turned out to be!"
If the Inquisition heard that confession, it would burn him at the stake, or try to, at least — Oreste and Vespianaso must be very uneasy partners. There had been a friar snooping around earlier, who might still be there, lurking behind pillars, spying on what the viceroy was up to with a convicted incarnate. Toby could not recall seeing him leave and saw no reason to mention him.
"A bright lad, he was, young Nevil." Oreste fussed cheerfully with his vials and potions. "Now I need a lock of your hair, dear boy." He picked up the dagger and came around the table, smiling his scarlet lips.
Suspecting trickery, Toby stiffened as the blade approached, but he lost nothing more than a twist of hair. Oreste took it back to add to the concoction in the goblet.
"He was a dreamer, though. I doubt if he would have held the throne of England very long. Everyone noticed the change when Rhym took him over."
"Was it you who killed his brothers and his father?"
The baron emptied a couple of vials into the chalice. "Goodness, no! That was darling Valda. With more than a little help from Nevil himself, I dare say." He uncorked a bottle and added something that looked like fresh blood. Why so much preparation just to kill a helpless man?
Silence became oppressive very quickly. "Were you there when he and Valda tried to conjure Rhym?"
"Fortunately, I was not." Oreste chuckled. "It might have taken me instead! Now, where did I put the… ah! There is one thing I have been meaning to ask you, Tobias. I have tracked you very closely for years, so I know almost everything you have done and everywhere you have been." He had begun grinding something in the mortar, which left him free to look up and smile across at his victim. "The one matter that still puzzles me is just what happened at Mezquiriz."
No! He would not tell that.
The baron tut-tutted. "Come, my boy! You are about to die. I am doing you a favor. Surely you can humor an old man's curiosity, hmm?" He had only to speak a word to one of his demons and Toby would babble out the whole story in terrible detail. "It is little enough to ask."
It was very little to ask, but it took a real effort to answer. "The hob went berserk."
"Yes, yes! But why? You had eluded me at the border. You were not in danger, and there was no great spirit there to provoke it. So what ignited the hob?"
Toby turned his face away. "I lay with a woman."
"Ah!" The pestle stopped for a moment. "I never thought of that. Yes, I can see what might happen. I wondered if it had been your first attempt to control the hob."
"I can't control the hob. I was told that it would take me over and control me."
The baron began grinding away again. "That is certainly the more likely outcome. The two of you must be very intertwined by now — but you know that, because you refused the exorcism. And the girl? She died? This is sad."
He seemed quite sincere. Why was he keeping up this meaningless chitchat at all? Just to comfort his victim and keep him from brooding on his imminent end? But he was a sadistic, murdering monster. He probably knew how Toby's hips ached already, how his hands had gone numb. One thing was certain — he would not be revealing so many secrets if there was any chance of the prisoner living to repeat them to anyone.
He emptied the contents of the mortar into the chalice and then consulted the scroll, moving his lips in silence.
A condemned man could try a last request, even if there was very little hope of its being granted. "Excellency? It does seem unfair that my friend Hamish should be put to death just for being my friend, when a skilled adept such as yourself is allowed to prosper unmolested."
"Hmm?" Oreste looked up and smiled so broadly that his eyes disappeared altogether. "Ja! It does indeed! But life is rarely just, my boy — even you have lived long enough to learn that! The Inquisition is well aware of my reputation, but there is nothing they can do about me. You don't catch lions in mousetraps. And lions have to tolerate mice. We live and let live, the Black Friars and I — with a few exceptions, that is — so don't worry about Master Campbell. He knows the truth about Rhym, and we don't want him blurting that out on the rack, now do we? I expect he will catch a fever in his cell and die quite soon. In fact, you have my word on it. Well, I am just about ready, I think. Sorry to have taken so long."
"And what happens now?" Toby asked, mouth suddenly dry.
The baron came around the table carrying the candlesticks. He placed them on the floor near Toby's feet, not looking at him. "I am going to exorcize the hob. But at the same time, I will exorcize you also." He peered up at the prisoner's face, perhaps hoping to see some appropriate signs of terror. "Ingenious, isn't it?" Chuckling, the hexer minced back to the table. "You and the hob go into the amethyst, and the soul of Nevil goes into you. When Vespianaso puts his thugs to work, they will be tormenting the wrong man!"
"So it will be Nevil who gets tortured?"
