Longdirk swallowed but did not speak. His cheeks above his beard were visibly paler than they had been a moment before.
The baron shook his head sadly. His jowls wobbled. "But it was the hob's fault, wasn't it? I don't suppose it meant any harm, but it drove the ship on the rocks and killed all those men. So what did you do? At Vannes, in Brittany, just a few days after the wreck, you tried to go to the local shrine. You were convulsed by cramps before you even reached the door. Your friend, young Hamish, helped you back to your lodgings. The keeper insisted that Vannes had never hurt a suppliant like that before, so it wasn't the spirit that was keeping you away. The culprit was the hob, yes?"
Receiving no answer, he smiled again, obviously enjoying the game. "So you tried once more in Nantes, where there was a full sanctuary and a powerful tutelary that would surely not tolerate any insolence from a trespassing hob. As before, you did not even reach the building. Halfway across the courtyard, you fell to the cobbles in convulsions, choking and vomiting blood. Young Campbell was forced to hire porters to carry you home. I was told you writhed in pain for some hours, until the hob forgot why it was mad at you. I can see why you might find it a little troublesome."
The prisoner glared angrily but did not comment.
As if he were growing stiff with sitting, Baron Oreste rose and flexed his back, smiling apologetically at the prisoner. He strolled off to inspect the rack, still talking.
"You tried again when you reached Bordeaux. A great city like that must have a great tutelary, a wise and powerful spirit to protect and guide it. The sanctuary there is enormous and splendid, although somewhat too ornate for my own taste, I admit.
"And there you took an acolyte into your confidence. That was very rash of you. You risked denunciation and a blade through the heart, Toby, but I expect you were becoming desperate. Father Verne was disbelieving at first. After all, who ever heard of voluntary exorcism? An incarnate does not ask to be dispossessed and will certainly not allow its husk enough free will to do so for himself. But you convinced him eventually, and he agreed to provide an escort of novices for the deluded foreign youth. Thus you went to the sanctuary that time in the company of Hamish and three brawny young men, all instructed to get you inside the holy premises at any cost, yes?"
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.