The Spirit Ring

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  "Why, Thur. That was clever," said Fiametta, sounding rather astonished. Thur's brow wrinkled. A little less astonishment would have been a little more complimentary.

  "Now we're even." Tich grinned breathlessly, waving his dagger. "Let's get him."

  "Wait," said Thur. "What do you have around here to bind him?"

  Fiametta bit her lip in thought. "If they haven't taken it—it was only iron, not silver or gold, maybe they left—just a moment." She scurried out with the lantern. The Losimon stopped thumping. Fiametta returned in a few minutes, draped about with a long iron chain.

  "It's a manacle my father was working on for the Duke. It doesn't have a key. It opens with a spell."

  "Do you know the spell?" asked Thur.

  "Well... no. I know where it is in Papa's notebooks, but Ferrante and Vitelli have taken all Papa's notebooks away."

  "But do you need the spell to lock them?"

  "No, they just lock. That's built-in."

  Thur regarded the handcuffs, then stepped to the door to glance into the courtyard with its pillared stone arches supporting the wooden inner gallery. "All right." He returned to the kitchen to shout down through the floorboards, "Hey! You! Losimon!"

  A surly silence resulted.

  "There are two armed men"—his hand closed on the haft of the sledgehammer—"and a very angry sorceress up here. She wants to set you on fire. If you come up and surrender without giving us any more trouble, I won't let them kill you."

  A man's gruff voice responded, "How do I know you won't just tie me up and kill me?"

  "My word," suggested Thur.

  "What worth is that?"

  "More than yours. I am not a Losimon," Thur snarled.

  A long silence, as the Losimon crouching in the dark contemplated his options. "Lord Ferrante will have my head for failing him."

  "Maybe you can desert, later."

  The Losimon made an obscene suggestion, which Thur ignored.

  Thur whispered to Fiametta, "Do you think you could, like, just warm him up a bit? Not really set him on fire. But demonstrate."

  "I’ll try." She closed her eyes; her soft lips moved.

  A cry, and slapping noises, echoed from the cellar. "All right! All right! I surrender!"

  Thur let Tich and Fiametta drag the pewter cupboard off the trapdoor and stood with his sledgehammer raised. Slowly, the trapdoor creaked upward, and the Losimon cautiously poked his head out. He was a grizzled man, strong but no youth. Little red sparks still glinted in his curling hair, which gave off a singed stench. He did not bother to carry his broken sword hilt, but crawled out and stood empty-handed.

  Thur had Tich clap one end of the manacle around the man's wrist and lead him to the courtyard, where he wrapped the chain around a stone pillar and attached the other cuff. Thur did not put down the sledgehammer until Tich yanked the chain to be sure the cuffs would hold, mashing the Losimon against the pillar. Tich put one foot to the pillar and held the man while Fiametta gagged him. He rolled his eyes at the sledgehammer, and did not attempt violence against the girl.

  Fiametta led them back to the kitchen. "Here, sit on this chair," she said to Thur. "Ruberta had a healing salve for bruises. Oh, your sides look like a piebald horse. Are any ribs broken?"

  "I don't think so, or I wouldn't have been able to get this far." Thur settled himself very cautiously.

  Fiametta rummaged in the cupboards. Her voice wafted out, "That ugly gash won't heal unless the edges are held together. At least it looks clean. I'm no healer, but I know my needlework. If... if I can stand to sew it up, can you stand to let me?"

  Thur choked down an anticipatory whimper. "Yes."

  "Ah. Here's the ointment." She emerged from the recesses of a carved sideboard clutching a Venetian glass jar. A pale cream inside emitted a faint, pleasant scent, like wildflowers and fresh butter. Delicately, she daubed some upon Thur's ribs. A warm, relaxing numbness penetrated from the spots where she spread it. "I'll go get my sewing kit, if the Losimons haven't taken it." She set the jar down and hurried from the kitchen.

  Surreptitiously, Thur scooped up a large glob of ointment and stuck his hand under his blanket to rub it on and around his aching, swollen crotch. It helped a lot, and Thur sighed relief.