"My master finds the idea amusing."
Toby clenched his teeth and said nothing.
Oreste shrugged. "It was Rhym's idea, not mine. Nevil is a danger, so Nevil must die. This we all know. Of course I shall hex him so that he cannot reveal the great secret he alone knows, the name to conjure Rhym. He may scream all he wants that he is the rightful king of England and not Toby Longdirk, but the tormentors will not believe him. He will have to scream at them in Latin, as he knows no Spanish tongues. Rhym finds this prospect entertaining."
"What happens to me?"
The baron picked up the carved ivory casket and stroked it lovingly. "You become immortal. You and the hob will be one. Together you will make a wonderful demon."
"Don't you torture spirits to make them into demons?"
The baron shrugged regretfully. "This is true. But the worst part of torture is not the pain, dear boy, it is seeing yourself being ruined, joint by joint, muscle by muscle. It is knowing that life will never be as good again, and that you cannot grow back missing eyes or charred flesh. That doesn't apply to an immortal. A little suffering and you will learn to serve me." He laid the casket down and stared at Toby appraisingly. "Don't worry about the gramarye failing, as Valda's failed. I borrowed a couple of convicts from the city jail to practice on. I sent them home in each other's bodies, quite successfully."
"You promised I would not suffer!"
"A trivial untruth. I was being kind."
"It will be my body they are disassembling. I should prefer to remain and die with it."
"You have no option." Oreste opened the ivory casket and took out the leather locket. "It is the penalty of your own success, Tobias. Had I managed to catch you myself, then I would have spared you… spared your life, that is, not your will. You would have been useful as a man, too. But what you achieved at Tortosa was so extraordinary that you frightened the Black Friars out of their robes. From Gibraltar to the Pyrenees, the Inquisition was screaming for your carcass. When I saw that there was no way I could keep them away from you, I reported the problem to his Majesty, and he thought up this procedure. It is certainly ingenious."
"If the Inquisition finds out about the substitution, then Nevil will live!" Argument was useless, of course, but he could not submit to such an abomination without protest.
"The Inquisition will not find out. The inquisitors will dismiss Nevil's complaints as more evidence of his demon's cunning. Even if I told Father Vespianaso myself, he would not stop now. They are always so convinced that they are right that they accept their own conclusions as infallible evidence. So Nevil goes into you and you go into the—"
The stone he was holding was a smooth black pebble, nothing like an amethyst. He looked up at Toby, but Toby could only stare. What? Who?
"How did you do that?" the baron screamed.
"Do what, your Excellency?" There could be small pleasures, even in a torture chamber.
"Diaz swore he saw the amethyst and put it in this casket! No power could have touched it in there, not even Montserrat itself. You! The hob?"
"I didn't! I don't control the hob. Montserrat had it warded last night, and you have it warded now, don't you?" Absurdly, Toby was suddenly more frightened than he had been by anything that had happened yet. Oreste was far more dangerous than the Inquisition. Oreste could make him suffer forever.
"I will have the truth, Longdirk!" The baron bared his teeth in fury.
Or in fear? He had obtained the soul of Nevil at last and then lost it again, and Rhym the Fiend was going to be very, very mad about that.
"I will have the truth!" He raised his left hand to his mouth and turned in his dance. "Rigomage per nominem tuum igne et tempestate impero semper veritatem Tobias dicat. Now, Longdirk, tell me how you switched those stones!"
"I didn't."
"Did the hob? Can you control it, talk to it?"
Perhaps if he claimed… Before he could think of a likely lie, the truth spilled from his mouth. "I don't know if the hob did it. I can't control it. Only at Tortosa it seemed to follow my gestures. I talk to it, but I have never seen evidence that it hears me."
A friar stepped out from behind the closest pillar and spun around in a swirl of black robe, saying very rapidly: "Rigomage per nominem tuum igne et tempestate impero Orestes dormet." He took two quick steps to catch the falling baron, then lowered him gently to the floor, where he lay still and snored peacefully.
It had happened so fast that Toby just hung in his chains and gaped. He had apparently been saved from the baron and was now back in the power of the Inquisition, which was a very questionable improvement.
Or perhaps not, because the newcomer's all-black habit was that of a Benedictine monk, not a Dominican friar.
Certainly not, for then he straightened up and threw back his cowl, revealing not a tonsure but a mop of auburn locks. "Campeador?"
