From the scrunch of his brows, Toby was doing some thinking of his own, and he suddenly said, 'Hamish?'
'Hmm?'
'How close would a hexer have to be to hex me like this?'
'Depends on his demons, how strong they are, how well trained, whether they're immured or incarnate. Depends what the hexer's trying to do. Giving you dreams might not take much power, I suppose, but to rip skin off your wrists and then put it back again, or shave off your beard without you knowing it…' His voice withered under Longdirk's glare. 'I don't know.' Books were always maddeningly vague about such things.
'Maybe it's Oreste doing this to me!'
'I still think it's the hob. Oreste would try to lure you to him, not scare you away.' Except that Toby was the most bullheaded man alive. Flash a threat at him and he put down his bull head and charged — in Bordeaux only violent objections from Hamish had stopped him trying to go after Oreste with a crossbow. Could Oreste have guessed that about him, or learned it from his demons?
'It has to be the hob, Toby. I know you don't think it's smart enough, but suppose it's learned to read your dreams, or fears, or thoughts? It could be reflecting them back at you like a mirror…' Mirror… shaving… A fit of nervous laughter took him unaware. Toby's puzzled scowl only made it worse. He howled.
'What is the boy laughing about?' Gracia demanded angrily.
'He suffers from a looseness of the wits.'
Hamish coughed himself back to self-control and wiped away tears. 'I just thought — if your next attack of augury brings your beard back again, we'll know for certain that it's the hob doing it.'
Toby looked startled, then his big mouth twisted into a smile. 'Yes, I'd have to agree with you on that.'
He walked on for a moment in silence, hitched his load higher on his back, and said, 'I promised our companion, whose name I shan't mention, that I would see her to where she wants to go, which is not far away from the city I shan't mention either. Then I'm going to put you on a ship. I don't care what lies you have to tell or what sort of rat-infested leaky basket it is, nor whether it's bound for Scotland or Karakorum, if we can find a master willing to take you on, you go. Far away from this accursed land.'
Hamish said, 'Um.' Nice thought but not possible. Can't desert a friend in need. But Toby would insist he try. No need to equivocate, though. 'That's a promise! I'll try.' If he was to be allowed to lie to the seamen, he would explain that he wanted to leave Barcelona because his mistress had just died of plague. That would reduce his employability to much less than zero.
He was still savoring a mental image of this mistress in her days of health and lust — naked on a bed, of course, with a rose in her teeth and a flush of desire spreading over her plump, red-tipped breasts — when Toby said:
'If these visions are Oreste's doing, would he find me harder to get at it if I had more company?'
Hamish riffled through all the books he had read and stored away in his mind. 'I have no idea. Where are you thinking of finding more company?'
'Right there.' Toby pointed.
Their little valley had joined a larger valley, equally desolate, but not deserted. A party of travelers was proceeding down the larger way, heading in the same direction as themselves — a dozen or so, men and women both, some on horseback and some on foot. Two of the riders had already seen the trio and were coming to investigate.
'There are friars!' Gracia moaned. 'You will not betray me to the Inquisition, senor?'
'Not all friars are Inquisition, senora. And we wouldn't. Why should we? You are not possessed by a demon. It would be wise if you will not tell them about my wrists healing, either.'
Sunlight flashed off a metal helmet. The two horsemen were soldiers, or at least the one in front certainly was — indeed he was a knight, for he carried a lance and rode a huge warhorse. The other was probably his squire, for he was thumping his heels on a pony, trying to keep up.
Then Toby said, 'Oh, demons!'
'What?' cried Gracia. 'You turn pale, senor! What is wrong?'
He answered in Gaelic, to Hamish.
'I know him. His name is Don Ramon de Nunez y Pardo. About an hour ago I cut off his head.'
CHAPTER THREE
The images in the visions remained sharp as crystals, the sounds and scents and pains and tastes no less so; only the words spoken and heard lay blurred in Toby's memory. As Hamish insisted, that was a strong argument that the hob was behind the visions, for a human hexer would have more interest in conversation. But names were different. Ludwig, Captain Diaz, Don Ramon… those he remembered. This, without question, was Don Ramon cantering up on that gigantic horse.
Although the lance was presently being held high, it could mean death if it were couched.
'Cover me!' Toby hurled down his pack and grasped his staff in both hands, fading to the right. Hamish jumped to the left, preparing to make a fight of it. If the rider went for either of them, the other could smash the horse's legs.
Whatever his intentions might have been, Don Ramon reined in about a dozen paces away and stared down at the peasants with a hauteur that would have seemed pretentious on the face of Ozbeg, Khan of the Golden Horde.
He was as lean as Hamish and certainly no older than Toby, probably younger. His face was of an unusual pallor and bore a high-beaked nose over a slender ginger mustache curved up in twisted points like bull horns. Its expression of sublime arrogance was sadly out of keeping with his armor, for his helmet had come from some Castilian foot-soldier, the polished cuirass from one of Nevil's German mercenaries, and the great two-handed broadsword hanging from his saddle belonged in a museum. So did his lance and the shield on his back, for who fought with those any more? His breeches had a patch on one knee, his boots did not match, and even his shabby bay mount was notable only for its size and age. It looked old enough to be a veteran of the Granada conquest.
Toby was not accustomed to looking up to other men. He also felt he had a perfect right to raise his staff when an armed man charged him on horseback, although the likes of Don Ramon would see the move as open rebellion. In the resulting silence, he heard only the steady thump of his own heart, and saw only those haughty, unwinking eyes so much higher than his own. Eventually the obvious contempt made him feel ridiculous, so he lowered his staff and bowed to the
Don Ramon turned his gaze on Hamish, who bowed also. Then the chubby little squire arrived on his panting pony.
'Francisco,' declaimed the knight, 'inquire what manner of men these be who contest our progress, whether they be persons of quality with whom one may seek honorable passage of arms, or common rabble that need be taught respect for their betters.' Even Toby could recognize the lisping accents of Toledo in that arrogant voice.
The squire clambered down stiffly from his pony, which had seen many better years. So had his ragged jerkin and hose, and he himself was well past his best, for his round, pink face was sagged in many wrinkles and when he doffed his pie-shaped leather cap, he released a wild straggle of white hair. He advanced a couple of steps toward Toby and then spoke out in an unexpectedly high-pitched voice: 'Sirs, my noble master seeks to learn what manner of men you may be.'
Toby drew a deep breath, but Hamish forestalled him:
'Sir Squire, pray inform the gracious
