"You really want to know that?" Diaz was probably breaking major regulations by speaking with a convicted husk like this. There was a decent man behind that dour expression.
"Yes. Yes, even if you tell me they're on their way, I'd like to know."
"As soon as they can. As soon as the baron gives them leave. In a hour or so, probably."
Toby almost choked and had to gulp down some water. Very bad news! "What's their hurry?" He filled his mouth again, although fear had knotted up his gut.
"You want to know that too?"
"Mm."
"They summoned their two best tormentors from Toledo. They've been waiting here for a week."
"I'm honored."
"I'm not." Diaz turned on his heel and headed for the door. Give him his due, the captain disliked his duties and was not afraid to show it.
Toby peered around the dungeon, realizing he had been tethered where he had a clear view across at the rack. The rack was said to be even worse than the strappado, although he found that hard to believe. Off to his right stood a horizontal beam on four legs. The Spanish horse, they called that—sit a man on it and tie weights to his feet. Braziers, metal chairs, thumbscrews. Life would not lack for variety. Perhaps he should have settled for the exorcism. No. Better him here than Gracia. Better to die as a man than live as a sheep. But how long would he remain a man? What would they turn him into with their unending...? And there was one of the horrors now, a black-robed figure walking in silence on the far side of the rack. His hood was up, and he seemed to be inspecting the equipment, because he was not looking at the prisoner. Toby wondered if he could throw his bowl accurately enough to hit the bugger and reluctantly decided that he could not. It was worth more as breakfast than a missile, anyway. He ate every scrap of the slop and sucked his fingers. They would be hand-feeding him soon.
Two men arrived carrying a table and set it down a couple of paces in front of the prisoner. One of them was Oreste's valet, the silent blond Ludwig. They left without as much as a glance at him.
Why a table?
Gramarye? Déjà vu: another table in another dungeon. Valda had used a table to hold her equipment on that long-ago night when she tried to conjure Nevil's soul into Toby Strangerson and so began all his present troubles. Then he had been staked out on the floor while her four creatures stood around him holding candles. The hob had rescued him then and the hob had escaped from this crypt before—or had it? He didn't know the answer to that question, because he had not seen the end of the story; he did not know when the hob had made its move to reverse history. It could have happened days or weeks later.
Footsteps coming, but in a rhythmic military stride, not the shuffle of the friars. He had never thought he would ever be glad to see Oreste or Oreste's men, but anyone would be better than the black-robed horrors. It was not Oreste, though, not yet. It was Diaz back with three soldiers.
Toby said, "My compliments to the cook, Captain. Traditionally the condemned man should eat a hearty breakfast. That wasn't it, though." Was humor in such a situation courage or cowardice? Was he just babbling to hide the terror gnawing at his soul?
Diaz certainly saw nothing to laugh at, but then he probably never would. "We have to move you. Will you cooperate or make us use force?"
"Oh, I'll cooperate," Toby said. "I bruise easily, you know. I have a very tender skin." Pride would not let him ask where they were going to move him. To the rack? Oreste might be planning to engage in a little torture himself, but a hexer should scorn such primitive methods. It would be out of character for the effete baron to stoop to personal violence, wouldn't it? Even if he had ordered the babies burned in Zaragoza.
Diaz remained unamused. "Take off the collar, free his hands."
As two men attended to that, the third moved the water pitcher and slop bucket out of harm's way and put the empty bowl on the table. Ludwig appeared in silence and laid a small ironbound chest beside it, then withdrew 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. Déjà 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.