Bujold, Lois McMaster - The Spirit Ring

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THE SPIRIT RING

Lois McMaster Bujold

[04 dec 2001—proofed and re-released for #bookz]

Chapter One

Fiametta turned the lump of warm reddish clay in her hand. "Do you think it's done yet, Papa?"

she asked anxiously. "Can I break it open now?"

Her father closed his hand over hers, testing the heat. "Not yet. Set it down, it won't cool the

faster for being juggled."

She signed impatiently, and laid the clay ball back down on the workbench in the patch of

morning sunlight falling through the window's iron grille. Can't you put a cooling spell on it?"

He chuckled. "I'll put a cooling spell on you, girl. You have too much of the element of fire in

you. Even your mother used to say so." Reflexively, Master Beneforte crossed himself and bowed

his head, when naming the dead. The laugh faded a little in his eyes. "Don't burn so fast. It's the

banked coals that last the night."

"But you stumble in their dark," Fiametta parried.

"What burns fast, burns bright." She leaned her elbows on the bench and scuffed her slipper

across the floor tiles, and regarded her work. Clay, with a golden heart. In his Sunday sermons,

Bishop Monreale often said Man was clay. She felt a melting sense of union with the object on the

table, brown and lumpy on the outside—she sighed again—

ut full of secret promise, if only it could

be broken open.

"Maybe it's marred," she said nervously. "An air pocket ... dirt...." Could he not sense it? A pure,

high hum, like a tiny heartbeat?

"Then you can melt it down and do it over till you get it right," her father shrugged. "It will be

your own fault, and just what you deserve, for rushing ahead and pouring before I came to watch

you. The metal will not be lost, or it shouldn't be—I'll beat you like a real apprentice if you manage

such an apprentice's trick as that." He frowned ferociously but, Fiametta sensed, not altogether

seriously.

It wasn't the metal she was worried about losing. But she had no intention of confiding her

secret, and risking disapproval or derision. When she'd heard her father's step in the hallway she had

hastily rubbed away the chalk diagram with spit and her sleeve, and swept the recipe sheet, carefully

copied in her best hand, and the set of symbolic objects—salt, dried flowers, a bit of unworked gold,

wheat seeds—from the workbench. The apron into which she'd bundled them sat on the end of the

table looking dreadfully conspicuous. Papa had, after all, only given her permission to cast gold. She

hitched her nip over a tall stool, rubbed at the leather apron over her gray wool outer dress, and

sniffed at the chill spring air slipping through the workroom's unglazed window. But it worked! My

first investment worked. Or at least... it didn't back-flow.

A pounding penetrated from the house's heavy oak outer door, and a man's voice. "Master

Beneforte! Hallo the house! Prospero Beneforte, are you awake in there?"

Fiametta scrambled up to the table, to mash her face against the grille and try to see around the

corner of the window frame into the street "Two men—it's the Duke's steward, Messer Quistelli,

Papa. And," she brightened, "the Swiss captain."

"Ha!" Master Beneforte hastily pulled off his own leather apron, and straightened the skirts of

his tunic. "Perhaps he brings my bronze, at last! It's about time. Has no one unbarred the door this

morning?" He stuck his head through the workroom's other window, that opened onto his house's

inner court, and bellowed, "Teseo! Unbar the door!" His graying beard pointed, left and right.

"Where is the useless boy? Run and unbar the door, Fiametta. Tuck your hair under your cap first,

you're all awry like a washerwoman."

Fiametta hopped down, untied the strings of her plain white linen cap, and with her fingers

ushed and combed back strands of her crinkl

black hair, which had esca

ed unnoticed in her

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absorption with her morning's work. She tightened her cap smoothly over her head again,

though in the back a wild cushion of ringlets defied order, cascading over her nape and a third of the

way to her waist. She now wished she'd taken the time to braid it at dawn, before racing off to lay the

fire in the little cupellation furnace in the corner of the workroom before Papa woke and came down.

Better still if she'd put on the real lace cap from Bruges, that Papa had given her last spring for her

fifteenth birthday.

The pounding resumed. "Hallo the house!"

