Demon Knight

remonstrate with me, then feel free to speak your mind. Provided, of course, that you temper your words with proper respect.'

Toby might know what that meant. Hamish did not, and his nerves were still too jangled to play foolish games. 'Longdirk told me to stun you if you tried to kill anyone, signore.' Wondering what sort of cataclysm that would provoke, he looked up to meet the icy blue eyes.

Briefly they measured him for a coffin. Then the don twirled up his mustache as he did when he was pleased. 'Only if I am dissembling. You will not interfere when I am serious.'

'Si, signore,' Hamish said resignedly.

* * *

As they trotted their mounts along the busy morning streets — with Brutus constantly trying to sink his teeth in people and other horses and being consistently thwarted by the don — Hamish saw the soaring dome of the sanctuary straight ahead, and a sudden tug at his heart reminded him that he had survived an exceedingly narrow escape in the night and had also lost a comrade.

'Signore, I most humbly beg a few minutes' grace to visit the duomo.'

The don's ginger eyebrows soared high, although his stare was shrewd and calculating. 'You did have a busy night, didn't you? How many deserving poor, did you say? Very well. You will attend me as soon as possible at the Palace of the Signory.'

His surprise was understandable, for tutelaries had little sympathy for soldiers of fortune, men who earned their living by killing. Hamish had not made confession since he arrived in Italy and took up the trade. Nevertheless, times were a-changing. Fighting against the Fiend would never be a sin, and Karl Fischart had died in a noble cause.

Engrossed in rehearsing what he would say, he dismounted outside the duomo and allocated the reins to one of the handful of grubby boys disputing for the honor. Normally he found the facade's symphony of white, pink, and green marble fascinating, but today he strode over to the south door without an upward glance. Pigeons and beggars summed him up and ignored him. As he was about to enter, two young men emerged and blocked his path. More of them followed. His mind flashed back to the present, and he fell back a pace, reaching for a sword he had left at the villa.

'One moment, ser,' said the nearest. They were fairly typical bravos, finely garbed, arrogant, dangerous, but apparently in this instance merely holding the door for someone, making sure the coast was clear.

'I bid you good morning, ser Campbell.'

He looked twice at the grandly dressed lady and twice decided she could not have addressed him. It was only then that he realized that the inconspicuous, somewhat foxy-faced, nonentity at her side was not just another flunky. The bodyguards, the last of whom were now emerging at his back, were there to protect him.

Gasp! He bowed low. 'I am honored, Your Magnificence!' He almost added, 'I did not recognize you,' and bit back the words in time.

In truth, though, Pietro Marradi enjoyed being anonymous. He also enjoyed showing off his politician's memory for names and faces — Hamish had been presented to him only once, and that had been many months ago.

'Duchessa, may I present ser Campbell, a chancellor in the Don Ramon Company?'

Lucrezia, the notorious hexer? The diminutive lady in the ermine and jewels acknowledged Hamish's protestations of undying loyalty with a nod that implied extreme boredom, but her gaze seemed to sharpen a fraction when her brother added, 'Ser Campbell is a close confidant and childhood friend of comandante Longdirk.' The lowly ser was to chide him for not wearing a sword.

'It is hard to imagine messer Longdirk as a child.' She did not look notorious.

'Indeed he never was, madonna!' Hamish said boldly. 'He sprang fully armed from a Highland bog.' That felt moderately witty for spur-of-the-moment.

Lucrezia seemed unimpressed, as if she had already done her duty by a barbarian youth, but Marradi honored the jest with a smile. 'Ah! You are a student of the classics?'

'An ignoramus by Italian standards,' Hamish protested. 'I prefer the moderns, such as your own notable sonnets, Your Magnificence.' He quoted a few lines from 'The Vine' to show that he could.

Truth makes the deadliest flattery, and Marradi was a celebrated poet. He bowed his head to acknowledge the compliment. 'Would you be available to take a cup of wine around the sixth hour, messer Campbell? Some friends will be joining us to witness the unveiling of Maestro Buonarroti's new marble and hear a few sonnets. Bring along a couple of your own favorites to share.'

Astonished, Hamish protested his eternal gratitude for such an honor. It was no trivial experience just to be talking to a genuine (if notorious) duchess and the world's richest banker while surrounded by his respectfully waiting bodyguard with half of Florence looking on. To be invited to his salon was an honor half of Florence would kill for. He wondered what his mother would say if she could see him now.

And he wondered if this stroke of good fortune might be turned to advantage. Here, after all, was the hand that held all the strings. If Hamish could wring a few fast concessions out of him, he could turn up at the meeting with a decided edge. Hastily, for Marradi was already turning away, he said, 'I came into town, Your Magnificence, to assist Don Ramon in his negotiations with the dieci. Time grows desperately short.'

He knew instantly that he had erred, but it was a slight tilt of Lucrezia's head that told him. Marradi's expression did not change.

'Indeed it does!' the Magnificent sighed. 'The problem lies, of course, with the podesta, but I expect you know that.' Hamish certainly did not, and gaped like a fish. Before he could comment, the despot added smoothly, 'I am told that His Excellency is reluctant to approve anything until the darughachi has made his will known.'

'The rumors… There really is a darughachi then?'

'Oh, yes!' The Magnificent seemed politely surprised by his ignorance. 'His Highness Prince Sartaq, seventh son of the glorious Ozberg Khan. He brings plenipotentiary powers to suppress the revolt north of the Alps.' A shrug, a hint of a smile accompanied that description of the disaster that had engulfed most of Europe for half a generation as a revolt. 'We expect him to come north, once he has completed his business in Naples and Rome.' As a verbal street fighter, Marradi was unmatched — having laid Hamish on the floor, he now applied his boot: 'Siena is a delightful town, is it not, ser Campbell? Did you enjoy Carnival?'

Hamish managed a nod, making faint croaking noises. So much for his hopes of wringing anything out of Il Volpe.

Marradi sighed and let his face grow doleful. 'We were all desolate to hear the tragic news of Maestro Fischart's demise. Do please convey our sympathy to Don Ramon and the constable, won't you?' He strolled away with his sister on his arm and his mastiffs around him, leaving Hamish feeling like something dropped by one of the pigeons.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

He stumbled into the cool gloom of the duomo and waited by the door, planning to allow the Marradi party a few minutes to depart, then scamper like a burning squirrel in search of the don. If the bizarre Castilian learned of Fischart's death from anyone else, he would be most exceeding wroth. If he denied it in public only to discover his subordinates had kept the news from him, he would wax homicidal.

Demons take Toby and his stupid deception! He knew it was impossible to keep a secret in Italy. All the same, granted that the Marradi Bank ran an intelligence network second only to the Venetians', and even factoring gramarye into the problem, there was no obvious way the Magnificent could have heard the news so soon. Did the Siena tutelary correspond with Florence's? Or was this again the hand of the mysterious enemy who had arranged Fischart's death?