Spirits! "You are a most welcome sight, senor!"
Hopefully he was. Their last meeting had involved Toby's hurling him ignominiously into the mud. Apparently that was not going to be mentioned, for he twirled up the points of his mustache and grinned smugly.
"There is always a sense of satisfaction in lifting a siege." The don stepped over the prostrate baron and peered up at the prisoner's manacles. "You don't have the keys to those rusty things, do you?"
"You could use the demon. My Latin is equally rusty."
"Ah! Of course!" He went through the ritual again, this time commanding, "Tobias liberetur!"
The locks on Toby's wrists and ankles sprang open. He flopped down on the straw to catch his breath. Things were moving very speedily. "Thank you!" He chafed his hands, wincing as they began to throb.
"Thank Rigomagus, not me," the don said cheerily. " 'By fire and storm?' It must be a very minor demon to have such a terse conjuration, don't you think? An odd-job demon? Fortunate, that! If the invocation had been longer and I'd got it wrong, we might have been in serious trouble." He chuckled, being understandably very pleased with himself.
"How did you get here?"
"Just walked in. Oh, from Montserrat, you mean? Well, when I learned what had happened, Francisco and I marched into the basilica and told the tutelary that its decision had been wrong and its actions were unacceptable. It agreed at once and begged us to come and rescue you. When we get back you will be granted sanctuary. It sends its apologies."
Alas! For a few dazzling moments Toby had seen rainbows of hope in the clouds, but obviously the spirit had done nothing to untangle the caballero's wits. His story was all moonshine and dragon turds, because one thing a major tutelary would never do was reverse itself like that, and Montserrat had flatly told Toby it was infallible. He was not even out of the frying pan, let alone the fire, and the addle headed don had jumped right in beside him — a moving gesture, but a suicidal one.
"Apologies? It sells me to the Inquisition and then says it's sorry? How very touching!" Without rising from the straw, Toby reached for his shirt and doublet. Apologies, indeed!
"My attitude entirely, Campeador!" The don turned away to scowl at the paraphernalia on the table. "But it made amends by providing this absurd garment and another one like it for you, which I brought. They are spelled to distract attention — I just walked in here and no one saw me."
Poor deluded fool! No one questioned clerics at the best of times, and besides, Toby had seen him, even if he had mistaken him for a Dominican friar, which was easy enough to do. Getting in and getting out would be unlikely twins, for it was not hard to imagine Captain Diaz's reaction should two Benedictines emerge from the crypt and try to walk past the guard without explaining how they had come to be in there in the first place.
"And of course it offered us horses and some food to eat on the—"
"Us? No! You didn't involve Doña Francisca in this?"
The don spun around, blue eyes glaring madness. "What name do you profane, varlet?" He reached inside his robe, and very obviously he had a sword in there — not his great broadsword but still a lethal weapon.
Toby was on the floor, half dressed, totally vulnerable. "I meant to say…" He was hexed and could not lie. "I should have said 'Senor Francisco,' of course, senor!"
"It sounded as if you named my sainted mother — a lady of paramount nobility and such immaculate reputation that, were you to speak but one idle word of her, I should be forced to cut out your tongue."
"Such was never my intention. I am mortified that my clumsiness distressed you, senor."
"You will receive no other warning." The maniac released his grip on his sword reluctantly.
"Do please continue your inspiring chronicle, which surpasses the ancient tales of chivalry."
Mollified, the don preened and twirled up his mustache. "As it happened, I decided that the journey would fatigue the old man unduly, so I came alone. There is nothing much else to tell. Josep gave me a letter to his steward, so I left Smeòrach at the House of Brusi on the Carrer Montcada and was promised fresh mounts for our return. I put on this absurd garment and walked in here."
He made it sound very easy, but probably no one ever tried to rescue prisoners from the Inquisition — most people would be as frightened of the captives as they were of the friars.
"I admit," Don Ramon said, "that I did not anticipate the baron. He was an unexpected complication, especially when I learned what he was planning."
"I am amazed. Your courage is exceeded only by your modesty, senor!"
"Of course. The first time he invoked the demon, I heard its name, but I did not see the actions. It was fortunate that he invoked it again."
Toby rose. "And how do you propose that we escape from here? There are armed men on the door." Oreste's orders to Captain Diaz had been very specific. "Can we really trust this gramarye of yours to that extent?"