  "You should have gotten her to rub it on there." Tich snickered, settling cross-legged on the floor.

  "That might have done... more harm than good," Thur grunted, charmed by the idea but offended by Tich having suggested it. Hell, he hadn't even kissed Fiametta yet, hadn't even tried to. He remembered his deep regrets about that, when he'd been facing death in the castle. "God, I hurt all over."

  Fiametta returned in a few minutes carrying a small covered basket. "We're in luck. I found the curved needle Ruberta uses to sew up the stuffed goose when she roasts one."

  "Sounds perfect," said Tich, his brows going up in black amusement.

  Thur decided his lips hurt too much to smile.

  "I think you'd better lie flat on the kitchen table," Fiametta directed.

  "Just like the goose," Tich commented. Fiametta grimaced at him, half-amused, half-annoyed, and he subsided.

  Thur climbed up and arranged himself while Fiametta threaded her needle. She studied the two stitches at one edge of the gash surviving from Ferrante's surgeon's work. "Yes. I can do that." Her lower lip stuck out in determination. She took a deep breath and made her first jab.

  Thur sucked in his breath, gripped the table edges, and stared at the ceiling.

  "Do you think anyone is going to come around and check on that guard?" Tich asked, standing up to watch. Fiametta shoved a candle into his hand to light her work.

  "Not before morning," said Fiametta, tying a knot. She was neat, but much slower than Ferrante's surgeon.

  "Maybe not at all," Thur managed in a strained voice. "They're undermanned, and this house has been stripped of valuables. Except Vitelli might come around to search it again. He's convinced—ah! —"

  "Sorry."

  "Keep going. He's convinced your father has hidden some secret notes or books on spirit-magic somewhere in the house. That's how I met them here day before yesterday."

  "Secret books?" Fiametta frowned deeply. "Papa? Well, maybe."

  "Do you know of any such?"

  "No... if so, he's kept them secret from me."

  Thur stared at the kitchen ceiling through eyes watering with pain. "I think they do exist. I think they're... up, somewhere. I felt it, when Vitelli had me trying to pry up boards. I didn't tell—ah! —Vitelli, of course.

  Fiametta's eyebrows lowered in concentration. "Up. Huh." She tied off another stitch and glanced at the ceiling. Half done. Slow but sure. Slow, anyway.

  "Vitelli wants them very badly. I'm certain he'll be back," gasped Thur. "But maybe not as early as tomorrow. He looked pretty sick, when I broke up his spell."

  "That close to completion… so complex..." Fiametta nodded thoughtfully. "I'll bet he's sick right now."

  Silence fell as she worked her way meticulously across Thur's belly cut. The last one, at last. Pale was not in Fiametta's repertoire, but there was a distinctly greenish tinge beneath her toasted skin. She pursed her lips and rubbed a goodly handful of ointment across the cut, before sitting Thur up and tying a protective strip of cloth that looked suspiciously like a bit of former petticoat around his waist.

  "That's... that's good," Thur wheezed gallantly. "Better than the surgeon."

  A pleased smile curved her full lips. "Really?"

  "Yes." He swung his legs off the table and stood up. Pink and black clouds boiled at the edges of his vision, and the room tilted. He found himself bent over, clutching the table.

  "Tich, help!" Fiametta rushed to Thur's side; he waved her away, afraid he would crush her if he fell, but she ignored the wave and put her shoulder sturdily up under his arm. "You are going straight to bed," she decreed. "I'll put you in Ruberta's room; it's right off the kitchen here. It's the only bed the Losimons didn't break up looking for h
idden treasure. Tich, the lantern."

  By the time Thur's head had cleared they had maneuvered him into the housekeeper's bedchamber, "No!" he protested. "Your father's secret books, Fiametta. We've got to find them, to keep them from Vitelli. I'm sure it's important. I have to help you look."

  "You have to lie down here." Fiametta pulled back blankets on the first real bed Thur had seen in weeks. It had linen sheets.

  "Oh," murmured Thur, overcome. The bed seemed to suck him down. It was a little short, but wonderfully soft. Fiametta pulled the coverings over him and whisked Tich's blanket out from under them in one smooth movement. She gave the blanket back to its owner.