Fiametta danced into the stone-paved hallway and slid back the bar of the main door, opened it,

and swept a curtsey. "Good morning, Messer Quistelli." And, a breath more shyly, "Captain Ochs."

"Ah, Fiametta." Messer Quistelli gave her a nod. "I'm here to see the Master."

Messer Quistelli wore long dark robes, like a scholar. The guardsman, Uri Ochs, wore the

Duke's livery, a short black tunic with sleeves striped red and gold, and black hose. He bore no metal

breastplate nor pike nor helmet this peaceful morning, only the sword at his hip and a black velvet

cap with the Duke of Montefoglia's badge on it, perched on his brown hair. The flower-and-bee

badge was Master Beneforte's own work, copper-gilt, appearing solid gold, keeping the secret of the

captain's relative poverty. The Swiss sent half his pay home to his mother, Master Beneforte had

whispered, shaking his head, whether in admiration for this filial piety or dismay at his financial

fecklessness, Fiametta had not been sure. Captain Ochs's legs filled his hose neatly, though, no sad

drooping bags to them like the leggings of skinny young apprentices or dried old men,

"From the Duke?" Fiametta asked hopefully. The leather purse hanging at Messer Quistelli's

waist next to his glasses bulged in a most promising manner. But then, the Duke was always

romising, Papa said. Fiametta ushered the men inside and led them into the front workroom, where

Master Beneforte advanced on them, rubbing his hands in greeting.

"Good morning, gentlemen! I trust you bring good news about the bronze Duke Sandrino

romised me for my great work? Sixteen pigs of copper, mind you, no less. Are the arrangements

made yet?"

Messer Quistelli shrugged against this importunity. "Not yet. Though I'm sure by the time you're

ready, Master, so will the metal be.' His raised brow had a faint ironic tilt, and Master Beneforte

frowned. Her father had a nose like a hunting dog for the faintest slight or insult; Fiametta held her

breath. But Messer Quistelli went on, touching the purse at his belt. "I do bring you my lord's

allowance for your wood and wax and workmen."

"Even I am not so great a conjurer as to be able to make bronze from wax and wood," growled

Master Beneforte. But he reached for the purse anyway.

Messer Quistelli turned slightly away. "Your skill is unquestioned, Master. It is your speed my

lord has come to doubt. Perhaps you try to take on too many commissions, to the detriment of all?"

"I must use my time efficiently, if my household is to eat," Master Beneforte said stiffly. "If my

lord Duke wishes his wife to stop ordering jewelry, he should take it up with her, not me."

"About that saltcellar," said Messer Quistelli firmly.

"I have pressed it forward with incessant industry. As I have said."

"Yes, but is it finished?"

"It lacks only the enamelling."

"And, perhaps, the functionary spells?" Messer Quistelli suggested. "Have you laid them on

yet?"

"Not laid on," said Master Beneforte in a tone of injured dignity. "This is no hedge-magician's

spell of seeming your lord requires of me. The spell is integral, built-in, worked along with each

stroke of my chisel."

"Duke Sandrino requires me to observe its progress," said Messer Quistelli a shade more

diffidently. "The news is not general yet, but I am to tell you in confidence, his daughter's betrothal

is being negotiated. He wants to be sure the saltcellar is finished in time for the betrothal banquet."

"Ah." Master Beneforte's face li

htened. "A worth

debut for m

art. When is it

lanned?"

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"The end of this month."

"So soon! And who is the fortunate bridegroom to be?"

"Uberto Ferrante, Lord of Losimo."

There was a distinct pause. "I see my lord Duke's urgency," said Master Beneforte.

Messer Quistelli made a hands-down gesture, blocking further comment.

"Fiametta." Master Beneforte turned to her, taking a ring of keys from his girdle. "Run and fetch

the golden saltcellar from the chest in my room. Mind you lock both chest and door again behind

you."

Fiametta took the keys and exited at a ladylike walk, no childish skipping under the eyes of the

Swiss captain, until she reached the stairs in the courtyard to the upper gallery, which she took two at

a time.

The big iron-bound chest at the foot of her father's bed contained a dozen leather-bound books,

several stacks of notes and papers tied with ribbons—anxiously, she tried to remember if she had

indeed replaced them last time identically to their previous arrangement—and a polished walnut box.

