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  The baron took a vicious-looking hook down from an array of implements and hefted it in his hand, frowning as if trying to decide what it was used for.

  "Again you collapsed in a heap of agony, but this time your henchmen picked you up bodily. It still didn't work, did it? The hob countered instantly with a local whirlwind. Horses panicked, carts were overturned, chimneys toppled, three women killed." The baron shook his head sadly.

  "So you never did manage to get the hob exorcized. You could never be rid of it. And those three women were not the first nor the last innocent bystanders to die around Tobias Longdirk. At La Rochelle—"

  "What did you do to Father Verne?"

  "Killed him also. Quite painlessly, I assure you. I am not a creature, Toby. I have no demon inside me. I work for a demon, yes, and I am hexed to obey him utterly, but I am allowed to choose my own methods—most of the time." His eyes were still hidden behind slits, and his smile did not crinkle the pudgy flesh around them.

  "Did you choose your own methods at Zaragoza? Did you enjoy wasting Navarre, burning, torturing, public—"

  "Be silent!" the baron snapped. "Or I will make you silent. My only purpose was to track you down. But the hob defended you. Without the hob you would have died a dozen times, and I would have caught you a dozen times. I nearly had you in Bordeaux, although I admit I did not realize how near that was until you told me just now. Ah, but you were a wily quarry! In Brittany and Aquitaine you were within Nevil's realm, so I could get at you easily, given just a little more time. But then you slipped away south, over the borders, into Navarre and then Castile, and there you were in lands still loyal to the Khan. That presented a problem for me. Of course you did leave quite a trail.

  "Two able-bodied young men wandering a continent at war... There were attempts to recruit you, weren't there? You were conscripted more than once. But loud noises make the hob excited, don't they? And when guns went off around it, terrible things happened. No army could hold you. There were other stories..." His tone sharpened. "What did happen at Mezquiriz?"

  The prisoner shivered, chain tinkling, but he did not answer.

  "How many people has this troublesome hob killed since you left Dumbarton, Toby?"

  "I don't know. Lots."

  "Thousands. Tens of thousands."

  "No! Maybe a hundred. That's bad enough, but not thousands!"

  Oreste shook his jowls. "The only way to get at you in Spain was to come and get you. You seriously inconvenienced his Universal Majesty."

  "You mean the Fiend."

  "Guard your tongue, Toby!" The baron waggled a fat finger. "The penalty for using that name is five hundred lashes. Nevil has been fighting the Khan for twelve years now. Because of you he had to break off his war in Saxony and march his army down here to invade Aragon, Navarre, and even Castile."

  "For me? You're telling me it's my fault the two of you turned half of Spain into a desert?"

  "Absolutely, dear boy. You have the soul of the genuine King Nevil, and Rhym will never rest until he can destroy it." The baron came wandering back, still clutching the hook. "I don't think you are a callous man, Toby. Not like King Nevil, whose favorite occupation is watching children being tortured to death, preferably by their own mothers. You seem to have a conscience. A nice young man like you must be very tired of leaving a trail of dead and dying wherever he goes." Oreste smiled up at the prisoner.

  For the first time the big man raised his voice. "All right!" he shouted. "Yes, I would do anything to be rid of the hob! I detest the damage it does, the deaths and injuries. Take the hob from me, let me go, and I'll give you the amethyst."

  Baron Oreste shook his head pityingly. "I warned you there would be no bargains, Toby. Your purse is empty. The hob is powerless in this chamber, so it cannot save you this time. The amethyst is mine to take." He raised the hook in front of the prisoner's face. "With this!"

  "What do you mean? You said you weren't going to torture me!"

  "I said I wouldn't torture you with anything as crude as this. That's not quite the same. But watch."

  Oreste slipped the point into the neck of the prisoner's doublet and with one long pull ripped it away. Another rip and his shirt followed, leaving him effectively wearing only a small leather locket—a rough-made, ugly thing hung on a thong around his neck.