"I no longer expect to escape." Don Ramon frowned down at the sleeping hexer. "By choice, I shall be struck down while battling my way out against overwhelming odds, but that is of little importance. You may take the other robe and depart, because you are only a serf. I am a hidalgo of Castile and must consider my honor. Since this unspeakable hexer has fallen into my power, I cannot refuse the opportunity to slay him. 'Twill be a valorous deed and well worth dying for, but of course I can't do it while he is unconscious. He must know he is going to perish, and at whose hand. As a churl you would not understand."
Toby considered the prostrate hexer and laughed ruefully. "Senor, for years my greatest ambition has been to choke the life out of this monster with my bare hands. Yet, churl though I am, I find I am as helpless as your noble self while he is in this condition."
"Curious! But I foresee trouble when I awaken him and he regains command of his demons. Have you any suggestions, Campeador?"
Toby had several, of which the most important was that the two of them leave Barcelona alive and healthy and soon. How could he talk sense into the maniac while he was conjured to speak nothing except the strictest truth?
"It will not be easy, senor. Baron Oreste has many demons immured in those rings, and some of them are undoubtedly conjured to defend him. I presume that they have not interfered thus far only because he has come to no harm yet, and they may enjoy seeing him shamed like this. Demons obey specific orders only and detest those who control them, but any move to injure Oreste will trigger their compulsions. As you said, Rigomagus is undoubtedly a very weak demon, so others could override it and awaken their master at any time."
The don frowned dangerously. "I have already announced my intentions, Campeador!"
"I am attempting to assist, senor. Pray hear me out." With his mind flapping in frantic circles, Toby went to the baron and squatted down to study his fat hands. "He has a total of ten rings here, and the jewel on his cane may also hold a bottled demon. I was told once that he is hexed to absolute loyalty by a demon immured in a beryl. Are you familiar with jewels?"
"No. What are you proposing?"
"The baron is forbidden to remove the beryl ring, but it may be possible for us to remove it, depending on the exact terms of the conjuration." It was a very slim chance. Would Rhym have overlooked that loophole?
"Bah!" said the don and began to pace. "I do not see how that would solve anything. You would still have to take him out of the demon's range — to Montserrat, say, or even farther. Only then would he be free of it."
Toby rose and went to the table. He examined the black pebble, then replaced it in the locket and hung the locket around his neck again. There was a mystery that might haunt him till his dying day — whenever that was. He tucked the dagger inside his doublet, making a silent vow that the Inquisition would not take him alive the next time.
"This casket, senor? I have met its like before. It is warded against demons. If we put the beryl inside and shut the lid, the baron will be free of his compulsion."
"So! Ingenious!" Don Ramon came striding back, looking pleased. "But we do not know which is the correct ring, not even which is Rigomagus."
"Nor do we know which holds Rigomagus or the demons that guard his life. We shall have to remove all of them and put them all in the box."
The two men eyed each other uneasily. Would guardian demons stand for that?
Then the don twirled up his mustache again. "And he will be only a fat old man with no powers of gramarye! Very well. Let us begin!"
Gently they pulled the rings from the sleeping man's fingers, and Oreste continued to snore peacefully. Nothing catastrophic occurred, but when the last one came free Toby realized that he was almost giddy from holding his breath. He wrenched the jewel from the end of the cane and put that in the ivory casket also. They had done it!
The don said, "Put the box on the table, Campeador, and close it."
"We shan't be able to see much when the light goes out."
"Ah! Good tactical thinking! Wait." Don Ramon stalked off to inspect the furnishings of the cellar. He returned bearing a black robe, a rusty metal rod that was probably a branding iron, and a fierce scowl. The robe he tossed down on the table. "That will get you safely out of here, Campeador. And this bar will have to serve. Ready?"
He performed another conjuration, calling on Rigomagus to extinguish its light. Darkness surged into the crypt like a black tide — gramarye! Shapes emerged as Toby's eyes adjusted to the glimmering glow of the lanterns.
"Ready, Tobias?"
"Ready, senor."
Don Ramon reached inside his robe for his sword. "Close the lid."
Toby shut the casket. The snoring stopped.
"Mmf?" Oreste's eyes flicked open. "What happened? Longdirk!" He began to rise and then sank back, blinking in horror at the sight of his prisoner free and clothed. He did not seem to notice the don's blade in front of his nose. "Rigomagi in nomine—"
"No good, baron!" Toby said. "We have trimmed your claws."
