"You were! Very smart thinking!"
"Thinking's what I'm good at. Did you hear Meg… Never mind."
"You mean, did I hear Meg say I needed looking after? No, I didn't hear Meg say that."
Hamish guffawed. "Just fancy Meg Tanner as countess of Argyll! They'll be lighting bonfires in the glen when the news gets out!"
The news would set the Sassenachs on Toby's trail, but Rory wouldn't care overmuch about that.
"She deserves better than yon cootie!" Hamish decided. "Does she really love him, Toby?" He gazed up anxiously, wanting an explanation from his chosen counselor in matters romantic.
"Maybe not today, but she will by tomorrow. Don't worry about Meg! She's quite capable of handling Rory." Struck by a sudden thought, Toby bellowed out one of his awful guffaws, earning a stab of protest from his ribs. As he was then passing through the arch of the barbican, the result sounded like an artillery barrage. King Fergan and Father Lachlan turned their heads to see what the noise was.
"What's so funny?" Hamish demanded.
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
Rory had won the battle for Meg — even if he had been the only contestant — but he had also won Fat Vik as a brother-in-law!
"Wait a minute!" Toby said, before he could be questioned further. "You overheard Meg? You were still in the minstrel gallery when she came?"
"No," Hamish said innocently. "I never was in the minstrel gallery. It's kept locked."
"Then how…?"
"There's a spy hole from the servants' pantry — so they can keep an eye on the diners' progress, I suppose."
"And how did you find out about that?"
Hamish preened. "In the muniment chest in the library — I found a set of builders' plans for the castle. There's a secret passage from the earls' bedroom, too, but I didn't dare explore that."
After a moment he added, "Guests shouldn't pry, you know."
PART EIGHT
A Foggy Dawn
CHAPTER ONE
In the gathering gloom of a fall evening, The Maid of Arran lay against the pier of the royal burgh of Dumbarton. Geese were trailing overhead, a few lights glimmered amid the buildings, and sounds of wheels and horses and voices drifted through the dusk.
Toby leaned on the rail, having trouble finding unbruised forearm for the purpose. He brooded. He had spent most of two days in the hold, healing… being seasick… getting steadily more hungry, too, for he still had trouble eating. In all that time, he had spoken with his new liege lord only once. Fergan had come to see how he was faring, but he had not dallied long in that smelly hold. Toby had asked how he might serve his king, while feeling that he was incapable of cleaning out a fireplace at the moment.
"First, we must solve this mystery of your superhuman powers, lad. Father Lachlan is sorely perplexed by you. So you will go to the sanctuary, and there you should be safe from the vigilantes, too. After that, we shall see. Don't worry, I'll find a use for you!"
The sorry vassal was supposed to be comforted by that, but he was not deceived. Men who would scorn a reward to betray their king would jump at the same money for turning in the corpse of a demonic husk. Even the two or three men on board who were fully in Fergan's confidence had eyed him narrowly. There was one called Kenneth Kennedy, a wizened, scrawny man, who seemed to be the senior. He had asked many questions and answered none.
Hamish had spent the entire voyage pestering the sailors. Now he was advancing his friend's education by describing The Maid of Arran in great detail. "She's a cog of a hundred tuns! That means she can carry a hundred barrels of wine. Of course she's bearing hides, now, bound for Portugal. Hides are one of Scotland's biggest exports. Just think — there may even be some from Fillan on board!"
Toby's nose had told him what the cargo was even before he had boarded.
The king had already departed. His hired demon would disembark under cover of darkness. Toby was even more conspicuous than usual, with his bruises at their ripest. His arms and chest were swollen in yellow and purple. What his face must look like, he could not imagine. A layer of stubble would not be improving it. He did not even have proper town clothes to wear yet, only his plaid.
"There's more than four hundred houses in Dumbarton!" Hamish declaimed. "They all crowd into the middle to be as close to the sanctuary as possible. Biggest port on the west coast. Glasgow's even bigger, because its tutelary is… um, better known."
If he was wondering whether the Dumbarton tutelary could know what he was saying, out here at the end of the pier, then he was right to wonder. It probably could. Toby could detect it.
"Can't sail to Glasgow, of course, because the river's too shallow. Pa took me there in a coach! That's the castle."
Of course that was the castle. And the spire in the center of the burgh must be the sanctuary, because there was something there. It wasn't visible, unlike the Fillan hob, or the specter Toby had seen in the hills, but he could sense it somehow, even at this distance. He wondered if it knew of him already. It gave him goosebumps.
And there was another something off to the west, either just outside the burgh or just inside. Valda? Baron Oreste?
Thirdly, there was Toby himself, with his mysterious guardian. Superhuman powers were gathering in Dumbarton.
"Ah, there you are!" Father Lachlan arrived, a flustered little ghost in his white robe. Hamish's flood of statistics came to a merciful end. "Almost dark enough now."
"Father?" Toby said. "Have you any idea why Master Stringer wants me?" The only real orders he had been given so far had come from Kennedy: never, ever, mention Fergan by name, and speak only English to him. Yes, the sailors were trustworthy, but…
"He is a very shrewd judge of men, that's why!" The acolyte chuckled, tugging his robe tighter against the evening chill. "You are strong, hardy, courageous, and — I hope — loyal. I am sure you are loyal, because you are not the sort of man who breaks his word. You have no distracting ties to clan or family. I think Master Stringer is rightly congratulating himself on acquiring a most valuable follower!"
"But I am a danger to him!"
"Do you mean a demonic danger or a mortal danger?"
"Not demonic!" Hamish protested. "If Toby had wanted to kill him, he could have broken his neck easily by now. Couldn't you have, Toby?"
Toby growled. Hamish knew that Stringer was Fergan, but did anyone else on the ship know that he knew?
"Maybe I ought to break yours! No, Father, what I meant was that I may get mobbed, or betrayed. The trail could lead back to Inverary, to this ship — to all of you."
Father Lachlan believed in staying cheerful. He set off for the gangplank. "You needn't worry about the ship, at any rate. She's leaving on the dawn tide for Lisbon. The sailors haven't heard about your problems, and they won't. Captain MacLeod has forbidden shore leave, because he's been delayed by the long wait in Loch Fyne. Ah… here he is. We're going ashore now, Captain."
MacLeod was standing watch himself — undoubtedly to enforce his ban on leave. He was a thickset, weathered man, presently only a solid shape in the gloom. He wished them well in his Moray accent as they trooped down the plank.
"Where was I?" Father Lachlan asked, bustling along the pier. "Oh, yes, Master Stringer. You needn't worry about him. He is a highly respected burgher and merchant in Dumbarton. He is under the tutelary's protection, just as you will be, I trust."
Toby shivered. "Is there some doubt about that?"
"Doubt? Oh, no. Not at all. I have told you that I don't believe you are possessed. In fact, I'm sure of it now, because here we are in Dumbarton! The tutelary will not allow such creatures into its realm."