The chest was redolent with the aromas of paper, leather, ink, and magic. She lifted out the heavy

box and relocked both chest and room with the complex filigreed iron keys. She could feel the spells

of warding slide into place along with the bolts, a tiny jolt up the nerves of her hand. Most potent, to

be sensed at all, given Papa's incessant drive for subtlety in his art. She returned to the downstairs

workroom. Her light leather slippers padded almost silently across the flagstones as she approached.

A chance word in the captain's voice caught her ear; she stiffened and listened outside the workroom

door.

"—your daughter's mother Moorish, then, or Blackamoor?"

"Ethiope, surely," Messer Quistelli opined. "Was she a slave of yours?"

"No, she was a Christian woman," replied Fiametta's father. "From Brindisi." There was a

certain dryness in his voice, whether with respect to Christian women or Brindisi Fiametta could not

tell.

"She must have been very beautiful," said the Swiss politely.

"That she was. And I was not always so dried up and battered as you see me today, either,

before my nose was broken and my hair grew gray."

Captain Ochs made an apologetic noise, implying no slur intended on his host's face. Messer

Quistelli, also aging, laughed appreciatively.

"Has she inherited your talent in your art, Master Beneforte, while avoiding your noser" asked

Messer Quistelli.

"She's certainty better than that ham-handed apprentice of mine, who's fit only for hauling

wood. Her drawings and models are very fine. I don't tell her so, of course, there's nothing more

obnoxious than a proud woman. I have let her work in silver, and I've just started letting her work in

gold."

Messer Quistelli vented a suitably impressed Hmm. "But I was thinking of your other art."

"Ah." Master Beneforte's voice slid away without actually answering the question. "It's a great

waste, to train a daughter, who will only take your efforts and secrets off to some other man when

she marries. Although if certain noble parties remain in arrears on the payments an artist of my

stature is properly owed, her Knowledge may be the only dowry I can afford her." He heaved a large

and pointed sigh in Messer Quistelli's direction. "Did I ever tell you about the time the Pope was so

overwhelmed by the beautiful gold medallion I crafted for his cope, he doubled my pay?"

"Yes, several times," said Messer Quistelli quickly, to no avail.

"He was going to make me Master of the Mint, too, till my enemies whispers got up that false

charge of necromancy against me, and I rotted in the dungeons of Castel Sain Angelo for a year—"

Fiametta had heard that one too. She backed up a few paces, shuffled her slippers noisily on the

tiles, and entered the workroom. She set the walnut box carefully before her father, and handed him

ack his ke

s. He smiled, and rubbed his hands on his tunic, and with a word under his breath

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unlocked and opened the box. He folded back the silk wrappings, lifted the object within, and

set it in the middle of the grid of sunlight falling on the table.

The golden saltcellar blazed and sparked in the light, and both visitors caught their breaths. The

sculpture rested on an oval base of ebony, richly decorated. Upon it two palm-high golden figures, a

beautiful nude woman and a strong bearded man holding a triton, sat with their legs interlaced. "As

we see in firths and promontories." Master Beneforte enthusiastically explained the symbolism. A

ship—Fiametta thought it more of a rowboat—of delicate workmanship near the hand of the sea-

king was to hold the salt; a little Greek temple beneath the earth-queen's gracefully draped hand was

meant for the pepper. Around the man sea horses, fish, and strange crustaceans sported; around the

woman, a happy riot of beautiful creatures of the earth.

The Swiss captain's mouth hung open, and Messer Quistelli pulled the spectacles from his belt,

balanced them on his nose, and peered hungrily at the fine work. Master Beneforte swelled visibly,

ointing out meaningful details and enjoying the men's astonishment.

Messer Quistelli recovered first. "But does it work?" he demanded doggedly.

Master Beneforte snapped his finger. "Fiametta! Fetch me two wineglasses, a bottle of wine—

the sour wine Ruberta uses for cooking, not the good Chianti—and that white powder she uses to

destroy rats in the pantry. Quickly now!"

Fiametta scampered, glowing with her secret. I designed the dolphins. And the little rabbits, too.

Behind her she could hear Master Beneforte bellowing again for Teseo the apprentice. She flung

across the courtyard and into the Kitchen, meeting Ruberta's protests at her flurry with a breathless

"Papa wants!'

