Thur felt in his tunic for the two remaining ears, and studied the men. They looked harder-faced, more alert than the fellow who'd been sitting tiredly by the dungeon door last night. Dare Thur try his thin story about checking the bolts and bars a second time?

While Thur stood trying to muster up his courage, the little door swung inward and the guards came to attention. A Losimon officer exited, followed by three women who stood blinking in the light. Two women and a girl, Thur corrected himself. The first was a dark-haired, prettily plump matron of perhaps twenty-five, wearing a crocus-yellow linen gown. The second, older woman wore black and white silk. She was a little, faded blonde; sandy-haired, sandy-complexioned, her face drawn and stiff in the shade of a brimmed hat. The girl, almost as tall, wore pale green linen and a close cap, a braided rope of gold hair falling from her nape. She clung tightly to the faded woman s arm.

The officer gestured them onwards, palms open like a man herding sheep. Frowning at him, they scuffled across the courtyard and up the marble stairs, disappearing into the castle. Thur bit his lip, then walked quickly back through the stable and climbed over the rear gate into the castle garden. His work mates made a few sharp comments about shirkers as he hurried past the brick pile. But he had not strode half the length of the garden when the women reappeared at its main entry and then descended into the open, still dogged by the officer. Thur hesitated, and bent to pretend to knock a bit of gravel from his shoe. The silk-gowned woman went to sit on a marble bench under a grape arbor, the tender green leaves making a woven shade. The girl and the dark woman in crocus-yellow linked arms protectively, and strolled upon a gravel walk. The noble prisoners were being aired, it seemed.

For how long? Dare he just walk up to them? The officer lingered close by, within hearing. Confused by this ambiguous near-opportunity, Thur retreated to his brick pile and made to lay on another course, all the time watching down the garden. The Duchess's hat turned toward him once, then away; the strollers paused by her bench. Then they strolled toward him. Thur held his breath. The officer made a step to follow, but then changed his mind and waited near the Duchess, leaning on an arbor post with his arms crossed.

The two young women drew nearer. The girl must be Lady Julia, the matron some sort of lady-in-waiting. One or the workmen made a coarse comment under his breath.

"Lamb or mutton, it's all for my lord's table," his companion murmured back with a sour grin. "Not even a scrap for us, I'll wager."

"Shut up," Thur growled. The laborer frowned back but, perhaps daunted by Thur's size, swallowed whatever insubordinate jape was on his tongue and bent again to his shovel. Thur walked around his furnace base with a judiciously measuring glance, trying to look like the man in charge. He evidently succeeded, for upon coming up the dark-haired woman inquired of him, "What are you doing here, workman, tearing up our poor garden?"

Thur ducked his head in a clumsy half-bow, and immediately trod nearer to her. "We're building a furnace, Madonna. To repair that bombast yonder." Thur pointed to the green pot.

"By whose order?" she asked, stepping back.

"Lord Ferrante's, of course." Thur gestured expansively, and stepped close enough at last to lower his voice. He blurted out quickly, "My name is Thur Ochs. Brother to your guard captain Uri Ochs. Abbot Monreale sent me. I'm only passing myself off as a foundryman."

The dark woman's hand tightened on the girl's arm. "Go fetch your mother at once, Julia."

"No," Thur began to protest, but the girl was already scampering away. "We mustn't be seen to be conversing in secret, it will give all away." He turned, and began pointing at various parts of the foundry operation as if still explaining its function. The workmen, just beyond earshot, turned their curious eyes away to follow the gestures, and Thur slipped a little ear from his tunic and whispered its activation spell into his palm. He let his concealing hand drop casually to his side, flashing it briefly toward the woman. "This is a magic ear. When you talk into it, Abbot Monreale and his monks at Saint Jerome will be able to hear you. Hide it, quickly!"

Staring at the bombast, she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, and touched it to her face as if she were feeling the heat. It fell from her hand. Thur bent to retrieve it. Ear and handkerchief disappeared into her sleeve again. She save him a polite nod of thanks, but stepped back as if repelled by his peasant stench.

Or perhaps she really was repelled by his peasant stench. His gray tunic was stained with the sweat of the hot morning's labor.

Duchess Letitia arrived in tow of Lady Julia. The older woman at least had the wit to gaze out over the work site first, instead of directly at Thur.

"This foundryman claims to be an agent of Bishop Monreale's," the dark-haired woman murmured. Thur swallowed, and made an unfeignedly awkward bow, Work-lout Introduced To Duchess; the play might well pass, at a distance.

Letitia's red-rimmed, faded blue eyes grew hard as steel. She stepped to Thur and gazed up into his face. Her hand clutched convulsively at his sleeve. "Monreale?" she breathed. "Does he have Ascanio?"

"Yes, Lady. Safe at the monastery."

Her puffy eyelids closed. "Thank God. Thank the Mother of God,"

"But ... the monastery is besieged by Losimons. I have to get back there, to get help. My brother is killed, and Ferrante and Vitelli are trying to enslave his ghost to a spirit ring. I have to stop them, but I don't know how."

The Duchess's eyes opened again. "Killing them would do it," she observed dispassionately.

"I ... haven't had a good chance," Thur stammered, only half-truthrully. He'd had chances, they just hadn't been good enough. I bet they would have been good enough for Uri.

"If I could but lay hands on my ebony rosary, I swear I would make my own chance," Letitia stated. Her eyes turned away, once again concealing the intimacy of this conversation. The woman in yellow folded her arms.

"Beg pardon?" said Thur.

"See you, man—do you think you could make your way in secret to my chambers? There is an ebony rosary in my escritoire. Or there was, if it hasn't been looted by now. It's very distinctive, with gold wire flanges. On its end hangs a little ivory ball, cunningly carved. If you could find it and bring it to me—"

"The cracked bombast itself will be melted down to make up part of the metal," Thur interrupted her loudly. He widened his eyes at her, desperately signalling. Lord Ferrante had just exited the castle. He looked around and spied the women, waved away his officer's salute, and started down the garden; the guard followed, to take station discreetly beyond hearing, leaning up against the outer curtain wall. Ferrante held a small, rather scruffy dog with protuberant brown eyes under his arm. Thur continued, "The rest we shall melt new. Lord Ferrante deals us no shortages in our work."

Julia at first shrank nearer to her mother, but then saw the little dog. "Pippin!" she cried.

The dog wriggled frantically; Ferrante scratched its ears to calm it, then bent and released it. It ran to its mistress and jumped up on her skirts, yipping, then tore around the garden in circles. It returned to Julia's calling at last, and she picked it up and cradled it in her arms, dropping kisses on its head.

The dark-haired woman made a scandalized face. "Don't kiss the dog, Julia!"

"I thought he'd killed poor Pippin!" A fierce glower toward Ferrante identified the accused. Tears sparkled in her eyes.

"I only said I wished to borrow him," said Ferrante in a reasonable, indeed, kindly tone. "See, here he is back safe and sound. You must learn to trust my word, if we are to get on, Lady Julia."