Demon Knight

'A darughachi?' It had been many years since D'Anjou had even thought about the Khanate, that rotted relic of an empire whose claim to rule Europe the Fiend had exposed as utter pigswill. 'He has perhaps authority to appoint another suzerain?'

Barrafranca snorted. 'Very useful! The Fiend has slaughtered the last four, so—'

'Last five.' Three of those five had been relatives of D'Anjou's. Two of them Nevil had taken alive, poor devils. 'It will have to be an Italian, because there is no one else left, and a suzerain has always been a red rag to the Fiend. Nothing will make his invasion of Italy more certain.'

'His invasion is already certain, yes? And if this daru… emissary… does appoint a suzerain, whom will he appoint? In the past the Khan always chose a powerful ruler, yes? But they are all dead now.'

Ah! Interesting problem! In Italy — and there was very little else of Europe that Nevil had not conquered — the great powers were the five cities, but Rome was a hierocracy, while Venice and Florence were plutocracies claiming to be democracies. Fredrico of Naples was unthinkable. 'The Duke of Milan? This is a choice not to be thought of!'

The Italian laughed. 'He can do better than that, Chevalier. A man who knows war as it should be fought, a man who has fought against the Fiend as long as any, a man whose ancestors ruled France when the Khan's were herding goats?'

Again a jerk of surprise sent a stab of pain up D'Anjou's spine, but he barely noticed it. Indeed! Was he not the logical choice? 'What are you suggesting?'

'That the emissary ought to be advised of the possibility. A good horseman should be able to reach Naples in a few days, si?'

'I shall consider your advice, messer. I thank you for it.' He could almost regret mocking the man, for the proposal had possibilities.

'My pleasure, Chevalier. And when it happens you will give me Longdirk's head in a basket, si?'

D'Anjou chuckled. 'I will give it to someone. You may have to wait in line.'

'I will settle for his tripes,' Barrafranca growled.

CHAPTER TEN

The camp in the Fiesole highlands was a minor city of leather and linen spilled down a now-muddy slope, a galaxy of many-colored tents, shaped like cones or sheds or loaves. Many of these were very grand pavilions, striped and gleaming in the morning sun, proof of the success the Don Ramon Company had garnered in the two seasons of its existence, but in among their dazzle crouched others more humble — dingy, patched, and decrepit, even some crude shelters of straw to house men who had gambled away their wealth. This bizarre settlement had been home all winter to three thousand men and boys, plus an unknown multitude of women. The treasurer kept sharp tally of the horses, the mules, the oxen, the wagons, the guns, the beans in the commissary, but for some reason no one ever counted the women.

Toby often marveled that he could have started this, but it had all sprung from a single evening's brainstorming in a monastery in northern Spain. As a penniless outlaw he had sown dragons' teeth and then ridden the dragon to fame and honor. It ruled him now. It owned him. Florence depended on messer Longdirk to defend her from the Fiend, but these men trusted him not to squander their lives in the attempt. One slip on his part, and few of them would see the harvest. They were cynical, tough as anvils, and many of them brutal, but they were Longdirk's men and proud of it. As he rode through the camp, he was hailed by lancers, pikemen, arquebusiers, and cannoneers. They were not cheering old Chevalier D'Anjou at his side, the rightful King of France; they were cheering Toby Longdirk, and that was worth far more than all of Pietro Marradi's gilt-edged invitations.

* * *

Don Ramon emerged from the coach unaided but unsteady. Framed by auburn tangles, his face had a greenish hue, and the copper mustache that normally twisted up in arrogant horns hung over his mouth like an apron. In only shirt and tights, he seemed almost frail, a slender boy. His unfocused, red-rimmed eyes peered uncertainly at Toby.

'Stand aside!' he muttered.

'You have a duty to perform, senor.'

He clutched the coach for support and groaned. 'Duty?'

'The condotta must be signed today. The Magnificent and I reached agreement on the essentials. You are Captain-General of Florence, senor.'

The listeners broke into another cheer, for they had not been paid in weeks. The news would be all over the camp in minutes. That the don was in no state to negotiate with the hardheaded — and undoubtedly cold-sober — Florentine commissioners was very obvious, and there were a million essential details to be settled yet, enough to fill weeks of haggling. But speed was essential, and for all his grandiose illusions, no one had ever accused Don Ramon of lacking courage. An appeal to his sense of duty left him no escape.

'Today it shall be, Constable.' He staggered off in the direction of the house. The mercenaries grinned admiringly, but they did not shout vulgar remarks after him as they would have done at Toby. The don was too dangerous to taunt.

Good spirits be with him this day! Fighting was much easier than negotiating. That was why most men preferred it.

* * *

The villa had begun life as a humble farmhouse, but now it was a rambling warren of low buildings, stonewalled and red-tiled, set about with vines and olives. The city placed it at the disposal of successive mercenary captains, and previous tenants had added watchtowers and a crenellated wall, so that it was almost a fortress, but not strong enough to alarm the Florentines.

The domestic functions of the villa were run by madonna Anna, a formidable widow whose iron-gray eyes had seen uncounted soldiers of fortune come and go. She ruled a diverse population of younger women who came and went much faster, and she treated them as servants. Some were legitimate wives of officers of the Company, some were innocents who believed they were about to become wives, and others would negotiate with anyone. Toby remained firmly celibate, having no choice, and Hamish preferred to hunt wild game in the city.

The two of them shared an attic room just large enough to contain a hamper for storage, a bed for Hamish, and seven feet of floor for Toby. It was cluttered with armor and weapons, and he was sure that one night he would be killed in his sleep by an avalanche of Hamish's high-piled books.

He arrived with a bucket of water and his foggy-headed feeling. As he stripped off his finery, he could look down on all of Florence. Seen from this vantage in the Fiesole hills, it was a fairyland of domes and palaces, a cake iced by red tile roofs. The city wall wrapped around it like a cord knotted with towers, and through it flowed the blue Arno, winding on toward Pisa across the fertile plain, between the hills in their olive, vine, and mulberry plumage. It was a jewel among cities, and he was its defender.

Italians had been fighting among themselves for centuries, but they had preserved the traditions of chivalry much longer than most of Europe had, waging war as a stately gavotte of maneuver and siege, where arms rarely clashed and nobody got hurt — certainly nobody of importance, but even the mercenaries' death toll was usually light. The peace treaty would stipulate reasonable ransoms for the prisoners, redistribute a few castles, and allocate some daughters in marriage to show there were no hard feelings. It was fine sport as long as nobody worried about the peasants whose crops were burned and womenfolk raped — and nobody did, certainly nobody of importance.

Fourteen years ago, Nevil had changed the rules by abolishing the rules. No rules, no peace treaties, and winner take all.

To be honest, in Italy it had been Toby Longdirk who introduced the new style of war. Less than three years ago he had landed at Genoa with Hamish, Don Ramon, Antonio Diaz, Arnaud Villars, and Karl Fischart. Even famous condottieri had jumped at the chance to sign up with these mad foreigners who would pay a retainer over the winter, when all sensible employers put their mercenaries out to pasture. The don was young, true, but he had