"No more, thank you." Stringer put the idiotic monocle away in a pocket and laid his goblet on the mantel. "I blame his handlers. They kept dragging him up to Scratch at the end there. I don't know how he survived that beating for so long. They ought to be hanged for murder."
Rory shrugged. "I expect they wagered too much money on their own man. It happens." He was watching Toby as he spoke, but if there was some sort of message in his gaze, Toby's vision was too blurred to detect it.
He didn't need it. He could knock the devious aristocratic prig into the fireplace with one good punch, but his fists were too swollen to clench. If someone had offered outrageous odds to Randal's seconds, he could guess who that someone was. Rory had re-rigged the rigged fight.
Toby turned back to the merchant. "So you have no use for a prizefighter, sir?" Dreams crashed like falling icicles.
"Not for a prizefighter." Stringer no longer spoke like an idiot. He even seemed to have acquired more chin. "But today I saw a remarkable display of courage — a beaten man refusing to give up, persevering no matter what the cost, and going on to victory. I can use a man like that."
Rory stiffened, as if surprised. "Before you go any farther, sir, I think we should tell the Tyndrum Terror the latest news."
Bad news, obviously.
"Yes, I was about to." The thin man took a couple of steps away from the fire, as if the heat had suddenly become unpleasant. He cleared his throat. "While you were winning your spurs in the ring, lad, a courier came in. He brought word from Edinburgh. A very strange law has just been rushed through Parliament and signed by the governor. I don't recall any precedents in Scotland. Do you, Master?"
Rory said, "No," watching Toby.
"It's an Act of Attainder. It names you, Tobias Strangerson of Tyndrum in Strath Fillan. It convicts you of being possessed by a demon. It offers a reward for your corpse with a blade through your heart." Stringer had switched to Gaelic. His English accent was not as marked as Rory's.
"This is some sort of a joke?" Toby stared from one to the other.
"No joke," the merchant said. "Upon my honor. I don't recall that ever being done before. And even stranger — the reward. Five thousand marks."
Toby walked over to a chair and sat down. If he were sober, and if his brains were not all jangled up, then perhaps he might be able to make sense of this. Or perhaps not. If Rory alone had told him, he would never have believed anything so outrageous. "Isn't that the same price they've put on Ferg — on His Majesty?"
"It is," Stringer said. "We find it as incredible as you do. I have the paper here, if you want to see it."
Toby shook his head, which was again a mistake. There was more to this merchant than he had realized, a lot more. "I don't understand, sir. Why?"
"We don't understand, either. It must involve Valda, somehow. We think Baron Oreste has a hand in it."
Rory said, "You're in good company, Slugger — or should I call you Susie? You're mixed up in deep demonic affairs. You can't trust anyone now, you know. Five thousand is a sizable bag of change. I'm almost tempted myself. I can't guarantee anyone."
He was hinting that there might be a freelance posse of Campbells strapping on swords in the armory right now. Plain enough — but he could not resist a chance to twist the knife. "I doubt I can keep the news quiet for more than a day or so. You'll be planning an early start, I expect. We'll have the cooks make up a jammy bap for you to take."
"Not so fast, Master," Stringer said sharply. "I am sorry to be the bearer of such terrible tidings, Longdirk."
"Not your fault, sir." Which way could he run? Who would aid an outlaw with a demon in his heart? Rory would give him a day's start and run him down with the deerhounds. It was small wonder Stringer had lost interest in him as a prizefighter.
Yet the thin man was regarding him very intently. "The government and the English are both against you — not that there is much difference between them. You have no liege lord, I understand. Is there any person or group to whom you can appeal for protection?"
Rory laughed. "I once asked Muscles which king he supported. He wouldn't answer. Are you any clearer now, boy?"
"I can have no loyalty to a government that condemns me without trial."
"A wise decision. Wisdom comes too late, though."
Stringer said, "He is a cautious man, and I approve of that. He still hasn't answered, notice?"
Toby heaved himself to his feet and straightened, so he could look down on Rory and take a better look at the other. Now he realized what Hamish had been looking for in the old coins. But five thousand crowns reward! He was a walking corpse. He spelled disaster to everyone who came near him.
"I can't think why anyone would want me now, my lord — even King Fergan himself."
He stared at the king with mute appeal. The king smiled grimly, but then he gave the outlaw the answer he needed so desperately now.
"I already said I want you."
Toby sank to his knees and raised his hands, palms together. "Then, Your Majesty, I am your man, of life and limb, against all foes, until death."
CHAPTER FOUR
King Fergan had gone off to make his farewells to Lady Lora. Toby sat down carefully in one of the thronelike chairs and surveyed the great hall, with its high banners and its festoons of weapons. He eyed the silent minstrel gallery and wondered. When he had suggested that Hamish eavesdrop up there, he had not realized what dangerous things he would learn. Most likely the door was kept locked, or even guarded, to prevent just that sort of spying. What would it be like to be heir to such power and wealth as all this? The master of Argyll was a more fortunate man than the hunted king of Scotland, who must slink about his realm in the guise of an English merchant.
But the king of Scotland was the better man. Already, he was sure of that.
Rory came wandering back to the fireplace and seemed displeased to discover he still had a guest there.
"Are you waiting for a stretcher? If you miss the boat, I wash my hands of you."
Toby was not going to let the spite rile him. It was too petty to bother with. "I have a couple of questions to ask, Master."
"Ask quickly. I don't promise to answer." Rory poured himself another drink from a dusty flagon, without offering to share.
"Are you a rebel or a traitor?"
The master smiled and took a sip from his goblet. "Both."
"A double traitor, you mean?"
"Ah! You must not confuse cynicism with realism, lad. I'm mostly rebel, my father mostly traitor, but we switch roles once in a while. We play the two sides off against each other. Whoever wins in the end, we shall be there. Both sides know what we're up to, but they both need us. The Campbells are the key to the west. This is called politics. You wouldn't understand."
Even a lifelong cynic could find such cynicism disgusting. Refusing to play the game, as Toby had done until a few minutes ago, was better than playing and cheating.
"Inverary is very strategic," Rory said, scowling. "But perhaps not as strategic as it was, thanks to you. Did you bury Valda's creatures under that slide?"
"Some of them, I think."
"Father Lachlan says the demons will work their way to the surface fairly soon. Glen Kinglas will not be a road to recommend to one's friends in the future. You washed away half a village, too. You really are incredible, Muscles! You find a girl in trouble and earn yourself a death sentence. You get yourself pursued by at least one notorious hexer, probably two. Acts of Parliament are passed to raise the entire population against you. You're given a chance to show how you can box, and you beat your opponent to death. Everything you touch just dies! You are a disaster, a walking hob. You seem to mean well, but that's the best anyone can say of you."