Demon Rider

accused is refusing exorcism, it will be necessary to use harsher means.'

'You mean you will torture him until the demon he expels?'

'Regrettably, we will have no choice. But we are moved by compassion, not a craving for vengeance.'

'So he will suffer, suffer a long time?'

'He is a strong man and apparently a very determined one.'

'That means yes?'

'I fear this may well be so.' The friar blew on his hands again.

The scar made Hauptmann von Munster's smile particularly horrible. 'Then I am satisfied. Will it be possible to view the body?'

'No. It would be too distressing for those who do not understand the need for—'

'That is enough!' said the spirit. 'Antonio will take the two men named in the warrant. Leopold and his men will return peaceably to their post. And Vespianaso renounces any further proceedings against the rest. Is this your decision, Tobias?'

Unable to speak, he nodded, not looking at Gracia or Josep. He wouldn't mind taking Senora Collel and Eulalia by the scruff of their necks and banging their heads together, but that was not possible. The Inquisition would have him.

'So be it,' said Montserrat.

The audience was over. When the golden shimmer vanished, the abandoned incarnation staggered. Her companions steadied her, whispering inquiries. She nodded reassuringly, and they all walked away with their heads down. One of the torchbearers went with them to light their path. Josep and the three women were hustled after them by more monks before anyone could think of suitable farewells.

Failure, despair, cold, exhaustion…

'Sorry, friend,' Toby said. 'This looks like the end.'

'Ah, you're as daft as I am.' Despite his pallor, Hamish managed to produce a faint smile. 'We never died before, did we?' He widened the smile into a reasonable facsimile of his favorite grin. 'I hate ships, anyway! I didn't really want to go home. Life around you is never dull.'

'You may wish it was before long.'

'Trust the hob!'

Too late. Toby would be damned if the hob intervened and damned if it did not, but he must not let Hamish outdo him in courage. 'Of course. We must be as strong as the rocks in the hills.'

'Strong as a billy goat's third horn,' said Hamish.

Horses clattered and snorted. Men were hurrying around: Captain Diaz taking over the torches from the departing monks, von Munster mounting up and preparing to move out. The wagon Toby had heard earlier had been waiting in the background and now began squeaking forward. He was not at all surprised to see that it carried a bear cage.

'Longdirk!'

Toby looked down. 'What can I do for you, Captain Diaz?'

The soldier studied the prisoner for a moment. 'You're a cool one.'

'I'm a very cold one at the moment. We're also hungry.'

'I'll see what I can do. You are going to come quietly?'

Father Vespianaso and three other friars were standing guard around them, all four holding jeweled crucifixes. A circle of a dozen armed men backed them up. The cage would certainly be warded. It was almost flattering to inspire such precautions.

Toby managed a hollow laugh. 'I know when I'm beaten.'

The captain nodded. 'Hands in front of him, sergeant.' The last remark was addressed to a man standing beside him holding chains, and it was a welcome concession, a surprising one. It produced a frown of disapproval from Father Vespianaso.

Toby held out his wrists for the manacles.

PART EIGHT Barcelona

CHAPTER ONE

Anyone but the Inquisition would have classed that journey as torture in itself. Even Hamish could not stand erect in the cage, while to sit down was to be bounced unmercifully as the wagon racketted over the rough trail. Just as it began to move out, Captain Diaz appeared with some stale bread and peppery sausage for the captives. They ate it greedily after their long day, but he had either overlooked drinking water or had none to give, so they soon found themselves racked by thirst while rain bucketed down on them. Chained hand and foot, they spent the night crouching or squatting, clinging to the bars for support and trying not to batter into each other as they were thrown about.

Dawn found them on the plain, although the road was hardly less rough and the weather little better. Other traffic appeared: peasants heading for the fields or driving animals to market, traders with wagons, a few fellow travelers hastening by on horseback. They stared apprehensively at the sight of two caged men being conducted by Dominicans, knowing them to be possessed. Fear might easily have turned to rage, but Diaz and his troopers were able to deter violence.

Toby felt no relief when the flat-topped towers of Barcelona came into view at last. They were impressive, no doubt, but they reminded him of tombstones. When the wagon rumbled through the north gate, he thought of prison. The fine buildings with their grand arches and stairways made him wonder which was Josep's and what it would have been like to be born rich, to have grown up with a family and servants, never being cold or hungry.

Morning crowds in the street cleared hastily out of the troopers' path and gaped at the ominous captives in their iron crate. A few children screamed insults and daringly threw filth, but there was no riot. The wagon rumbled unmolested along the Portal Nou to the center of the city and the Palau Reial. There, in the courtyard, the cage was unlocked. Toby emerged first to make the awkward descent from the wagon, but he was so cold, bruised, and exhausted that he hardly cared where he was or what was happening. He wondered if Baron Oreste was watching his prize being delivered and gloating over the precious amethyst.

An escort of soldiers, friars, and anonymous laymen urged him forward. Head down, he shuffled and jingled along in his chains, going where he was directed, doing what he was told. Soon he was struggling down steps and the air was foul with the fumes of candles and rushlights. He assumed he would never see daylight again.

Deja vu arrived only when he staggered into the crypt itself. The thick pillars and slimy walls were at once familiar: stench of rot, writhing shadows, instruments of torture, the great rack halfway along on the right… He was returning to a place he had been before, although never in this reality. So certain was he that he knew where to go that he blundered straight ahead when he was supposed to turn, and the guards jostled him hard enough that he almost fell. They led him to some moldy straw, and he sank down on it with a sensation of infinite relief. Just to sit on rotting straw and lean back against wet stonework was pure heaven after so many hours of being churned in a metal box, and much better than being spread-eagled on the wall like a tapestry. A rusty iron collar was locked around his neck and chained to a shackle.

He could not stop shivering; if he was really lucky, he would die of pneumonia. The soldiers went marching out, but the place was not dark yet — Father Vespianaso and four other friars remained, watching him. He wished they would go away and give him some peace so he could sleep. With a sigh he reached deep inside himself to find some remnants of defiance.

'Gloating, are you?'