"Yes, girl, but I wager he'll want his dinner as well, and the fire's gone out in the stove." Ruberta

ointed with her wooden spoon at the blue-tiled firebox.

"Oh, is that all?' Fiametta bent over, unlatched the iron door, and turned her face to look inside

the dark square. She ordered her thoughts to an instant of calm. "Piro," she breathed. Brilliant blue

and yellow flames flared up like dancers on the dead coals. "That should do it." She tasted the heat o

the spell on her tongue with satisfaction. At least she could do one thing well. Even Papa said so.

And if one, why not another?

"Thank you, dear," said Ruberta, turning to fetch her iron pot. By the aromatic evidence on the

cutting board she was about to do splendid things with onions, garlic, rosemary, and spring lamb.

"You're welcome." Quickly, Fiametta assembled the items needed for the demonstration upon a

tray, including the last two clear Venetian wineglasses from the set the carters had broken in their

move here to Montefoglia, almost five years ago. Papa had forgotten to mention the salt or the

epper; she snatched their jars from the high shelf and added them to the array as well, and marched

it all to the workroom, her back straight.

Smiling to himself, Master Beneforte tapped a little salt into the bowl-hull of the ship. For a

moment, his face took on an inward look; he whispered under his breath and crossed himself.

Fiametta touched Messer Quistelli's arm as he started to speak, to keep him from interrupting what

she knew to be a critical step. The hum from the saltcellar that answered Master Beneforte's whisper

was deep and rich, but very, very faint, musical and fine. A year or so ago she could not have sensed

it at all; Messer Quistelli clearly did not.

"The pepper, Papa?" Fiametta offered it.

"We shall not use the pepper today." He shook his head. He then placed a generous spoonful of

the rat powder into one of the wineglasses, and tied a string around its stem to mark it. Then he

oured the wine into both glasses. The powder dissolved slowly, with a faint fizz.

"Where is the boy?" Master Beneforte muttered after a few more minutes of waiting.

Fortunately, before his master could work up to true irritation, Teseo slammed through the front door

and appeared in the workroom, his cap askew on his head and one hose sagging with points nail-tied,

and a towel bundled in his nervous hands.

"I could only catch one in the midden, Master," Teseo apologized. "The other bit me and ran

off."

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"Huhl Perhaps I'll use you for a substitute, then." Master Beneforte frowned. Teseo paled.

He took up the towel, which proved to imprison a large and wild-looking rat, its teeth yellow

and broken and its fur mangy. Teseo sucked on his bleeding thumb. The rat snapped, hissed, writhed,

and squeaked. Holding the beast firmly by the scruff of its neck, Master Beneforte took a fine glass

tube, drew up some now-chalky-pink wine from the glass with the string, and forced the liquid down

the rat's throat. After another moment he released the animal onto the tiles. It snapped again, started

to run, and began whirling in circles, biting at its sides. Then it convulsed and died.

"Now observe, gentlemen," Master Beneforte said. His two guests leaned closer as he took a

sprinkle of salt between his fingers and dropped it into the plain wineglass. Nothing happened. He

took a second, more generous pinch, and dropped it into the poisoned wine. The salt flared, grains

sparkling orange; a blue flame, like ignited brandy, breathed up from the surface of the liquid and

burned for fully a minute. Master Beneforte stirred the mixture slowly with the pipette. The contents

were now as clear and ruby-bright as the other. He lifted the stringed glass. "Now ..." his eye fell on

Teseo, who squeaked rather like the rat, and apprehensively stepped back. "Ha. Unworthy boy,"

Master Beneforte said scornfully. He glanced at Fiametta, and a strange inspired smile curved his

lips. "Fiametta. Drink this."

Messer Quistelli drew in his breath with a gasp, and the captain clenched his hand in shocked

rotest, but Fiametta straightened, gave them a proud and confident smile, and took the wineglass

From her father's hand. She raised it to her lips and quaffed it all down in a single draught. Captain

Ochs started up again as she grimaced, and just the faintest alarm flared for a moment in Master

Beneforte's eyes, but she raised a hand in reassurance. "Salty sour wine." She scraped her tongue

over her teeth, and smothered a small belch. "For breakfast."

