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wheezing and sweating, gray hair disordered, flung himself back down upon his
straw pallet and stared at the ceiling with empty eyes.
Vitelli's two big bravos came back before the disarmed guard returned. The
castellan ignored them completely as they stopped by Thur. One kicked Thur in
the belly, not viciously, just testing; Thur could not help flinching, but he
let his eyes roll back, and he stayed limp. It wasn't that hard. Trying to
stand up, that would have been hard.
Night was falling. The light from the window was a strange salmon-pink
afterglow. The sergeant held up a lantern like a smoky gold animal eye in the
growing shadows. One Losimon took Thur's shoulders, the other his feet. It was
good to be carried. He felt waterlogged, every breath an effort. As he was
hoisted up Thur let his dazed eyes pass across Lord Pia's, who lay on his side
and stared back expressionlessly, his fingers tracing and trapping out an odd
little rhythm on the stone floor, as formlessly compulsive as his blanket
chewing.
Why am I going along with this madman's plan? If he even has one. But here he
was, just as Lord Pia had forecast, being carried out of the cell. His porters
bumped him down the narrow stone stairs in the black dark to the familiar
under-level with its four doors.
Too much to hope they would just lock him in with the wine casks& no. They
lugged him through the door into the magic workroom.
"Leave him there." Vitelli waved in the general direction of the room's
center. They dumped Thur down ungently.
"Is there anything else, Messer?" one of the soldiers asked, cautiously
deferential.
"No. Go."
They did not linger to be told twice. Their bootsteps scuffed up the stairs in
double time.
Thur lay sprawled, his face mashed to the floor, and let one eye slit open.
Vitelli was turned away, lighting a few more bright beeswax candles to add to
an already brilliant array. The little man had exchanged his red robe for a
gown of sable velvet. Gold embroidery glittered here and there in its folds.
Symbols? Magical, or merely decorative?
Lord Ferrante entered, swinging a small leather bag in a way that suggested it
did not contain wildlife this time. The cut on his neck had been cleaned and
stitched closed with silk threads of extraordinary fineness. He wore a clean
shirt, unstained with blood, but had donned his chain tunic and sword belt
again, and leggings of black leather. "Do you have everything?" he asked
Vitelli.
"Did you bring the new bronze?"
"Yes." Ferrante let the bag twirl on its strings.
"Then we have everything."
Ferrante nodded, and bent to lock the door. He placed the big, iron key back
in the pouch hung on his sword belt. Thur almost moaned aloud. How the hell
was he supposed to get out of here this time? Pretend, till I call on you to
rise and strike. How the hell did Lord Pia think he was going to get in?
"Stay," said Vitelli, as Ferrante started toward the salt crates. "I must
divest this damned awkward sleep spell into something that will hold it for a
little."
"Can't you just let it go? Even bound, it must distract you."
"Not nearly as much as Monreale would distract me, should he recover quickly
enough to interfere at some critical moment. And it is easier to maintain than
it would ever be to recast. Prudence. And patience, my lord."
Ferrante grimaced, hitched a hip on the tabletop, and let one black-booted
foot swing. He frowned down bleakly at the little footstool-chest, beside him,
and shoved it away. After a moment he drew a slagged silver ring from his belt
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pouch, and turned it broodingly in his hand. His right hand was no longer
bandaged, Thur realized, though it still looked red and barely half-healed.
"For all your troubles, Niccolo, Beneforte set the spirit of this ring free
most readily. A wave of his hand. And none of your antics with the corpse or
ring since have sufficed to call the power back."
"Yes, I've told you we must find Beneforte's hidden notes on spirit-magic. I
have said it repeatedly."
"I think it was no bargain," said Ferrante quietly, "to trade my damnation for
so brief and volatile a power." He closed his hand over his palm.
Vitelli, facing away from Ferrante, rolled his eyes up in exasperation, then
carefully composed his features to proper deference, and turned. "We've been
over this, my lord. The infant was sickly. Its mother lay dying. It would not
have lived the night. Would you rather have let that death go to waste? What
merit in that? And it was only a girl-child anyway."
Ferrante said dryly, "I would hardly have let you persuade me to do that to my
son and heir, Niccolo, sickly or no." He blew out his breath. "I want no more
such sickly girls. You're a magician, how do I assure a strong son next time?"
Vitelli shrugged. "Tis said a woman's part is to supply the matter, and the
man's to supply the form with his seed. All things struggle toward the perfect
form, the male, even as metals in the ground strive to grow to be gold; but
many fail, and females thus result."
"Are you saying I should have added more form?" Ferrante's brows rose. "She
was too sick. Vomiting all the time. Revolting. I had no heart to plague her.
Besides, there were plenty of women in town."
"It's not your fault, I'm sure, my lord," said Vitelli placatingly.
Ferrante frowned. "Well, I want no child-bride next time. The pale and
whimpering Julia is unfit to bear."
Vitelli said sharply, "With Julia comes a dukedom. Give her a little time."
"I hold the dukedom now by force of arms, or will, shortly," Ferrante
shrugged, "what other right do I require? What other right would even avail,
if I had no army?"
"True, lord, but the Sforza did both, in Milan."
"And left too many Visconti alive, who now skulk about half the courts of
Italy, trying to brew trouble." Ferrante turned the ring in his hand, without
looking at it, as if wondering if it sought some such subtle revenge.
Vitelli paused, and said slyly, "Give me the silver ring, my Lord, and I will
try to see if anything may yet be salvaged."
Ferrante smiled, not pleasantry. "No," he said softly, but very firmly. "It
was fair and just that my dead daughter's spirit serve me. No other. I would
not bind one of mine to serve a base-born Milanese& damned dabbler."
Vitelli bowed his head, his jaw tight. "As you will, my lord. There will be
other opportunities. Better ones."
He turned to clear a place on the boards to his other side, dusted it with a
gray powder, and then wiped it clean. He then arrayed a simple spell-set; a
tiny gold cross, facedown, and a gauzy silk cloth. His features sharpened in
concentration; he began murmuring. After a few moments, the silk gauze rose in
the air like the head of a questing snake, and settled gentry over the cross.
Vitelli's muttering died away. He took a deep decisive breath and turned to
Ferrante. "Done. It will hold Monreale for long enough."
"Shall I light the furnace, then?" asked Ferrante.
"No, I'll do that. Strip the Swiss spy of his clothes. I'll help you hoist his
brother momentarily."
Ferrante tossed him his purse, which he caught one-handed. A little jeweler's
furnace sat upon stone blocks near the window. Vitelli had already laid in the
fuel. Now he bent to the lower hearth opening and whispered, "Piro." Blue
flames licked the pine and charcoal, which caught and burned steadily. Vitelli
emptied the chinking contents of Ferrante's leather purse into a new clay
firing pot no bigger than his fist, and popped it into the oven.
Thur bore being stripped, willing his limbs to flaccidity, his breathing to a [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]