Demon Rider

as quietly as he had come.

'Stand up,' Diaz said. 'Take off your shirt.'

Toby bit his lip and obeyed. While he was unfastening his doublet, he discovered that he was out of witticisms. All the signs were pointing to major gramarye ahead, and he had not anticipated that. Was this where he was turned into the devoted slave who had chopped off Hamish's head? No, he must not rely on his visions as guides to what to expect. They were not prophetic. Conditions had changed this time. Tortosa was different. Going to Montserrat was different. Both he and Hamish were prisoners of the Inquisition this time, and even Oreste could not extract them from that situation — except by major gramarye, of course.

Wait and see.

His arms and chest were covered with bruises. He threw away his shirt, expecting to be told to lie down, but he was made to stand against the wall and spread his feet as wide as he could. They threaded the chains from his wrists over pulleys and hauled his arms out sideways and overhead until the manacles bit into his flesh. When they had finished he was spread-eagled against the icy, slimy stonework. It was worse than he had foreseen in his vision, for this time he had no freedom of movement at all.

Suddenly he realized that the hexer himself was standing beside the table, watching the procedure with slitted eyes. Deja vu again: red velvet cloak, puffed and slashed jerkin of blue and gold, crimson tights — that must be his dungeon-visiting costume — jewel-headed cane, golden hair net, wide, flat hat shadowing the lardy face, torso grotesquely inflated by the overstuffed costume, scarlet lips. The second most evil man in Europe. Or the most evil, if one remembered that Nevil was not human.

Diaz must have seen something change in Toby's face, because he turned. He saluted. 'Your Excellency, the prisoner has been secured as you instructed.'

'Good. Go. Lock the door. I am not to be disturbed until I knock, Captain. Not by anyone. Not for any reason whatsoever. Is that clear?'

'Yes, your Excellency.'

The soldiers left without waiting for orders, moving with a haste that suggested they were terrified of the viceroy. The captain followed at a regulation pace. He had gone only a few paces when Oreste picked up the dirty bowl that had been left on his table and threw it after him. It missed, hit the floor, shattered in an echoing crash. Even the impassive Diaz jumped and reached for his sword. The soldiers spun around. Two of them were hidden from Toby by a pillar, but he saw the expression of sick terror that came over the third one's face as he realized what had happened. Someone would have to be flogged for that oversight.

'Out!' roared the baron. His Excellency was in a very bad temper.

Any faster and their march would have been a run.

Oreste scowled after them until the great door shut with a crash that echoed in waves around and around the crypt. When it had faded into silence, he raised his left hand to his mouth. 'Rigomage per nominem tuum…' He turned around to his right. '…igne et tempestate impero…' He turned to his left. '…fiat lux.' And again to his left. At once the blocks of the barrel-vaulted ceiling began to glow with the pale gentle lavender light that Toby remembered from the vision, growing rapidly brighter until the entire crypt was clearly illuminated and he had to screw up his eyes until they could adjust to the glare.

The hexer was taking a risk, surely, in letting his victim hear the name of one of his demons? Did that mean that Toby would not live to repeat it to anyone, or just that Oreste knew he did not understand Latin? Oh, if only Hamish were there! He would have been able to tell the conjuration controlling the demon from the command it had been given. But if he were there he would undoubtedly be chained to the wall, too, and hence unable to perform the actions that were required by the ritual.

Oreste minced around the end of the table and peered up at his captive with a plump smile. 'I am, of course, Karl Fischart, Baron Oreste of Utrecht, currently his Universal Majesty's viceroy for Aragon.' He bowed.

'I am Longdirk.'

'Yes. I knew that already, actually. You are even bigger than I expected. You don't look as frightened as you should be.'

'I'm quite stupid. I expect you will educate me.'

The baron stared at him for a moment and then uttered a childish titter. He turned to lay his cane on the table. 'No, you are not stupid, Tobias. You are the wiliest and most resourceful opponent I have ever encountered. Oh, I suppose a few others like the late and unlamented Lady Valda have held me at bay for longer, but she had infinitely greater resources than you. You had only your native wits and an astonishing resilience. I truly regret that our long contest must end so tragically for you.' He opened the chest on the table. 'I have long dreamed of conscripting you as an ally — with gramarye, of course. I would not insult you by suggesting you would ever aid me voluntarily, but any man can be hexed into cooperation. Alas, that will not be possible.'

So one outcome had been eliminated, and if it had been the worst that Toby had feared, that probably just showed how limited his imagination was.

The baron began removing objects from the chest and setting them on the table: a silver chalice, a dagger, two candlesticks. 'Ah, excuse me! I tend to forget that your remarkable calm stems from courage and not stupidity. I give you my solemn assurance that you are not going to suffer the fate that the odious Vespianaso is planning for you.'

Toby licked dry lips. 'That is welcome news, Excellency. Will I be pleased when I hear the alternative?'

'No, but it is better. Truly, Tobias, I would spare you if I could, but I have my orders. This is a mercy is it not?' The baron paused in his business and peered across the table with his tiny eyes.

'If you gave me the choice I would take that, yes.'

Nodding as if reassured, the hexer continued his preparations, laying out glass vials, a parchment scroll, a mortar and pestle… the casket of carved ivory. 'You have nothing more to fear except a few minutes' suspense while I get ready, and the trivial indignity of having some arcane sigils drawn on your chest.'

Dignity? What need had a man tied to a slimy stone wall with his hose settled down around his hips to worry about dignity? And yet he was trying very hard not to jangle his chains as cold and fear made him shiver. Twenty-one was young to die. He had hoped to live twice that long. Some men even reached fifty, although that was rare.

'I shall not be sorry to cheat the Inquisition.'

'Ach!' said the baron. 'I disapprove of the Inquisition, I really do. I find their practices obscene. I am not an evil man by nature, you know. I never wanted to be anything more than a humble scholar. All the vast knowledge of gramarye and conjuration I gathered I never used for any wicked purposes. I had a European reputation as a man of lore and wanted only to be honored for that.' But this soft-spoken, pudgy gentleman was the monster who had sacked Zaragoza, an ogre with a reputation for savagery second only to that of the Fiend himself. 'Alas, I was susceptible to flattery, and when the youngest son of the king of England begged me to take him on as a student, I accepted. What an unhappy day that turned out to be!'

If the Inquisition heard that confession, it would burn him at the stake, or try to, at least — Oreste and Vespianaso must be very uneasy partners. There had been a friar snooping around earlier, who might still be there, lurking behind pillars, spying on what the viceroy was up to with a convicted incarnate. Toby could not recall seeing him leave and saw no reason to mention him.

'A bright lad, he was, young Nevil.' Oreste fussed cheerfully with his vials and potions. 'Now I need a lock of your hair, dear boy.' He picked up the dagger and came around the table, smiling his scarlet lips.

Suspecting trickery, Toby stiffened as the blade approached, but he lost nothing more than a twist of hair. Oreste took it back to add to the concoction in the goblet.

'He was a dreamer, though. I doubt if he would have held the throne of England very long. Everyone noticed the change when Rhym took him over.'

'Was it you who killed his brothers and his father?'

The baron emptied a couple of vials into the chalice. 'Goodness, no! That was darling Valda. With more than a little help from Nevil himself, I dare say.' He uncorked a bottle and added something that looked like fresh blood. Why so much preparation just to kill a helpless man?

Silence became oppressive very quickly. 'Were you there when he and Valda tried to conjure Rhym?'