Master Beneforte smiled triumph at the Duke's steward. "Does it work? Apparently so. And so

you may bear witness to your lord."

Messer Quistelli clapped his hands. "Wonderful!" Though his eyes shifted now and then to

recheck Fiametta.

Regretfully, Fiametta stifled a malicious urge to clutch her belly, drop to the floor, and scream.

The fleeting opportunity might be beautiful, but Master Beneforte's sense of humor did not extend to

okes played upon himself, nor did his respect for revenge include justice for insults he laid upon

others. It's a great waste, to train a daughter... . Fiametta sighed.

Messer Quistelli touched the beautiful goldwork. "And how long will it last?"

"The saltcellar, forever, for that is the incorruptible nature of gold. The spell of purification—

erhaps twenty years, if the piece is undamaged, and it is not used without need. The prayer of

activation will be engraved upon the bottom, for I fully expect it to outlast me."

Messer Quistelli raised impressed brows. "That long!"

"I give full value in my work," said Master Beneforte.

Taking the hint, Messer Quistelli counted out the Duke's monthly allowance onto the

workbench, and Fiametta was sent again to lock both the saltcellar and the purse away in the strong

chest.

When she returned, Messer Quistelli had gone, but Captain Ochs lingered with her father, as he

often did. "Come, Uri, into the courtyard," Master Beneforte was saying, "and see your martial twin

before I clothe him in his clay tunic. I finished laying on the wax but two days ago. The clay has

been seasoning for months."

"Finished! I'd no idea you were so far along," said Captain Ochs. "Will you invite the Duke to

inspect this new soldier of his, then?"

Master Beneforte smiled sourly, and held one finger to his lips. "I wouldn't even be telling you,

if I didn't want to check a few last details. I mean to mold and cast it in secret, and surprise my

impatient Lord of Montefoglia with the finished bronze. Let my enemies dare try to insult my

diligence then!"

"You have been at this for over three years," said Uri doubtfully. "Still, 'tis always better to

romise less, and do more, than the other wa

around.'

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"Aye." Master Beneforte led the younger man into the open courtyard. The pavement was still in

morning shadow, though a line of light was almost visibly creeping down the wall as the sun rode

higher. Fiametta tagged along very quietly, lest by drawing her father's attention she win an

unwelcome chore that would send her out of earshot.

Beneath a canvas canopy a lumpy linen-shrouded figure stood, a man-and-a-half high, ghostly in

the grayness. Master Beneforte stood on a stool, and carefully unwound the protective wrappings. A

man's strong hand, raised high, emerged first, holding a fantastical snake-haired severed head

grimacing in a death mask. Then the calm, heroic face beneath a winged helmet, then the rest of the

figure's smooth nude shape. Its right hand held a fine curving sword. The supple muscles seemed to

hold the whole body poised, live as a spring, beneath the grisly trophy brandished in triumph. Its

translucent surface was all made of golden-brown wax, exhaling the faintest aroma of honey.

"Truly," breathed Uri, moving closer, "it's magical, Master Prospero! He almost seems ready to

step off his plinth. Better even than the plaster model!"

Master Beneforte smiled, pleased. "No magic to it, boy. This is pure art. When this is cast, it will

glorify my name forever. Prospero Beneforte, Master Sculptor. Those ignorant fools who call me a

mere goldsmith and tinker will be utterly routed and confounded the day this is unveiled in the

square. 'The Duke's Decorator,' hah!"

Uri stared, fascinated, into the hero's wax face. "Do I really look like that? I fear you flatter me

exceedingly, Master Beneforte."

Master Beneforte shrugged. "The face is idealized. Perseus was a Greek, not a Swiss, nor

ocked like a cheese. It was your body that was so invaluable to me as a model. Well-knit, strong

without that lumpiness that some strong men have.'

Uri mimed a shiver. "Glorious or no, you won't again talk me into modeling naked in the winter

while you sit swaddled in fur."

"I kept the brazier full of coals. I thought you mountain goats were impervious to cold."

"When we can move around. Our winters keep us hard-working. It was the standing still, all

twisted up like a rope, that did me in. I had a head cold for a month, after."

