Demon Knight

'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 podesta? What about the gonfalonier della giustizia, the 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