  "That's a very impressive chest, Toby, but this is what I want, isn't it?" The baron lifted the locket on the hook and broke the thong with a quick jerk. Chuckling, he minced back to sit on his stool and peer at his prize. He picked carefully at the stiff flap. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

  The prisoner was breathing harder than before, shifting his stance more often, perhaps feeling the cramps starting. "So now will you kill me?"

  "Hmm?" Wary of breaking a nail, Oreste was now trying to push the point of the hook under the locket's flap. "Seems the Inquisition does not believe in sharp edges. I wonder if that's a matter of policy? Kill you? No, I don't think so. Not yet, anyway. Think of yourself as a trophy of the hunt, dear boy, mounted above a fireplace." Inside all the grandiose garments his blubbery form shook with quiet laughter.

  The prisoner eased his shoulders and hips in a clink of chain. Drained of blood, the hands over his head shone unnaturally pale, like white bats clinging to the stonework. "Mounted how long?"

  "As long as I please, dear boy. You and your resident hob are an interesting problem in gramarye. I used no less than eight demons to ward it on the way here, but it is powerless inside this chamber, as I told you, so we shall leave it—and you—until I have time to think about it. I may try to extract the hob, because it could be useful if properly trained, but the operation is likely to rip out large parts of your mind as well. I may decide to leave the hob in you and hex both of you to obey me. We shall see. All I really needed, and what I have now obtained thanks to your generosity, is the amethyst containing the soul of..."

  He had worked the packet open. The stone that fell out was a smooth black pebble, nothing at all like an amethyst. He looked up and stared hard at his prisoner, who smiled mockingly back at him. It was a smile that said the game was not quite over yet, however hopeless it might seem.

  "Where is it, Toby?"

  "Are you sure we cannot bargain, Excellency?"

  Oreste bit at his bottom lip with small white teeth. He might reasonably be seething with fury at this absurd defiance, but if he was, he concealed the fact admirably. He laid the hook on the floor beside him so gently that it did not even clink. He tucked the pebble and locket inside his cloak; then he crossed his legs and folded his hands.

  "You have nothing to bargain with, Toby. Not now. Granted, you managed to escape from Castile, although King Pedro swore on his mother's eyes that he would catch you and hand you over to us. I expected you to head for Portugal, or even Africa, but I knew you might try doubling back, as you have before. So I set up a few trip-wires for you in Aragon and Navarre—I do rule those countries now, useless as they are. One of the groups I had looking out for you was the Inquisition, specifically a group of Black Friars led by Father Vespianaso. You eluded him, too, which really surprised me, I admit. How did you manage that?"

  The prisoner shrugged. "Ask him."

  Oreste smiled. "I have. Father Vespianaso is extremely indignant. He feels you insulted him—all Castilians are excessively prickly, as I'm sure you know, even their preachers. He feels you, um, belong to him, you understand? Were I to mention to him that you are chained up here in the Inquisition's own dungeon, your life would at once become nasty, brutal, and much too long. Sometimes the Inquisition holds prisoners for years, Toby. I am sure you have heard stories of its methods, hmm?"

  The young man just glowered defiantly. He had discovered the Sway already, moving his right foot and left hand as far as possible, then left foot and right hand, then back again... clink—clink—clink—right—left—right—left... They all discovered the Sway sooner or later. It could not do very much to help his circulation, but now he had star
ted, he would keep it up for hours, until his wrists and ankles were bloody and torn by the fetters. Only exhaustion would stop him. That might take a long time in his case.

  Oreste seemed peeved by the lack of response. "That's just one possibility, you understand. His Majesty has expressed admiration for your abilities and may well take you into his service, with or without the hob. You will be hexed to absolute loyalty as I am, but you will be a man of authority and power, respected and obeyed. You will have a team of demons of your own to serve you. This is a glittering future you have earned, Toby!"

  "I'd rather go to Father Vespianaso."

  Absurd defiance! Oreste rose to his feet and strolled over to him. "That decision is not yours to make. Now, little Toby, listen well. The chase has ended. You lost. Don't be a sore loser, lad. Let bygones be bygones, ja? I need that amethyst. I also want Hamish Campbell. You will give me both of them."