Master Beneforte waved a dismissive hand. "It was worth it. Now, while I have you here, take

off your right boot. I have a little worry about this statue's foot. When the statue is cast, I must force

the metal down nearly five cubits. The heads will do famously, for fire ascends. But he is to be

Perseus, not Achilles, eh?"

The Swiss captain dutifully removed his boot, and wriggled his toes for the sculptor's inspection.

Master Beneforte compared flesh and wax, and at last grunted satisfaction. "Well, I shall be able to

mend what is lacking, if need be."

"You can see the very veins of this waxy fellow's flesh," said Uri, leaning close. "I'm almost

surprised you didn't put in my hangnails and calluses, he's so lively. Will it come out of the clay so

fine like that, in bronze? The flesh is so delicate." He hopped, pulling his boot back on,

"Ha! Of that, I can give you an immediate demonstration. We have just cast a fine little conceit

in gold—I'll knock off the clay before your eyes, and you can see for yourself if my statue's

hangnails will survive."

"Oh, Papa," Fiametta interrupted urgently, "can I undo it myself? I did all the other steps by

myself." Surely he must sense her new-cast spell, if he handled it so fresh.

"What, you're still moping around? Have you no chores? Or were you just hoping for another

glance at a naked man?" Master Beneforte jerked his chin toward his waxen Perseus.

"You're going to put it in the town square, Papa. All the maidens will see it." Fiametta defended

herself. Had he caught her peeking, at those modeling sessions?

The live Perseus, Uri, looked like this was a new and unsettling thought. He glanced again at the

statue, as if inspired to ask for a bronze loincloth.

"Well," Master Beneforte chuckled indulgently at her flusterment, "you're a brave good girl,

Fiametta, and deserve some reward for drinking sour wine for breakfast to confound that doubter

Quistelli for me. Come alon

." He herded them both back toward the front workroom. "You'll see,

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Captain. The lost wax process is so easy, a child can do it."

"I'm not a child any more, Papa," Fiametta put in.

His smile went bland. "So it would seem."

The clay lump lay on the worktable where she'd left it. Fiametta gathered up the tiniest chisels

from the rack on the wall, held the ball in her hands for a moment, and recited an inward prayer. The

spell's inaudible hum became almost a silent purr. Her father and the captain leaned on their elbows

to either side and watched. She chinked away with the chisel, and clay flew off in chips. Gold

gleamed from its matrix.

'Ah! Tis a ring, said Uri, leaning closer. Fiametta smiled at him.

"A little lion mask," the captain went on, interested, as her fingers worked a needle to clean

away the last of the clay. "Oh! Look at the tiny teeth! How he roars!" He laughed.

"The teeth are meant to hold a ruby," Fiametta explained.

"Garnet," Master Beneforte corrected.

"A ruby would be brighter."

"And more costly."

"It would look well on a lord's hand, I'd think," said Uri. "You could recover the price of a

ruby."

"It's to be my own ring," said Fiametta.

"Oh? Surely it's sized for a man, maiden."

"A thumb ring," Fiametta explained.

"A design that's cost me twice the gold of a finger ring," Master Beneforte put in. "I shall hedge

my promises more carefully, next time."

"And is it a magic ring, Madonna?"

Master Beneforte stroked his beard, and answered for her. "No."

Fiametta glanced up at him, from under the protective fringe of her eyelashes. He neither smiled

nor frowned, yet she sensed a sharp observance beneath his bland demeanor. She jerked around, put

the ring in the captain's palm, and held her breath.

He turned it over, stroking the tiny waves of the lion's mane with one finger. He did not attempt

to slide it on. A puzzled look came into his eyes.

"You know, Master Beneforte, how bitterly you have complained of your lazy and clumsy

workmen? A thought just came to me—how if I write to my brother Thur in Bruinwald? He's only

seventeen, but he's worked all sorts of jobs at the mines and forges there since he was a boy. He's

very quick, and he's assisted Master Kunz at the furnace. It wouldn't be like breaking in a young and

ignorant apprentice. He already knows much of metal, particularly copper. And he must be much

bigger and stronger now than when I last saw him. Just what you need for your Perseus Gloriosus."

