and raced up the hills beyond. Had the demon world been ruled by the same laws as the world of mankind, it would have left a dust cloud a league long.
The baron was still with him. Either the old mummy was tougher than he looked or he had reinforced himself with some gramarye that he had not offered to Hamish. Either way—
'Westlea, I bid you go faster!'
Now the drum of hooves blended into a roar, like rain. The eldritch scenery rushed by in a blur. Southward he flew over the Chianti Hills, past Impruneta, Greve, and Castellina, retracing his journey of the last two days in a tiny fraction of that time. It just felt longer.
He came at last to a demonized vision of Siena, but the spirits burned there as bright as in Florence and would not take kindly to demons within their domain. Hamish halted Westlea in a field just outside the city wall. Then the air was sweet again, the stars shone above living trees. He bade his steed stand absolutely still and leaped to the ground. He shouted the same command to Pivkas — glad that he had remembered its name — and caught Fischart as he tumbled from the saddle.
A few minutes' rest on the grass, and the old man had recovered enough to start being unpleasant again, berating Hamish for the pace he had set.
'You may enjoy that; I don't,' Hamish retorted. 'You could have made the cursed thing go more slowly if you wanted. Now get rid of these incarnates before the tutelary blasts all of us!'
Muttering, the hexer clambered to his feet and spoke his commands, immuring the demons back in their jewels. Then the horses were only horses, whinnying with alarm at finding themselves where they had not been before. Hamish tied their reins up out of harm's way, loosened their saddle girths, and left them as a pleasant surprise for some lucky Sienese. His hands had almost stopped shaking. Whatever happened now, the worst of the night was over.
'The scarf,' said the hexer. 'You hold one end, let me have the other.'
Hamish pulled out Lisa's kerchief, felt the maestro grip it also, heard a single guttural word,
'What's happening?'
'El Bayahd's looking for the rest of it.'
Searching the whole city? Every cesspit, every slop bucket? And what, pray, were the tutelary and its kindred spirits up to while these intruders disturbed the peace with exhibitions of gr—
The night exploded around him as the demon snatched him away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Silence. Gasp for breath…
He stood beside Fischart, with his feet on mud and his nose almost touching the back of a coach. Beetling eaves showed high overhead against a sky just starting to think about dawn. A horse whinnied shrilly and jangled harness, as if it sensed the demon's passage, but no human voice was raised in alarm. Hooves stamped impatiently, clumping and clopping on stone. A man cursed, making Hamish's hand tighten on the hilt of his sword.
Someone very rich must be arriving or departing, for the carriage was no dainty gig for a jaunt to market but a lumbering shed on wheels that almost filled the roadway and would need a full team of eight. The voice had come from the side, probably a flunky waiting by the footboard. He must have been speaking to someone and there might well be another man holding the horses, possibly a driver on the box as well. Hamish abandoned his hopes that this escapade would involve nothing more vigorous than a tap on a lady's chamber door and a graceful bow as he was presented by her old friend Karl Fischart. Activities more strenuous now seemed imminent.
He leaned around the tall rear wheel to peek along the gap between coach and wall. He saw a bright streak where a house door stood ajar, a protruding footboard directly opposite it, and beyond both of those, two men silhouetted against the glow of lanterns on the front of the carriage. Just standing there waiting for something, but armed, and therefore more than mere grooms and postilions… Flames! How many more tending the horses? How many altogether? How much use was Fischart going to be when the trouble started?
'Taking a crappy long time, ain't he?' grumbled one of the two.
In English!
Granted that Italy was overrun with refugees from a dozen lands, common sense screamed that men skulking around long after curfew in Siena speaking English were those same Nevil agents who had tried to abduct Lisa two days ago. A demon had testified that the missing scraps of Lisa's kerchief lay somewhere amid the street garbage, so this must be the countess's residence. Common sense told Hamish to whip out his rapier and unleash demon Zangliveri to even up the odds a little. He tightened his grip on the hilt—
His hand refused to do more. His logic might be wrong. He could not blast men down without more evidence. He squirmed with frustration. He was crazy. Toby would have taken both of them by now, probably with his bare hands, but he was not Toby. Any minute now one of those bravos would decide to take a stroll around the coach and…
The house door creaked and brighter light flared up like a sunrise, revealing greasy pavement, footboard, the two guards. They were armed with both sword and dagger and wore no excessive clothing that might hamper their movements. They did not look especially villainous. They looked young and fit and dangerous as hell.
A dark figure ducked out from the door of the house, then raised its lantern and turned to light the way. A woman followed, muffled in a dark cloak. Her hat concealed her hair, so there was no way to tell if she was Queen Blanche, who in her youth had been called the White Princess, but she was tall enough to stoop for the lintel, and she stumbled awkwardly in doing so. Her arms were behind her, and there was another man right at her back. Abduction?
Of course it was an abduction!
Hamish drew his sword and took three steps to poke the man who held the lantern. 'Vestige!'
His head jumped from his shoulders in a spray of air and blood. The lantern clattered to the ground with his hand still attached, then the rest of him collapsed into a blood-soaked pile of meat and garments. His head rolled into the gutter. The lantern had already gone out, but there was enough light coming from the doorway to establish that he had been completely disassembled. There could not be an intact human body in that heap. Several people screamed, probably including Hamish himself. Certainly his stomach heaved so violently that for a moment he was incapable of doing anything. Then a lot of things happened all at once.
Spooked by the blood odor or the demon, the horses reared, screamed, lunged against the collars. A man holding the leaders yelled and fell back. As the rig began to move, another man jumped down from the footboard to join the fray. Shouting, 'Blanche! Majesty! It's me, Karl!' Fischart jostled past Hamish, throwing him against the wheel so the hub jarred his elbow and he almost dropped his rapier. The countess was hauled bodily back into the house by her captor. The two bravos flashed out their swords and daggers in an unnerving display of proficiency. Hamish recoiled off the carriage and stumbled over the gruesome stack of flesh that had been the first casualty. Fischart tried to follow the countess into the house, and one of the swordsmen ran him through. He screamed and fell. The door slammed, cutting off the light.
The carriage had departed, so the road was cleared for battle — Hamish Campbell versus no less than four opponents, possibly more. The darkness was on his side, but at least one of the enemy must be Gonzaga, the hexer he had bested two nights before. This time he was not wearing a guarddemon.
Hoping that Fischart was flat on the ground and out of the line of fire, he waved his rapier in the direction of the foe, and said, 'Vestige, vestige, vestige!'
He heard the eruption of bursting lungs again. Once? Or twice? The runaway carriage collapsed into a heap of lumber, sending eight horses mad with terror. Its lamps blossomed in golden roses of flaming oil, silhouetting three upright opponents for him, but also revealing him to them. One was waving his hands and chanting, and must be Gonzaga. Fischart was scrambling to his feet, presumably healed of his wound. Shutters were slapping open all along the street.
Two armed men sprang at Hamish. He had Zangliveri demolish the first, but then the second was all over him so that he needed his rapier for parrying and could no longer direct the demon with it. He retreated before a