  "But the notebooks," Thur said weakly.

  "I'll look for them," Fiametta said.

  "They were up. Above the second floor."

  "This house only has two floors, doesn't it?" Tich craned his neck as though he might see through the ceiling.

  "I have an idea or two," said Fiametta. "Go to sleep, Thur, or you'll be useless."

  Persuaded, Thur sank back. Fiametta and Tich tiptoed out. Thur was weary beyond anything he'd ever known, but disorderly images from the past few days whirled in his thoughts. He'd rescued Uri, but Master Beneforte still lay in danger. The Duchess. Lady Pia. Lord Pia, with his strange passion for bats, stuck to the oak door with his blood running down. Vitelli's dark aura, growing in menace and power...

  But in a few minutes Fiametta returned, carrying a large clay mug. She set the lantern down as Thur, with difficulty, sat up.

  "Have you eaten? I didn't think so. There's no food in the house right now but some flour and dried beans, and tired turnips, but I found that wine. Here." She sat on the edge of the bed and helped him get his hands around the mug.

  She'd brought it unwatered. It was thick, red, dense, a little sweet. Thur gulped it down gratefully.

  "That helps. Thank you. I was starving."

  "You were shaking." She watched him with concern.

  Over the rim of the mug, he watched her in return. Their lives had been tangled together by this treachery in Montefoglia, and by the peculiar prophecy of her lion ring. Was the Master of Cluny's spell meant to be a prophecy of the self-fulfilling kind? Thur had been at first struck by Fiametta's prettiness, amiably inclined to love anybody who even suggested that she loved him. Yet now he was not so sure that she did love him, despite the ring. What did she think? He was uneasily aware that he had not more than half-won her mind. It was all so complicated. She was a complicated girl. Would life with Fiametta always be this confusing? He was beginning to suspect so.

  He remembered staring up the length of Ferrante's shining sword, in the castle garden. Now, that had been simple.

  Awkwardly, he slipped his free hand around Fiametta's waist, leaned forward, and kissed her. Their noses bumped, and he half-missed her mouth. Her big brown eyes widened, and he waited in resignation for her recoil.

  Instead she kissed him back. Vigorously. And she managed to hit the target square. His arm tightened joyously around her shoulders. Her hand closed firmly over the silver head of her snake-belt. It felt strange, kissing through a bruised grin. When he broke off, her eyes were alight. I did something right! Thur thought in delight. I wonder what it was?

  But before he could explore further, she jumped up. Considering his battered physical condition, this was perhaps just as well, She bent over and dropped a kiss on his forehead. "Go to sleep, Thur."

  At least she left still smiling, a mysterious girl smile. Thur lay back. This time, sleep came almost simultaneously with the darkness.

  *****

  He woke to an uncertain gray daylight seeping through the room's half-opened shutters. Creakily, he sat up. He hadn't been this sore since the day after the cave-in and flood at the mine. But he felt much better than last night. The sick dizziness was gone from his head. Still, he decided, another handful of that ointment would be welcome. He swung his bare legs out of the little bed.

  At least he wasn't going to have to wear the quilt. Laid across the bed were clothes, of a sort, a threadbare man's gown of time-softened dark wool. Thur slipped it on over his head. It had clearly been made for a smaller fellow, probably Prospero Beneforte, for the hem, meant to brush the floor in a dignified scholarly sweep, rode at Thur's calves, and the sleeves wouldn't fit over his arms at all. He left the sleeves on the bed and tied a bit of cord around his waist to make a sort of tunic. He peeked out the window into the walled garden behind the house. Yes, there was the outhouse. The grayness of the sky was not dawn after all, but a steely midmorning haze. Had he slept too long? Worried, he walked into the kitchen, then stopped short.

  A strange woman wearing a cap and apron and holding a wooden spoon turned from the blue-tiled stove to glance at him without surprise. "Ah. The young man." She gave him a cordial but measuring nod, as if he were a bolt of cloth she 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, then 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 detectable.

  "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."

  "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 there. 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 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.