Ken Hood - Demon Knight

Untroubled by any qualms of modesty, Don Ramon was never reluctant to make himself conspicuous, and admittedly his lithe form suited these revealing styles. His coppery hair and thin-horned mustache were set off by brilliant blues and greens, his pearl buttons inset with rubies. The golden plume in his hat was as long as his arm, his exposure of shirt close to indecent. Even so, his garb was not as extreme as that of some of the young men there, whose use of padding was unseemly or even ludicrous.

And the women! Every one of them was loaded with enough silk, satin, velvet, brocade, and damask to build a tent. How could they walk, carrying the weight of those skirts and sleeves? Their necklines were cut so wide and low that it seemed the slightest unwary movement would cause the entire ensemble to collapse around their wearers' ankles. It was a marvel.

"Magnificent!" murmured the don, indulging in some gawking of his own. "That one in mulberry?"

"What I don't understand," Toby whispered, "is how the gowns stay on them at all!"

"Ask not how they stay on, my boy, but how easily they come off!"

Much too easily in many cases, from what Toby had heard, but he did not have to worry about that.

The line shuffled forward. Peering over heads, he studied the Magnificent. For a despot, he was astonishingly unassuming. It was said that Pietro Marradi could wander unnoticed along any street in Florence — he was never fool enough to try it without his bodyguard — and that evening, in the somber tones of half mourning, he was a crow among kingfishers. He had no outstanding physical characteristics at all, except that he wore his forty years well. Officially he was merely a private citizen; in practice he was the government, ruling Florence without office or title, as his father and grandfather had done before him.

How did he do it? Toby watched in bafflement. The manners were flawless — the smile and bow were the same for ambassadors as they were for business friends or political foes — yet Marradi was too aloof to be charismatically charming. He was a celebrated patron of the arts, but no one could control a great city through its poets, painters, and sculptors. Money helped, but there were other rich men in Florence who seemed to have no political power at all. "I am not a duke or a prince," he had told Toby during their secret meeting that morning. "I am not the doge of Venice. I admit I have some influence, but my only tool is rational persuasion." He could have mentioned bribery, rigged elections, nepotism, favoritism, blackmail, coercion, and — once in a while — riot, gramarye, and assassination, but persuasion certainly seemed to be at the heart of it. Tonight he welcomed the Scottish peasant to his Carnival Ball with the same cool courtesy he had just shown to the exiled King of Austria.

"Sir Tobias! Our house is honored by the presence of Scipio reborn." His eyes were russet-brown like his hair and glittered bright as daggers.

Toby's knowledge of the classics was precisely zero, but fortunately he had asked Brother Bartolo to coin some suitable phrases for him to memorize. "It is for the feasting in Valhalla that the warrior fights, Your Magnificence."

Marradi acknowledged the mot with a graceful nod. "But what he wins is glory and the gratitude of the people."

Toby hastily reached into Bartolo's collection again. "I was but the sword that the hand of Liberty wielded."

"May Liberty ever be so well armed, Sir Tobias."

Having won the match two falls out of three, Marradi gracefully passed Toby to the care of his sister, tonight's hostess. Next…

Toby bowed to her, Lucrezia, Duchess of Ferrara. She was resplendent in cloth of gold, although her husband's death was more recent than madonna Marradi's. The gossipmongers declared that mourning would be hypocritical for her, and the only known sin that her critics never attributed to Lucrezia Marradi was hypocrisy. She was tiny, able to walk under Toby's arm in a plumed hat. With a small nose and a slightly receding chin, she had the face of a child, and those same gossips insisted that only gramarye could explain how she retained her youthful complexion and the fiery red-gold hair. She might have been a doll standing there in her superbly crafted gown and enough jewels to gravel a stable yard, honoring the giant with a disarming, coquettish smile. She could see how out of place he felt.

"Tobiaso, you are the handsomest man in the city."

"And you, duchessa , are the biggest liar." Feeling as clumsy as a drunken ox, he bent to kiss the childish fingers. Not all of her was childish. She held her hand where he would have a good view down her cleavage. He could almost see her toes.

"I was hoping you would appear in a lion skin."

Another classical allusion? "I washed it, and it didn't dry in time."

Lucrezia tinkled a laugh that sounded utterly genuine and might be as deadly as her most recent husband's last sip of wine. "I expect to dance with you tonight, comandante !"

"I am yours to command, madonna."

"Of course," said the rosebud lips.

Toby followed the don indoors, fervently wishing he were somewhere else, anywhere else. So many incredibly ravishing women, and he could not even dream…

The hexer had removed his mask. He was very tall and lithe, with waves of black hair and features just on the bony side of classical. He had placed Lisa carefully on the bed without ripping her clothes off or performing any demonic conjurations. He was doing something at the far side of the room, now coming over to the bed…

When he laid a wet towel on her bruised mouth, her eyes jerked open in surprise. His smile displayed one of the very few perfect sets of teeth she had ever seen.

"Do you really look like that?" she mumbled. How could a nightmare turn into a dream so quickly?

Surprise faded to a worried frown, as if he thought she might be raving. "Do I look like what?" He removed the towel.

"Aren't all hexers old and ugly and—"

He laughed. "I'm not a hexer! Just a soldier."

"A condottiere?"

"A humble man-at-arms. My name's Giacomo, and we…" He paused, surprised. "We're talking English? So call me James. Hamish if you want to be accurate."

First name only? But perhaps he was being tactful, hinting that it was better not to reveal too much. Her heart was pounding strangely.

"Er, I'm Lisa. Hamish? Is that Welsh?"

"Scots!"

"I beg your pardon. I thought all Scotsmen were seven feet tall and had red hair."

"Only the wild ones. I'm the domesticated variety."

His solemn manner bewildered her for a moment, then she laughed. "I am extremely grateful for your assistance, sir! You don't look like a soldier." Any she had seen had been scruffy scoundrels. His clothes were stylish but not showy, like his manners.

He shrugged. "I don't do much fighting. I'm mostly in administration."

She had wanted sultry eyes, she remembered, never guessing that eyes could be as sultry as these. Was he possibly one of the fabled condottiere princes? "You fought like a legend tonight. Against six!" A rapier was a nobleman's weapon. No mere man-at-arms could have wielded one as he had.

He shook his head almost bashfully. "I was in no danger at all. I have a guarddemon, see?" He raised a hand to show a ring with a yellow jewel. "My only worry was that my ring would zap me out of there before I could do anything to help you."

But the fact that it had not implied that he had been holding his own until the monster came. How could a mere man-at-arms explain these sumptuous quarters? He was at least wealthy, if not a noble, and he had behaved with perfect chivalry so far. Except that he had not summoned a chaperone. Would it be proper to ask for one, or rude? If he began making advances… how far did a lady's obligations go in these circumstances?