A thick oak door was set in an archway framed in white marble blocks, contrasting brightly with the yellowish native stone of the walls. The door stood open, guarded by a green-tabarded Losimon, armed. A fresh-faced young Losimon groom stood in the street nearby, holding the reins of two horses. One animal wore a plain leather headstall. The other, a big glossy chestnut with a snowy, showy blaze and white legs, had a long-shanked, gilded bit and gold-studded, green leather reins, with a silk-tassled breastband and crupper to match. Thur paused uncertainly.

"What do you want?" the guard, seeing him loiter, asked suspiciously.

"I was told Lord Ferrante's secretary, Messer Vitelli, wished to hire foundrymen," Thur began, letting his northern accent thicken. He was about to add, But I got turned around and lost in the city, when the guard relaxed and waved an understanding hand.

"Go right in."

Startled, Thur sidled past him. He paused in the stone-flagged hallway to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. To his right a door led into a deserted workroom, with workbenches and a clutter of tools strewn about—thrown about, Thur realized from the empty brackets on the walls. The benches were shoved out of place, one upturned. Looters had evidently given the room a once-over, but not yet stripped it of all tools and function. Thur walked forward into the brightness of a large inner courtyard.

The courtyard had its own well. A little pool was now dry. The court might have been originally designed as a garden room, but was very far from gardenlike now. It more resembled an infernal workshop, housing some satanic project interrupted and abandoned. Thur's eye picked out meaning from the apparent chaos of cranes, brickwork, digging, and scaffolding.

Master Beneforte had built a raised smelting furnace, right in his courtyard. Below it, in a deep dug-out depression, stood a huge clay lump, stuck about with thin tubes and fenced with iron bands and girders. The lump was vaguely manlike, an elemental swamp-monster struggling toward form. It could only be the great Perseus Fiametta had spoken of. Char in the pit revealed where the wax had been melted out of the mold, drying and readying it for its molten bronze. Around the figure was built up a bank of earth, pierced here and there with clay pipes. The whole was tented over with canvas, to keep the nonexistent rain off the baked clay.

From the wooden gallery circling the courtyard above came a man's deep voice calling, "No luck here." Footsteps echoed, and Thur turned to see the man lean on the rail and stare down at him in turn.

He was a powerful-looking fellow in his thirties, wearing military garb, chain mail over a padded coat, tough leather leggings for riding below. An officer, by his sword and confident bearing. Dark hair was cut plain to fit in a smooth cap under a helmet. He was clean-shaved, though a natural heaviness of beard darkened his jaw. His face was redeemed from heaviness overall by alert dark eyes that studied Thur without fear, measuringry. His right hand, resting on the railing, was wrapped about with a white gauze bandage.

More footsteps, and another man appeared on the gallery opposite. Thur schooled his face to reveal no twitch of recognition. It was the red-robed little man he had seen atop the tower in Monreale's mirror, directing the crossbowmen's fire. "Nothing here, either," he said, then looked down and noticed Thur. He frowned. "What's this?"

Thur doffed his cap again. "Excuse me, sir. I'm a metal-worker. The guard at the town gate told me to see Messer Vitelli."

"Oh." The little man grew less stiff. "They sent you on, eh? Well, you've found me."

It seemed to Thur that his damnable talent for finding things lacked discrimination. He was not at all sure he was ready to deal with Messer Vitelli. Yet the fellow was slight, clericish, not too well endowed with chin, bright-eyed and jerky as a blackbird. Why should he make Thur uneasy?

"Are you a foundry master, by chance?" asked Vitelli.

"No, Messer."

"Pity. Well, you look strong enough. You're hired. How are you at solving puzzles?"

"Eh?"

"Strong, but not too bright. Come up here."

Obediently, Thur mounted the stairs to the gallery and presented himself to the man in red. The soldierly fellow strolled around to join them.

"We're looking for something," Vitelli told Thur. "A book, or possibly a bundle of papers. It will be well hidden."

A pile of books and papers overflowed from a chest that sat waiting on the gallery. Thur pointed to it. "Not one of those, Messer?'

"No. But similar. Those are valuable, but they're not what we seek."

The soldierly man rumbled, "How can you be so sure it even exists, Niccolo? I think you have us on a wild goose chase. Or Beneforte may have burned it, years ago."

"It must exist, my lord. If he'd had it, he wouldn't have destroyed it. No mage could. Not if he'd already gone so far."

My lord? So this was Lord Ferrante himself? Thur wondered if he should pull out his little dagger and attempt to assassinate the man on the spot. His dagger was more used to cutting bread at dinner. The soldierly man scarcely looked the devil incarnate that Thur had been expecting. An ordinary man, even attractive. And Ferrante's mail protected him, nor did he turn his back. That seemed a quite casual habit, as he slid past them toward the next room. But he didn't let anyone, not even Vitelli, get behind him. Then another green-clad guard came out of the room, and the moment of opportunity was gone.

"Help him." Vitelli directed Thur to the guard. "Tap every brick, try every board. Don't skip a one."

"Yes, Messer." The bored-looking guard motioned Thur to follow him.

And so Thur found himself licking on stone and knocking on plaster, and crouching on the floor sliding his dagger between the boards, inch by inch. They did one room, then another.

Vitelli stuck his head through the door. "Finish this floor. We're going to try the cellars."

I'd go up, not down, thought Thur automatically, and choked the words on his lips. Now was not the time to let his talent, or luck or whatever it was, shine forth. Of that, he was certain. He bent his head to the floorboards and ignored the ceiling.

The next room, he realized with a little shock as they entered it, was Fiametta's own. The wooden bed had been broken apart, the mattress knifed open in the first excited search for the goldsmith's treasures. A couple of chests had been upended and emptied out, but nothing remained of their contents now except a few old linens strewn on the floor. Surely Fiametta had owned more clothes than that. The good cloth must have been taken. Disturbed by an obscure sense of violation, Thur righted the chests, gathered the undergarments back up, and clumsily folded them away. Had the soldiers laughed, clowned around with her women's clothes? Thur didn't want anyone to laugh at Fiametta, with her sturdy dignity so hard-held. He frowned deeply.

"Come on, here," the impatient guard, sensing shirking, demanded help. Thur dutifully started tapping the walls. There was nothing behind the walls, of that he was sure. One wall, two, three ...

"Ah, ha!" cried the guard, from the floor in the corner. "Got it!" He jimmied a short floorboard out of its slot with the tip of his dagger. A bundle of paper tied about with silk ribbon rested within the space. He snatched it out and brandished it triumphantly, grinning, and hurried out to find his master. Thur followed.

They found Lord Ferrante and Messer Vitelli in the kitchen, just climbing out of the root cellar, looking dirty and disgusted.

"Here, my lord!" The excited guard thrust the bundle of papers forward.

"Ha!" Vitelli snatched it, ripped off the ribbon, and spread the papers across the kitchen table. The cracks of the wood were yellow with the flour of many batches of bread and noodles. Vitelli read eagerly, turning papers over, then his face fell. "Damn! Rubbish."