chamber, where he raised a hand to his mouth, spoke softly, turned around once to the right and twice to the left, and said something else. Thereupon the blocks of the barrel-vaulted ceiling began to glow with a pale, gentle lavender light that grew rapidly brighter until the entire cellar was clearly illuminated. That was gramarye.
The change was no improvement, for it revealed the fungus and rat droppings in the corners, the glint of moisture on walls and floor, the meager barred slits that admitted little air and no light. Worse, the macabre furnishings that had hitherto been mercifully invisible were now in plain view. Most obvious was the notorious rack, a table of massive timbers with a windlass at one end, but the vises, braziers, and metal boots were every bit as ominous — as were the mysterious metallic contraptions that had no obvious purpose and therefore challenged the imagination to supply one. Walls and pillars were festooned with chains, whips, rods, pincers, branding irons, knives, and pulleys. No known means of generating unbearable agony seemed to have been overlooked.
The visitor paraded back with his finery now displayed in glory: a knee-length cloak of crimson velvet lined with sable over a hugely inflated jerkin of blue and gold satin, whose sleeves were puffed, slashed, and embroidered, and which gaped at the front to display a decorated and padded codpiece. The hose above his buskins were crimson, bulging over his fat calves. His hat was flat and wide, shadowing his features, and his hair was gathered in a cowl of golden net. He settled on the stool, sniffing his posy to avoid the stench of the room. In a plump face of indiscernible age, smoothly shaven and powdered with flour, his eyes were barely visible, lost in slits between pads of fat, but he smiled with thick scarlet lips.
'So we meet at last, Tobias Strangerson, known as Longdirk.'
'Oh, thank the spirits!' said the prisoner. 'Someone who speaks English! My lord — your Excellency, I mean — there has been a terrible mistake. My name is William of Crieff, a sailor from Scotland, and I don't know how —'
His Excellency laughed with what sounded like genuine amusement. 'Still you do not give up? Master Longdirk, I am honored to meet you. There is an old saying that journeys end in lovers' meetings, but sometimes they can end in enemies' meeting, also. It has been a long time, has it not?' His voice had a guttural, Germanic rasp.
The young man shrugged to concede defeat, rattling chains. 'Yes it has, Excellency.' His expression gave away nothing.
'I am, of course, Karl Fischart, Baron Oreste of Utrecht, currently King Nevil's viceroy for Aragon.'
'I know you,' the prisoner said simply. Possibly his eyes glinted a little.
'Indeed?' Oreste spoke more softly than before. 'You continue to surprise me, Toby, even now. How do you know me?'
'You were pointed out to me in Bordeaux.'
'I was that close? Astonishing! Yes, it has been a long chase, but I have you now, and I do not think you will escape this time.' Sequins sparkled on his hat as he looked around the crypt. 'I apologize for the accommodation — this odious cellar belongs to the Inquisition, of course, and I regret to say that they use it. Please understand that I do not intend to apply any of those revolting instruments to your flesh, young man. I have other ways to obtain what I need. I put you in here because this chamber happens to be very carefully warded, and in an unusual way. As you saw, it will permit one to use gramarye with immured demons.' He spread out his fingers, and the rings flashed in spears of red and blue and green. 'But it suppresses the weaker powers of incarnates. I hope this interests you. I am not boring you, am I?' If he was gloating, at least he was being polite. He might have been at home on his estate, speaking graciously to one of his retainers.
'Not at all, Excellency. I welcome the company.' The prisoner was responding with suitable deference, neither defiant nor groveling. He shifted his weight from his right leg to his left. He had been given enough slack that he could bend his knees a little or move his hips, but the cold was his worst torment at the moment. The cramps and exhaustion were still to come.
'Ah, be careful, Toby! You may regret my presence soon enough and find solitude preferable. I always enjoy a worthy opponent. I admit I underestimated you at first, of course — a lowborn bastard from some remote Highland glen, ignorant, barely literate, never been away from the cows before. When the Scottish Parliament rushed through a special act condemning this unknown boy to death without trial on the grounds that he was possessed by a demon, I really thought your eggs were scrambled. Who could blame me?'
'It was your doing.'
'Parliament? Yes, I did use a little influence there, I admit. But the possession was Lady Valda's fault, wasn't it?' The fat man chuckled. 'I congratulate you sincerely on besting her. She had eluded me for ten years.'
The prisoner shrugged.
Oreste smiled, amused by something. 'So the big, dumb Highland lad is hunted by the full majesty of the law and two of the finest hexers in Europe. What odds would you give on his chances? Yet he escapes! Your companion, by the way, the boy who sailed with you — Hamish Campbell, wasn't it? He can hardly be a boy now, any more than you are. He is well?'
'The last I saw him he was, Excellency. He must be eighteen now.'
That remark amused the baron even more. He laughed until his paunch shook. 'I am supposed to infer that you haven't seen him for a long time? No matter. Let us get back to you and your demon.'
'It isn't a demon. What happened was an accident.'
'Not a demon, no. It's the local elemental from Strath Fillan, a partially domesticated sprite, or hob as you call them. But it is dangerous, isn't it, Toby? Even more dangerous than a demon in some ways. A demon always has a conjuration to control it, but the hob is a free spirit, untrained, childlike. It doesn't know good from evil. It is liable to do anything, ja?'
The young man nodded. 'It scares me sometimes.'
'Scares
'How do you know all this?'
'From your former companion, Father Lachlan. He was very forthcoming. He had no choice, of course.'
Oreste sighed. 'Killed him. I had to, Toby. He was a pleasant old man, although rather ineffectual. He was muddled on the details, but he had learned — learned from you, I'm afraid — that the soul in the king is a demon. Anyone who knows that must die.'
The prisoner ground his teeth. Suddenly he looked almost dangerous enough to explain the severity with which he was being restrained.
'Ah, Toby, Toby! You also told Fergan, the pretender to the Scottish throne. He was useful to us as bait for the unruly, but after he learned that truth, he had to go, too. You must have heard that he was caught and executed?'
'Murdered!'
'Oh, come! You weren't one of his foolish rebels. You knew he would never sit on his throne again — not with Nevil wanting to keep it, he wouldn't! It doesn't matter. Anyone who knows, dies. Only you and Hamish Campbell are left. And you have the genuine king's soul hidden somewhere. I want it, Toby. I will have the amethyst no matter what it costs… costs you, of course. I will do anything to get it.'
The prisoner licked his lips. The thick muscles of his neck were tense. 'I think you're mistaken, Excellency. Valda couldn't find any trace of Nevil's soul. I think it was lost somewhere in all that hexing. So the amethyst's only a piece of shiny stone as far as I'm concerned. It has sentimental value for me, but if you want it so much, you can have it. You ought to be willing to perform a small favor in return, yes? You're a great hexer, and I admit I find the hob troublesome at times. You could remove it from me, exorcize it. Do that and let me go, and I'll give you the amethyst gladly. That's a fair bargain, isn't it?'
'Bargain? Bargain, Toby?' The baron shook with mirth. 'You stand there, chained up like a side of beef, and talk of bargaining? Oh, dear me no! You won't be bargaining. And you find the hob
