Toby was fighting a strong reluctance to proceed any farther into its realm. Was that the tutelary's doing, or plain fear, or the work of his guardian demon? If the demon did not want to be exorcised, it could take him over and turn him around. Perhaps it was as uncertain as he was.
They reached the land and a narrow street between houses and the seawall, cluttered with carts and fishing gear. Father Lachlan turned to the right. Toby felt a surge of relief, and his feet began to move more easily. The streets were very narrow, very confining, very dirty. They followed no pattern at all, but the acolyte seemed able to find his way in the dark like a bat. Most of the buildings had stores or warehouses at street level, with homes above. They were constructed almost entirely of wood, few having any more stonework than chimneys. Many of the upper stories protruded over the road, low enough to be a hazard for a very tall man.
"This isn't the way to the sanctuary," Toby said.
"No, it isn't. How do you… Oh, you saw the spire, of course. Well, you see, my son, it seems wiser for me to approach the tutelary first, on your behalf. Explain matters."
So dear Father Lachlan was not sure of the reception Toby would meet, or not as sure as he implied. A group of men rolled by in the darkness, singing tunelessly. They did not notice the oversized outlaw, whose death could make them all rich.
"Toby can get refuge at the sanctuary, can't he?" Hamish asked indignantly.
"I expect so. Normally, a tutelary will not harbor strangers, but when there is a manifest injustice, then it will often make an exception. The fact that he has been allowed into the burgh at all is very encouraging."
"You mean the tutelary can sense demons at a distance?"
"Incarnate demons, creatures. Not the bottled variety, usually, unless they are activated by gramarye. Turn here. I will leave you at Master Stringer's house and then go on to the sanctuary."
"I want to come!" Hamish said. "I can offer a silver penny!"
Toby wondered which of his bruises that penny represented.
CHAPTER TWO
"And he was at liberty for about six months after Norford Bridge," said Kenneth Kennedy, "but some MacKays up near Inverness betrayed him, and then the Sassenachs paraded him around in a cage all winter, from one town to the next, and finally dragged him away, off back to England. And everyone all thought the song was ended then, but a few of us kept the fire alight, and eventually he escaped and came back. The Lowland dogs weren't top keen, but the Highlands rallied again to the lion banner."
Master Kennedy was drunk.
"And then the Battle of Parline Field," Toby said. "I tried to enlist, but the laird wouldn't take me."
"Well, you didn't miss a great deal." Between swigs, Kennedy was stropping a dirk with long, delicate strokes along a leather belt. One end of the belt was in his left hand, the other tied to the table leg. He leaned back on his stool, with his back against the wall and his dirty bare feet on the table. The single candle lit angles and cast shadows on his gauntness; his eyes glittered. He spoke with the musical lilt of the Isles, but there was nothing soft about him. He was only bones. "But you're his man now."
At the other side of the table, Toby was soaking a bap in milk and sucking the mush, which was all his loose teeth would allow. Kennedy did not intimidate him. One threatening move with that dirk, and Toby would pick up the table and swat him.
"I am that."
They were in the kitchen of Stringer's house, at the back of the ground floor. The building held no warehouse or shops and was larger than most, but all the rooms he had seen so far were tiny and restrictive. Nobody else was home. The only sound was a dog barking a few houses away.
Kennedy paused in his sharpening to take a swig from his flagon, raising giant shadows on the smoke-stained plank walls. "He says you have superhuman powers."
"Odd things happen around me."
The Islander considered that for a moment. His voice came from the Hebrides, but he wore Lowlander breeches and a ragged shirt. "He could be finding a good hexer useful."
"Is there such a thing as a good hexer?"
"Only dead ones, I'm thinking." His skimpy beard had flecks of white in it. If that was straight whisky he was downing, he was taking on a fair measure for his size.
"Why does he need a hexer?"
"The Sassenachs send demons after him. The tutelary catches them when he's in Dumbarton. But ye canna' run a rebellion from a fireside."
"And if the tutelary removes my hex, or whatever it is, so I don't have superhuman powers? What then?"
Kennedy stropped the dirk a few more times. "You could stop musket balls for him."
"Bodyguard, you mean."
"Aye."
Toby gave up on the baps and drained the rest of the milk from the bowl. The prospect of being King Fergan's mastiff did not appeal to him very much. He was not at all sure his loyalty would impel him to jump in front of Maxim Stringer when an assassin cocked a pistol at him. Life would be a long boredom in Dumbarton.
On the other hand, if Kenneth Kennedy had been a rebel since Norford Bridge as he claimed, then he had been on the run for eight years. The lush was worn out. The king needed some new retainers, and perhaps there would be a place for a willing lad after all.
Kennedy burped. "Might involve some traveling."
That was more encouraging. Father Lachlan had dropped a few hints at the keeper's house in Glen Shira.
"Eastward?"
The king's man eyed him suspiciously. "Why do you say that?"
"To seek the help of the Khan. The Golden Horde itself is the only power capable of breaking King Nevil now, they say."
Kennedy took another gulp and wiped his mouth on his arm. "Aye. That's what they say. I don't have this from him, you understand. It's just chatter."
Toby nodded.
"When the Horde conquered England," the king's man explained, sounding like Hamish beginning a lecture, "it was one of those times when the Sassenachs had conquered Scotland, or thought they had. So the English king did homage to the Khan's man for Scotland, too. There's hardly ever been a Tartar set foot in Scotland. Set hoof, would you say?" He chuckled and took another swig.
He wasn't making history sound any more worthwhile than Neal Campbell had, back in Tyndrum, but now Toby was the king's man, it seemed as if it should.
"So, laddie, the English have taxed us men and gold for all these years to send tribute to the Horde. But, if the Khan was to recognize Scotland as an independent satrapy, why then we would be free of the Sassenach, wouldn't we?"
Toby wasn't very smart, but he was sober. He could see no great advantage in exchanging one overlord for another. From what he had heard, the English king had been thumping the Tartars' vassals all over Europe for years. If this was King Fergan's Grand Design, then its merits escaped him.
"You think he might be going to travel to Sarai?"
"Could be," Kennedy muttered, taking up his dirk and strop again. "As I said, it's just chatter. But it could be." He winked.
"Sarai? That's on a big river somewhere?"
"The Volga. Long way. Long, long way!"
"Weeks?"
"Och, laddie, it's months you're talking about!"
Definitely promising!
Toby pushed his stool back. "Then I think I'll rest up for the journey. If they want me tonight, they'll find me. Have you a spare candle?"
The older man scowled and swung his feet to the floor. He held out the flagon. "Here, boy, put some real hair on that big chest of yours. You'll not be going off to bed now and leaving me drinking by my lonesome?"