"Do you write your brother often?" asked Master Beneforte, watching him turn the ring in his

hand.

"No ... heavens! I haven't been home for four years. A miner's life is hard and spare. The

memory of those dark close tunnels gives me the shivering fits even yet. I've twice offered to get

Thur a position in the Duke's guard, but he says he's loathe to be a soldier. I say he doesn't know

what's good for him. But if the Duke's glory in arms won't lure him out of that hole in the ground,

erhaps your glory in the arts might." His hand closed again around the ring; he handed it back to

Fiametta, and rubbed absently at his palm.

"Worked at copper smelting, has he?" said Master Beneforte. "Well. Yes. Do write him. Let's

see what happens."

The captain smiled. "I'll go and do it now." He made a pretty leg of a bow to Fiametta, bade

Master Beneforte good morning, and hurried out.

Fiametta sat down on the stool, the rin

in her hands, and heaved a hu

e si

h of disa

ointment.

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"You're right. Papa, It's useless. I just can't do magic."

"You think not?" said Master Beneforte mildly.

"The spell didn't work! I put my heart and soul into it, and nothing happened! He didn't even put

the ring on for a moment. She looked up, realizing she'd just given away her secret, but Master

Beneforte looked more thoughtful than angry. "I didn't exactly disobey, Papa. You didn't tell me I

mustn't try to work magic in the ring."

"You didn't ask," he said shortly. "You know very well I've never encouraged you. Metal magic

is too dangerous for a woman to work. Or so I've always thought. Now I begin to wonder if it might

be more dangerous to leave you untrained."

"I was very careful to use nothing but story spells in the ring, Papa!"

"Yes, I know—do you think you are transparent, Fiametta?" he added at her unsettled look. "I

am a master, child. Even another master could not use my books and tools without my knowing it."

She slumped. "But my magic failed."

He took up the ring and turned it in the light. "I should beat you for your slyness and sneaking.

..." He flipped open the folded apron on the end of me bench, examined its contents, and pursed his

lips. "You used the true-love spell of the Master of Cluny, right?"

She nodded miserably.

"That spell does not create true love, child. That would be a contradiction in terms, for

magically compelled feelings are not true. It only reveals true love."

"Oh."

"Your ring may have worked, though the Master of Cluny's magic is no exercise for an

apprentice. It truly revealed that the handsome, if pock-marked, Captain Ochs is not your true love."

"But ... I like him. He's kind, and courteous. A gentleman, not like the usual rough soldiers."

"He's simply the first man you've seen, or at any rate, noticed. And you have certainly seem all

of him."

"Well, that's not my fault," she said grumpily.

"It's all your giggling girlfriends, who've inspired you to this unbecoming forwardness."

"I'll be sixteen in a few weeks, Papa. You know my gossip Maddalena was betrothed last month.

She's already getting fitted in her wedding clothes. And here, the news this morning—the Duke s

daughter Julia is only twelve!"

"That is pure politics," said Master Beneforte. "And of an odor not of roses, at that. See you hold

your tongue on that news, or I'll know where the rumor came from. Lord Ferrante of Losimo is fully

thirty-five, and has a dubious reputation. His second wife was not yet sixteen—the same age as you,

and think on that!—when she died in childbirth not two months ago. I shouldn't think you'd find her

fate so attractive as all that."

"No, of course not! And yet ... all of a sudden, everyone seems to be getting married. Except me.

All the good men will be taken, and you'll sit on me till I'm old and fat, just to keep me handy for

your spells. 'Bleed you a little into this new greenwood bowl, love, just a drop'—till I drop. Virgin's

blood. Virgin's hair. Virgin's spit. Virgin's piss. Some days I feel like a magic cow."

"Your metaphor is terribly scrambled, Fia-mia."

"You know what I mean! And then you'll betroth me to some old rooster with skinny legs and a

head as bald as an egg."

Master Beneforte suppressed a grin. "Well, rich widows don't lead so bad a life."

"Ha! It's not funny, Papa." She paused, and said more lowly, "Unless you've tried already, and

found none to take me because I am too black-complexioned. Or too poor-dowered."

