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was considering purchasing, but was doubtful of the fastness of his dye. She
was sturdy rather than stout, of middle years.
"Er," said Thur.
"The porridge will be a few moments yet." She pointed with her spoon to a
black iron pot atop the stove. "There'll be a dried apple tart sweetened with
honey, after. A lot of tart, not much apple, but one must make do. And I brew
a posset of herbs that's better to drink in the morning than that strong red
wine, which is all we have in the house. There is no ale." She nodded firmly,
and bent to tease open the iron door to the stove's firebox with her spoon
handle, and poke briefly at the coals.
Thur's mouth watered; the odors were delectable.
"You'll be wanting the outhouse first, I expect. Right out there." She waved
the spoon vaguely toward an iron-bound door that led into the garden.
"Yes, I was heading there, uh, ma'am." Thur paused. "My name is Thur Ochs."
"Poor Captain Uri's brother from Bruinwald, yes, I know."
"Are you by chance Ruberta?"
"The Master's housekeeper, yes. Or so I was, before those thieving, murdering
Losimons broke in upon us." She frowned tensely. "Crime upon crime& Prospero
Beneforte was not an easy man to work for, but he was a great man, not another
like him in Montefoglia. Run along now. When you get back wash your hands in
that basin yonder and go fetch Fiametta to eat."
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"Where is& Madonna Beneforte?"
"Somewhere about the house, trying to find what of her Papa's tools those
cursed robbers somehow overlooked."
Thur did as he was told, returning through the kitchen to the courtyard. Their
prisoner lay on a blanket, ungagged but asleep, a cheap wineskin clutched to
his chest. Not the good red wine, Thur guessed. Someone had been out foraging
since last night. Fiametta, probably. She must have fetched Ruberta. Thur
hoped she'd had the sense to take Tich with her for protection. Not that a boy
with a knife would be much help against swordsmen.
He stepped onto the flagstones in the entryway. Uri was not mere. He glanced
into the room on his right, which had its own fireplace in the corner, and
rugs and chairs, clearly where important guests or clients were received. A
sheeted shape lay upon a makeshift bier of boards laid across two trestles.
Thur sighed, entered, and lifted the sheet to look upon his brother and,
frankly, to check for rot. He was touched when he discovered that Uri had been
decently dressed, in more of Prospero Beneforte's leftovers, knit hose, a
shirt, a short tunic, not new or fine or the soldiers would have taken
them but arrayed with care. The women's work, no doubt. Vitelli's preservation
spell appeared to be holding. He covered his brother again, and crossed the
hall to check the workroom opposite.
Fiametta sat perched on a high stool, her elbows planted on the worktable. She
had not taken time to change her own clothes, but still wore her ruined velvet
with the outer sleeves lost. Thur wondered if she'd taken time to sleep. Open
upon the table in front of her was a large leather-bound book, and scattered
in a circle about it was a litter of papers and parchments. She was frowning
fiercely as she read.
She looked up at the sound of his footsteps. "Thur. You were right. I found
them." Her face was haggard.
"Where?" He came to her side.
"Did you notice the little corner room with the two windows, off Papa's
bedroom, that he had fixed for a study?"
"Yes. Vitelli did, too. He had it stripped out. I the feeling was very strong
in there, so I made sure not to look very hard."
"The ceiling is covered with squares of wood with rosettes carved in the
centers."
"We tapped them all. They all sounded solid. We even pried a couple down, then
I persuaded the Losimon guard that they were all the same."
"If you'd pried them all down, you would have found it. If you turn one of the
rosettes, it releases a latch, and a square comes down it's the bottom of a
box. Not a very big box. It was crammed with all this. No wonder it sounded
solid." Her hand opened to wave at the papers. "Papa would have been in
serious trouble if these had ever been found."
Thur cleared his throat. "A burning matter?"
"Not& quite, I think. Depending on the prejudices against Florentines of the
Inquisitor. But enough to endanger his license and his livelihood. There are
recipes for spells& records of experiments& journal entries about two night
trips to graveyards, though the results seem not to have been satisfactory.
There is a complete account of what I take to be the casting of the great
spirit ring for the lord of the Medici, with a record of payments, though
there are no names, just initials. But the dates match the last time Papa
lived in Florence. Dangerous evidence against men who yet live. Papa seems to
have done some things with animals that were& most questionable. Not just
rings. Far beyond rings! My poor bunny here," she opened to a page in the book
densely scrawled with Latin, "is an account of how he invested the spirit of
one of my rabbits, to animate a brass hare he cast. Its nose twitched, it
moved " Her finger stopped at a line, and she translated, " 'It hopped upon my
worktable for a quarter of an hour before its spirit was consumed and my spell
failed. The stiffness of the cooling brass seemed to tire it more quickly.
Next time I shall attempt to keep the casting hot to improve fluidity.' Dear
God, Thur, it's incredible! And he never so much as let on I mean, this very
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table! And we must have eaten that same rabbit for stew, after! And I remember
the exquisite detail of that brass hare it sat upon his windowsill for a year
and a half, until the Losimons looted it." Horror, pride, and exasperation
mingled in her face. Her hand pressed possessively upon the notebook, whether
to contain or retain it Thur was not entirely certain.
"What should we do with these notes, then? Turn them over to the Abbot? Your
father is beyond earthly prosecution, I think."
"If we can. If we all live. I there are things here there is a lifetime's
thought and work bound up in these pages. I could not bear to see them
destroyed, but Thur, the possibilities are horrid. Vitelli would not limit
himself to rabbits! Suppose he decided to make an army of brass soldiers,
spirit slaves? Papa speculates an army of golems, he calls them; I do not know
that word; I dont think it's even Latin. Papa danced so delicately, to try to
use this magic power without damning himself, but others would see only the
power, and reach for it regardless& " She took a deep breath. "I'd give the
book to Monreale before I'd see it destroyed. But I'd burn it myself before
letting it fall into Ferrante's or Vitelli's black hands."
"All Montefoglia is falling into their hands," said Thur bitterly. "And nobody
seems able or willing to stop them. I tried, God help me. And I failed. Even
with a cowardly knife to the back. With a sledgehammer I might have done some
good. You don't need me, Fiametta. You need a hero, like Uri, trained to the
sword. The wrong brother lies dead in the next room."
"Thur, don't blame yourself! Lord Ferrante has been a soldier in the field for
twenty years! How could you expect to best him in anything like single
combat?"
"Lord Pia held his own, for a little. We almost had him, between us! Till I
deserted him, left him nailed to the wall like a martyr surrounded by his
enemies. But it was close, Fiametta. Lord Ferrante is not invincible. Not till
his army gets here, anyway. Tonight, tomorrow& " Thur grimaced.
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