"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 loll 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."
"Ill 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 hidden treasure. Tich, the lantern."