"No daughter of mine shall be called poor-dowered," he snapped back, stung enough to finally

drop his irritating air of amusement. He composed himself again, and added, "Bank your burning

soul in patience, Fiametta, until my great Perseus is cast, and the Duke rewards me as I deserve. And

it won't be some

oor soldier I'll bu

ou for a husband, either. Your chatterin

irlfriends'

aws will

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stop—most unaccustomedly—and hang open with envy at the wedding procession of Prospero

Beneforte s daughter!" He handed her back her ring. "So keep this golden bauble as a lesson to

yourself to trust your father before your own ignorance. This little lion will roar at your wedding

yet."

I drank your poisoned wine. How much more trust do you require? Fiametta hid her ring deep in

a pocket of her gown, and went to get a whisk broom to clean up the clay from the workbench.

Chapter Two

Snow slid beneath Thur Ochs's boots as he climbed from the little valley village of Bruinwald

toward the lift shed at the mine's mouth. He kicked reflectively at a gray-white mound beside the

trail; it flew in sad lumps, not the fine cold powder of a few weeks back, nor yet spring slush. He

would have welcomed slush, any hint of the coming warmth. The leaden dawn promised another

leaden gray day of a winter that seemed to linger forever. Not that he was going to see much of this

daylight. He repositioned his pick over his shoulder, and stuck his free hand into his armpit in a futile

attempt to conserve body heat.

A shout halloed from above, and he glanced up and hastily moved to the side of the trail,

rudently behind a tree. On a wooden sledge, a boy sitting atop a heavy pigskin sack of ore and

whooping like a Tartary horseman skidded past Thur, followed shortly by another, racing each other

to the valley floor. There would be broken bones at the bottom if they didn't drag their feet before the

next curve. Somehow, they made it around, out of sight, and Thur grinned. Sledding the ore down to

the stream had been one of his favorite winter jobs a couple years back, before he'd grown to his

resent size and everyone spontaneously began assigning the heaviest tasks to him.

He reached the wooden shack sheltering the lift machinery and ventilation bellows, and stepped

gratefully out of the chill dawn breeze hissing down from the rocky wastes above. The mine foreman

was there before him, measuring the day's oil into their lamps. Thur's workmate Henzi was

unblocking the lift pulley and checking the teeth and rundles of the gears. Perhaps next year they

could afford to have the machine enlarged, and a hitch of horses or oxen to turn the axle. In the

meantime, ore must be raised, so two big men trod a wheel that turned beneath their straining legs.

Heavy work, but at least they could see daylight.

"Good morning, Master Entlebuch," Thur said politely to the foreman, rather hoping to be

assigned to the wheel today. But Master Entlebuch grunted to his feet and handed him a lamp. Farel

the pickman entered, stamping the snow from his boots, and also received an oil-charged lamp, and

the baskets and wooden trays for the black copper ore.

"Master Entlebuch, has the priest come to fumigate for the kobold infestation yet?" Farel asked

anxiously.

"No," said Master Entlebuch shortly.

"They're getting awfully forward down there. They knocked over two lamps, yesterday. And

that broken water-pump chain—that wasn't just rust."

"It was rust," said the foreman grumpily. "From the slapdash job somebody did of oiling it, most

likely. And as for the lamps, 'kobold' is but another word for 'clumsy,' in my belief. So get yourselves

down there and find some decent ore today, before we all starve. You two start on the upper face."

Thur and Farel packed their tools in the ore lift bucket, and started down the wooden ladder into

the mine.

"He's in a foul mood this morning," Farel whispered, above Thur in the plank-lined shaft, as

soon as they were out of earshot of the lift shed. "I bet he just won't pay for the priest's incense."

"Can't, more like," sighed Thur. The few veins they were presently working had been growing

oorer all year. There was no longer enough washed ore to keep Master Kunz's smelting furnace

working more than twice in the month. Or Thur would have been down helping at the forge this very

day, cleaning the spent furnaces, stoking the roaring fires, and watching Master Kunz's marvellous

transformations of black dirt into pure shimmering liquid metals. He would have been warm as toast,

working for Master Kunz. Perhaps he ought to try hiring himself out to the charcoal burners, though

with the smelter

at enforced rest there was little market for charcoal, either. The Ber

meister

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