Oreste lifted his hands and stared at his empty fingers. "Free? Free!" he screamed. "Free! You have released me!" With an effort astonishing for his bulk, he squirmed to his knees — almost losing an eye on the don's sword in the process — and threw himself down to grovel at Toby's feet. "Free at last! Now kill me! I am not fit to live. Kill me!" He grew louder and more frantic, babbling hysterically.
It was disgusting! Their plan had worked beyond all dreams, and they had turned the greatest hexer in Europe into a cringing, whimpering poltroon.
Don Ramon sheathed his sword and swung a foot at the ample rump so temptingly presented.
"Get up! Stand on your feet like a man!"
"Wait!" Toby could remember how he had reacted when he thought he had beheaded Hamish. "Give him time to adjust. He has been a slave for years."
The don scowled impatiently as the lamentation continued. Toby put on the robe — not that he believed that it had been hexed, but it was a good disguise and might confuse the guards when he tried to leave. Just how that was going to be done remained to be seen.
Eventually the baron's weeping choked into silence. He rose to his knees and peered around. "Longdirk?"
"Here."
"Oh. Yes. You are hard to see in that… How did you get that? What has been happening?" If was not a genuinely broken man, he must be the finest actor in Europe.
"We locked your demons away in the box. Whose man are you now, Oreste? Still Nevil's?"
"No, no! Yours! I don't know how you managed this, but I am eternally grateful. I will do anything for you. Oh, I deserve to die, Longdirk. I have done terrible—"
"You are going to die!" declaimed the don. "I, Don Ramon de Nuñez—"
"Any recompense I can make!" sniffed the baron, ignoring him.
Realizing that he was still wearing his robe, the don angrily stripped it off, becoming somewhat entangled in his sword and branding iron in the process.
Oreste squealed in alarm, making Toby's heart take a wild leap. Was it possible that those robes really were enchanted? No, that was ridiculous! Why should Montserrat reverse its judgment? The baron was confused, that was all.
"Wh-who are you?"
"As I was saying, I, Don Ramon de Nuñez y Pardo, hidalgo of Castile, denounce you as a monster and a disgrace to the title of nobility you profess to bear, and I do hereby challenge you to mortal combat. As we have only one sword, I offer you the choice of weapons. Stand up!" He held out the sword and the rusty rod.
The baron stared at him very hard, blinked around in search of Toby as if he couldn't see him, and then heaved himself to his feet. He bowed shakily. "As you will, senor. I do not deny your charges, but I accept your challenge gladly."
He took the branding iron.
"Don't be absurd!" yelled the don. "I have studied under de la Naza himself! I am one of the finest swordsmen ever to wield a Toledo blade."
"You let me have the choice. Now guard!" The fat baron swung a clumsy blow.
Don Ramon caught the rod with his left hand and twisted it out of Oreste's grasp. "You deny me satisfaction! So die like the churl you are — go ahead and strangle him, Campeador, as you wanted."
But Toby could not kill in cold blood either, and he had begun to shiver with excitement, starting to believe he might live.
Hope is the mother of disappointment.
"The baron appears to be truly repentant, senor!" Seeing his companion's eyes starting to flash anger again, he went on quickly: "Any man can be hexed to obedience. Under the same circumstances, I chopped off your head. It is true that to slay the Fiend's premier hexer would be a wondrous and valorous deed, celebrated throughout all Europe. How much more daring and effective, though, to turn the weapon against the man — or against the demon, in this case! Oreste knows his master's darkest secrets. Why destroy him when you could use him? If I am right, he would at once become Nevil's most dangerous enemy." He would also be a passport out of the Palau Reial.
The don considered this proposal for a moment and then raised his coppery eyebrows very high. "You shame me, Campeador! Why, indeed, should we waste our time on this trash when we should be plotting the downfall of the monster himself?" He beamed and clapped Toby on the shoulder. "A magnificent vision! You will join me then in a crusade to overthrow the Fiend?"
It would be hard to think of a greater insanity than that program, but this was no time for argument, and fortunately Rigomagus was now caged, so Toby was again capable of deceit. "Senor, nothing will give me greater pleasure than to assist you when you destroy Rhym and rid Europe of its atrocities. Well, Excellency?"
"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…