  "You can hex me into doing anything you want."

  "Yes, I can. Anything. So why struggle? We may be working together for many years, serving his Majesty. It would be a pity to have unhappy memories stand between us."

  The young man stared at him without expression, just swaying: right—left—right—left—clink—clink—clink—

  "Tell me what really happened at Mezquiriz."

  No response. Clink—clink—clink—

  Oreste clenched a fat fist. "Toby, Toby! I only put you in here because of the warding. Just answer my questions and I will let you have enough chain to sit down, even lie down. I will get you some blankets and leave you a light."

  No one in the prisoner's position could refuse that offer, and yet somehow the baron knew it was not going to be accepted this time. He might not keep his side of the bargain if it were.

  It wasn't. Nothing, absolutely nothing except that steady, heavy-browed stare and the animal Sway. Clink—clink—clink—

  "How curious!" the baron said softly. "Why is the sweetness of victory soured when the vanquished refuses to concede? It should be even sweeter. No, I shall not hex you, boy. Having spent three years hooking you and landing you, my foolish pride wants to gut you by hand. Gramarye is a battleaxe, and in such cases I still prefer the stiletto. I can break you easily enough without it." He ran his tongue over his scarlet lips. "I have lost a lot of sleep over you in the past, Tobias Longdirk. Tonight I shall sleep soundly, knowing I have you safe. Tomorrow, unfortunately, I believe I have other business to attend to. I hope I will be able to spare some time to drop in and see you later in the week."

  Simpering, he patted the prisoner's cheek. "Sleep well, Toby."

  He took the guttering lantern and walked to the center of the cellar. There, safely out of earshot, he issued orders to one of the demon gems on his fingers and repeated his little dance. The supernatural light died away. When the door closed behind him, the crypt returned to total darkness.

  Clink—clink—clink—clink—clink—

  PART TWO

  The Road to Barcelona

  CHAPTER ONE

  On their second night out of Valencia, Hamish said, "I am still not certain that going by way of Barcelona is a wise move. It will take us a month to get there at this rate, and we're going to starve to death first. Supposing Oreste is there? He'll detect you with gramarye. You'll never slip past him."

  Toby did not answer. He might be asleep already, or else just not want to repeat an argument they had rubbed raw several times. He insisted that the best way to escape from Spain was to tiptoe past the monster's lair. All other ways out would be more heavily guarded, he said, and once Toby made up his mind nothing would ever change it.

  "We ought to head inland," Hamish muttered. "Back to Navarre."

  Still no reply. Toby must be asleep. It had been a hard day. The walking was not so bad—they were seasoned walkers—but the heat was absurd. This was September, after all, or perhaps even October, and weather like this was ridiculous. Every night Hamish dreamed of fine misty rain blowing down the glen, wet moss under his toes and shaggy, long-horned cattle wallowing in the bog. How wonderful it would be to shiver again! Spain was just sweat, sweat, sweat.

  Hamish sighed and went back to his book. He was stretched out on his belly in the ruins of a cellar with the stars above him and too many ants and sharp pebbles underneath. The ruin was ancient, not part of the recent devastation, and although it was a zitty uncomfortable place to camp, it provided shelter for the fire—a very small fire, just enough to cast a little light on the pages of the book. No one would see it down in this hole, and in Aragon these days the wise traveler did not attract attention to himself.

  The book was excessively dull for even his omnivorous tastes—everything he did not need to know about designing a formal garden for a chateau. Being written in langue d'oïl, northern French, it had no market value here, or he would have traded it away for food a long time ago, like everything else. His worldly possessions were down to the minimum needed for survival: tattered hose (if they tattered any more there would be very little point in wearing them at all), one equally ragged doublet, a shirt in quite disgusting condition, the remains of a straw hat that a donkey had chewed, buskins almost ready to fall apart, one thin blanket and a piece of rope to tie it, one leather water bottle with two leaks, one very small knife, a quarterstaff, and a book. He owned a half share in a whetstone, a tinderbox, and a copper cup; everything else had been stolen or traded away for food. Toby still had the steel helmet he had won in Navarre, but only because it wouldn't fit anyone else's head—much like the book. They did not have a sword between them, or even a dagger, just staves, here in a land where strangers, especially foreigners, were liable to be shot on sight.

