"They did it again!" said an irate whisper at his elbow. Even Hamish was polished up like a silver wine jug today, but now his face was scarlet with wrath. He was speaking out of the corner of his mouth, of course, as all attention was supposed to be on the ceremony taking place in the road.
"Did what?"
"Insulted you! Deliberate public humiliation!" He managed to spit the words without moving his lips, quite a feat.
"You mean I'm supposed to feel slighted because I'm not allowed to kiss a man's boot?"
Hamish glanced sideways at him. "Don't snarl at me, messer Longdirk! What Lucrezia does isn't my fault. I got your name as far up the list as was humanly possible."
"I'm not snarling."
"Well, you should be! Tell me why Il Volpe lets his sister interfere like this! She's doing everything she can to make your job harder. Nevil will hear of this. His spies will tell him."
"Lucrezia is a formidable signora." Toby had not identified her among the massed beauties in the ladies' stands. But she would be there, watching him to enjoy his reaction. "If she's the puppet master, she's doing a remarkable job, but she isn't really hurting me. I don't care about the prizes she keeps snatching from me. Bowing and scraping folderol! No, I'm sure the Magnificent knows his sister well enough not to let her meddle in policy. Someone else has turned him against me, and it must be a traitor, someone working for the Fiend. That worries me a lot more than a woman's spite."
The pattern was repeated when the procession reached the palace. Toby was not at all surprised to discover that he had been struck off the list of dignitaries to make obeisance before the throne. This omission was clearly intended to be another snub, but he could not feel hurt by it. The opportunity to place another man's foot on his head seemed a very questionable honor.
After that he rode back to Fiesole with the rest of the Company, skipping the inevitable banquet without finding out what little treats had been planned for him there.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"The duchessa was very disappointed that you missed the banquet last night," Don Ramon remarked airily. On that splendid spring morning, he and Toby were leading a group of senior officers into Florence to wait upon General Neguder. He looked astonishingly pert for a man who had partied all night — which he must have done, because he had not returned to Fiesole until well after dawn.
There was no justice. Toby, who had gone to bed at a respectable hour like a dutiful little boy, felt bleary-eyed and bedraggled. The life of a penniless outlaw had been much simpler than that of a condottiere.
"I bet she was."
"Mustn't disappoint influential ladies."
"I am sure you did not, signore."
The don smirked and twirled up his mustache. "I believe we gave satisfaction." He was riding the devil-horse Brutus, which kept trying to bite Smeòrach. Both Toby and Smeòrach were growing very short of patience. Toby had surreptitiously slid his boot out of his stirrup and was waiting for the next provocation.
"What did darling Lucrezia have planned for me — gunpowder in the soup?"
"I believe vipers in the pasta. What's wrong with your mount?"
"I'm not sure." Smeòrach was trudging down the hill like a cart horse, not at all his usual high-spirited self. Possibly he had been infected by his rider's glum mood. Toby gave him an affectionate pat. "I think I'm neglecting him. The big dolt isn't getting enough exercise."
"Not enough? If you want my—"
At that moment Brutus aimed another nip at Smeòrach. Toby's spur slammed into Brutus's flank, and at once the don had an unexpected fight on his hands. It was several minutes before order was restored and the procession could continue down the trail. The don had probably not witnessed that low blow, but he was already glowering suspiciously at his companion and would find the wound when he dismounted. Some of the sycophants following would have noticed and would tattle to him later. Which reminded Toby of the worst of the nightmares that had troubled his sleep.
"Are you prepared to accept the Chevalier as suzerain, Captain-General?"
The don shot him an astonished glance, then exploded into laughter.
"You don't think D'Anjou will be appointed suzerain?"
"No, I don't, because I know who will be."
And now he wasn't going to tell — so there!
The hall to which the noble condottiere and his men were conducted was neither the largest nor the grandest in the Palace of the Signory, but it was large enough and grand enough to dazzle any native of a poor, drab land like Scotland. Its walls and ceiling blazed with gilt moldings and vivid frescoes of glorious battles from the war-smeared history of Florence. Only a greasy layer of smoke stain from innumerable years of candles marred the brilliance.
Here the visitors were required to stand for a considerable time, long enough to make them feel less important than the roaming bluebottles. Eventually a herald hurried in and ordered them to kneel for the entrance of His Splendor General Neguder, military aide to the Illustrious Prince Sartaq, Swift Sword of the Khan, High Warrior of the Golden Horde, and so on. Later a trumpet brayed outside. Still later, it brayed again. And in due course the great man did waddle in with a train of attendants almost as splendidly arrayed as himself. The visitors, having been properly instructed, pressed their faces to the floor and squinted out of the corners of their eyes.
He was elderly, tall for a Tartar, and wide for a man of any race. Even flowing silks could not disguise the bulge of that belly. He took the throne with obvious relief, leaned back, and probably closed his eyes — it was impossible to be certain, because his eyes were tiny slits in the blubber of his face. His followers took the chairs arrayed to right and left of him. The visitors were left where they were, noses on an evil-smelling carpet reeking of generations of boots.
The herald said something inaudible, probably in Tartar.
The general then delivered a speech. Officially he delivered a speech. In practice one of his aged flunkies read it for him, remaining seated while doing so. Its meaning, if it ever had any, was gutted by the man's gruesome accent and skinned by Toby's inadequate command of Italian, but the shreds of meat remaining seemed to consist mainly of a review of great victories won by the Golden Horde in ancient times and the lessons to be learned from them. The tactics mentioned were rarely suitable for Italian terrain. There was no mention of firearms. There was no hint that the Khanate was prepared to support resistance in Italy with a strike at Nevil from the east, across Hungary.
The speech lasted about two hours. Toby wondered if a first snore would be a capital offense, or if he might be allowed a second. Not that the meeting was not educational. Nay, it was most exceeding instructive! Ever since Nevil's rampage began, the Khan's loyal subjects in Europe had been appealing to him for assistance. The lack of response had been a mystery much discussed, but it was a mystery no longer, not to Toby. These men were imposters. The once-invincible Golden Horde, whose ancestors had conquered all the world from Spain to Cathay, was a legend now. It had no more substance than a bubble on a stream.
In their time the Khans had ruled well, imposing peace on a very quarrelsome continent — more or less peace, and at a price, for the suzerains had been tax collectors before they were anything else. They had always managed to pocket a lionish share of whatever they gathered, but much of the gold had flowed east to Sarois.
With that insight came another. If the Khanate was only a mirage, then why was Toby Longdirk crouched on a rug being bored to distraction? Answer: Because power worked on men's minds, and the Khan's almost illusory power was still enough to make the Florentines serve his son's will. If Toby stood up now and tried to walk out, Florence would bring him to heel. He would be beheaded at best. So even the last reflections of glory could dazzle. These mummified incompetents were still in charge, and their orders would be obeyed until it was too late. All Toby's carefully nurtured plans would crumble to dust, and Nevil would take Italy without working up a sweat.