"She wanted you to share her bed, and you weren't exactly ignoring her yourself. This is no time to start falling in love with a demented—"
"You are being ridiculous and evil-minded!" Toby sneezed several times as his efforts to get comfortable raised dust from the ancient boards. "I am certainly not falling in love! I'm sorry for her, that's all." Memories of last spring... Jeanne in the springtime... disaster at Mezquiriz... Agony in his throat. Never, never fall in love! Love was not for a man possessed. The dust was making his eyes water.
"And you promised we wouldn't go near Barcelona." Hamish sounded aggrieved.
"We can go around it. We'll cut overland, avoid the coast. That'll be just as safe as heading for Navarre. And if we find a convent, we'll leave her there, all right? Or some town with a tutelary that will care for her. Besides, I'm not convinced she's crazy at all. The wraiths don't seem to have molested her."
"How could they?" Hamish said glumly, moving the candle closer and balancing a huge leather bound tome on his chest, a history of Aragon. "She was crazy before she arrived."
"Is what she thinks she is doing possible?"
"Not without gramarye, I shouldn't think. Ah, me! Demons last night, ghosts tonight? You won't mind if I read awhile?"
"Not as long as you don't laugh too loudly."
"If I cut your throat in the night, don't blame me for it." It would take more than a few hundred wraiths to distract him from a good, meaty book, but after a moment he said, "Toby? I realize that your vision, or whatever it was... that your vision of Barcelona was pretty bad. I know you suffered. That doesn't mean you have to prove anything."
"Prove what?" Toby asked his blanket.
"Prove that you're not scared, I mean. I know you're brave."
"Huh?" He could still smell that odious cellar, see the barbarous implements of torture, feel those cold manacles scraping his flesh. How long could a man endure being chained to a wall like that? How long survive in the cold and the dark? How long endure without sleep? And what happened after he broke, when he begged for release, telling everything, promising anything at all...? "What do you mean? That's an absurd backward way of thinking! Why would a frightening vision make me want to go to Barcelona? That's nonsense. Bloody demons! That's just as crazy as anything Gracia has said."
Hamish grunted. "You needn't shout. Go to sleep, you big ox."
***
Toby was awakened in the morning by a delectable odor of fresh-baked bread. Gracia was clattering pots downstairs. The candle had burned itself out, and Hamish lay fast asleep, the book pitched over him like a Gothic roof.
Soon after that, the three of them walked out of Onda and headed north, over the hills.
PART THREE
The Hired Guard
CHAPTER ONE
Toby closed the door carefully. This dim, poky room was Master's workshop, where he did his hexing, and it held far too many fragile things that a big clumsy oaf like him might knock over—balances, mortars, brass instruments, bright-hued glass bottles, and a bewildering clutter of other mysteries, including a mummified cat. Dozens of books were heaped in disorder on shelves above the benches, but they did not look like the sort of books that would have pictures in them. The baron was stooped over a bench under the window. Rain streamed down the little leaded panes, and he had several candles burning, even in daytime.
"Toby?" he said without looking around.
"Yes, Master."
"Come and see this."
Toby moved gingerly between a chair piled high with books and a globe of the world bigger than a wine cask.
Master was poking a metal rod in a tiny brazier. "See this gem?"
"Looks like glass, Master." It was hard to see at all on the bright-glowing coals.
"It's rock crystal. But what matters is that the hob is inside that glass. That's where I put the hob, Toby. Immured, we call it."
"Thank you for taking the hob out of me, Master. The hob was bad."
"Yes, well we're making it badder." The baron chuckled. Perhaps he had made a joke. "It shows promise of being a truly vicious demon. At the moment I'm teaching it respect. A few hours' roasting should get its attention, wouldn't you say?"
"I don't know, Master."
"No. Well, sit down. Ah! Your new outfit. Turn around and let me see. Yes, very fair. Continue to dress like that, dear boy, and the annoying crackling noise you hear will be the breaking of innumerable hearts."
Toby wasn't sure what that meant either, but he seemed to have pleased Master, and that made him happy, so he smiled anyway.
"Sit down, Toby."
There was nothing to sit on, for all the chairs were piled with books or bundles of scrolls, so he sat down on the floor with his knees up like a grasshopper—green silk hose, very soft buskins. His fancy new outfit had cost a very big amount of money, bigger than he could count. He had never owned clothes like these before—not that he could remember—and he had three more outfits as grand upstairs in a big cupboard. He felt a fool in all of them, with his shoulders barely able to fit through doors and his feathered bonnet brushing the lintels. He knew people laughed at him behind his back and sometimes he caught them smirking at his codpiece. Every man wore a codpiece, but why did his have to be padded and embroidered with gold thread? The baron said this was the new fashion, but it was very embarrassing, and his layered, slashed jerkin was cut to gape in front and make it as conspicuous as possible. He was quite big enough already without padding, there or anywhere else. But this was how Master wanted him to dress, so of course he must.
Master began speaking, but not in a language Toby knew.
While he waited to hear why he had been summoned, he gazed proudly at the ring on his left hand, a bright yellow jewel in a thick gold setting. He breathed on it and rubbed it on his sleeve. He couldn't take it off, but that was good, because that meant he wouldn't ever lose it. (He lost things quite often.) There was a demon in that jewel! It kept him loyal, meaning he would do whatever Master told him to do, although he couldn't imagine why he would ever not do what Master told him to do.
"Tonight, Toby, you will be my guest at dinner again."
"Oh, thank you, Master!" He smiled so he would look pleased, but he wasn't really. It was wrong to be so disloyal and ungrateful, but he felt more than usually stupid at the viceroy's grand dinner parties—servants and musicians, chilled wine, raw oysters and stuffed peacock, twenty separate courses on gold plates, one plate for each guest instead of everyone sharing from a bowl. He didn't know how to talk to the sort of people he met there. Sometimes he got stuck in the wrong language. He didn't even know how to look at the ladies, because their gowns showed the tops of their breasts and he kept wanting to stare down the gap, although Master had told him not to. He didn't really slobber! Or not much. He rubbed his chin to make sure it was dry and he had remembered to shave.
"I hear your dancing lessons are going well."
The praise brought a prickle of tears to his eyes. "I try, Master. I am trying as hard as I can!"
"I know you are, Toby. And you are very nimble for a big man. At least you didn't lose that. There are two ladies who have especially asked to meet you. They want to sit next to you at dinner."
His naked face felt very hot. He bent his head between his knees. "I don't know why. I'm not witty or clever or any of those things. They ask me questions I should be able to answer and I can't." Sometimes he would cry, which was terrible.