  His stomach rumbled. Steak. Suet pudding with cream. A bowl of steaming oatmeal, well salted. Or roast pork? He had not seen a pig or a cow or a goat or even a habitable house for days. The rebels had burned crops and vineyards and cut down trees by the thousand, but even they could not reduce a fertile land to a total desert, so there were still pickings to be had. He had been living on onions and fruit. He hated oranges.

  Back to the book. In his father's house were many books. Zits, but he was homesick! Homesick for books, for Ma and Pa, for Eric and Elsie, for soft rain and soft, peaty drinking water, and brown soil. Anything but this red, burned wilderness. He had left home to see the world. He had wanted to see life but had witnessed too much death. For three years he and Toby had been hunted by the Fiend's agents—Brittany, France, Aquitaine, Navarre, Castile, and now Aragon.

  The puny fire shot up a few sparks. Having nothing to cook, Hamish had claimed a fire would be a defense against the feral dogs prowling around. Toby had agreed solemnly, although he had known perfectly well that Hamish just wanted to read. Somewhere not too far away, a dog howled. He shivered. Nasty noise! Those brutes hunted in packs. They were dangerous. His stomach rumbled a surly reply. Back to the book.

  Then a man cried out. Hamish was on his feet in an instant with his staff in his hand and no recollection of picking it up.

  "Toby! Toby?"

  Toby wasn't there. His blanket was, and his staff, so he could not have gone far.

  Hamish scrambled over the wall, out of the cellar. The moan came again. He headed toward the sound, feeling his way carefully with his staff until his eyes adjusted to the starlight. Another groan...

  Toby was a few yards off—flat on his back with his hands above his head and his eyes shut—not asleep, then, because he always slept facedown, which he claimed was all Hamish's father had ever taught him in school. He appeared to be unconscious. Again?

  Demons! For three years Hamish's recurring nightmare had been to wonder what he would do if anything ever happened to Toby—anything permanent. Normally the big lunk seemed indestructible, but twice in the last few days he had passed out for no apparent reason.

  "Toby! Wake up! Toby!" Sick with alarm, Hamish grabbed a shoulder and tried to shake him. Easier to shake an oak tree. He lay down and put an ear on the big man's chest and was r
eassured to hear a steady Dum... Dum... Dum... He was alive, anyway.

  "Uh?" Toby said. A huge shiver ran through him. His eyes opened. "Hamish?"

  "Who d'you expect, you big ape—Baron Oreste?"

  Toby frowned and did not answer.

  "What's wrong?"

  He winced. "Cramps. Can you move my arms?" He grunted with pain as Hamish took his arms and rotated them to a normal position at his sides. "Now help me up." That was easier asked than done, for he weighed tons, and he gasped a few more times as Hamish heaved him into a sitting position.

  "What by all the spirits is wrong?"

  "Told you—cramps."

  "Why? Why cramps? What happened?"

  Gingerly Toby raised one knee. "I just spent a night in a dungeon."

  Hamish discovered that his fingers were wet. There was blood on them.

  ***

  It made no sense at all. Back at the fire they inspected Toby's scraped and bleeding wrists. The blood had run up his arms to the elbows. His hose were bloody, too, and when he removed them, he displayed ankles almost as bad. Worse, though, the cloth was only blood-soaked, not shredded like the skin underneath. How had he managed that? It had to be gramarye.

  "It's the hob's doing!" Hamish said, and was annoyed at the shrillness in his voice. "Why is it mad at you now?"

  "Don't think it is. Tell you in a minute. I was going to the spring. I had the water bottles."

  Hamish went back out to find the water bottles. He took them to the spring beside the burned cottage. As he was filling them he raised his head and sniffed. Roast pork? Impossible! He went back to the cellar and watched in frustration as Toby washed the blood from his wounds.