"So, German," Lord Ferrante spoke agreeably from his horse. "What do you know of cannon foundry?"
Thur shrugged, adjusting his pack more comfortably on his shoulders. He tried not to think about what was in the pack. "I've worked in smelteries, my lord, parting metals and ores. Cleaned the furnaces, and helped stack the fuels and metals. Run the bellows. I've helped with some casting in sand pits, but only little things, plaques and candlesticks ... except I once helped with a church bell."
"Hm. How would you repair a cracked bombast? If you had to."
"I ... it would depend on the crack, my lord. If it ran lengthwise, I've heard of heating iron tyres and binding the barrel around. If the crack ran crosswise, maybe use the old bombast as a pattern, and remelt and cast it. You would need some fresh metals to add, because of the waste in the furnace and channels."
"I see." Ferrante regarded him with mild approval. "I've seen military engineers do the trick with the tyres. You seem to know your work. Good. If I can find no other master, you may find yourself promoted."
"I ... would do my best, my lord," said Thur in an uncertain tone.
Ferrante chuckled. "I'd make sure of it."
He seemed in a fairly mellow mood, for a murderer. Thur ventured, "What were you looking for, in that house, my lord?"
Ferrante's smile thinned. "No concern of yours, German."
Thur took the hint, and stayed silent. They were nearing the hill where the road climbed to the castle. From the corner of his eye, Thur saw a man dart and crouch behind a water trough. One of a group of three young men waiting by a cross-corner was staring hard at Ferrante. The others seemed deliberately turned away. Ferrante became conscious of the starer, though he did not return the look; his chin rose and his jaw tightened. He switched his reins to his bandaged right hand. His left touched the hilt of his sword. Another group of half a dozen young men, seemingly drunk, were lurching down a side alley, singing. They bumped and jostled each other, but their voices were too subdued.
Ferrante's guards bristled like dogs, but did not draw, glancing to their master for orders.
Thur looked around for someplace, any place, a shop or alley, to duck away in. Nothing. The building on his right hand was solid, doors and shutters locked. Ahead, the three men joined the six, and they all lumbered into the street. All had swords out. None were smiling or joking or singing now. Determination, anger, fear, and second thoughts flickered in their faces. One boy, no older than Thur, looked so green-white Thur half-expected him to bend over and start vomiting.
A couple of the gang members made little rushes forward, then stepped back again when their company did not follow fast enough. A few began shouting insults at Ferrante and his guards, more to encourage themselves, Thur feared, than to annoy their enemies. Ferrante's face was set like iron. He nodded; his guards drew their swords. Vitelli, who bore only a dagger, reined in his horse.
Ferrante's veterans kept a silence more ominous than the attackers' shouted threats. The guards were tense—they might be illiterate, but at least they had enough arithmetic to know the difference between six and ten. Yet they seemed more intent than fearful, as if they faced an unpleasant but familiar and well-practiced task. Ferrante's boy-groom drew his dagger, and glanced back over his shoulder at his master for reassurance; Ferrante gave him a nod. Thur gibbered in his throat. Should he draw his knife or not? He was on the wrong side....
The street gang surged toward Ferrante at last, prodded by a screaming leader who switched his colorful insults from the Losimons to his unforward comrades. The three guards rushed ahead and engaged them with a clang and scrape of steel.
A well-dressed young man in blue doublet and bright yellow hose slipped between the embattled guards, his eyes on Ferrante. The little groom ran forward to meet him, brandishing his dagger. The contest was unequal, the dagger parry futile. The Montefoglian's sword buried itself in the boy's chest. The little groom screamed. Yellow-hose paused, as if shocked and astonished by his own effect.
Ferrante turned scarlet. "Coward!" he bellowed, snatched out his sword left-handed, and spurred his flashy chestnut horse on. His hot dark eyes focused on Yellow-hose with terrifying concentration. Yellow-hose took a look at his face, yanked his sword from the little groom with a spatter of blood, turned, and ran.
He almost succeeded in drawing Ferrante out from his screen of guards. Hands reached up to grab for the horse's gilded bridle, and the street men roared. Ferrante swung at them, and spurred again. His horse reared and kicked, squealing, connecting at least once with a solid, juicy thunk. The guards ran forward to catch up.
A Montefoglian swordsman popped up in front of Thur. Thur whipped out his dagger and knocked the blow away barely in time, and then, not knowing what else to do, lunged forward and wrapped his assailant in a bear hug, trapping the sword arm. His prisoner heaved and struggled, and they gasped garlic and onion, exertion and terror, onto each other. "Not me, you idiot!" Thur groaned into the Montefoglian's nearby ear. "I'm on your side!" The Montefoglian tried to butt him with his head.
A flash of color and movement to the side—Thur wrenched his prisoner around just as another Montefoglian thrust at him. The man's sword ran clean through his comrade's back and pierced Thur's belly. Thur sprang back with a cry of pain and surprise, and the man he'd bear-hugged slumped to the cobbles. The second swordsman wailed, and drew his sword out hurriedly, as if he might so take back his misaimed, disastrous blow.
Thur touched his belly. His shaking hand came away red as the stain spread on his new tan tunic. But it was only a surface cut; he could feel it, no organs touched. He could straighten and move, and did, snuffling backwards. The Montefoglian didn't follow up but, crying, tried to drag his injured comrade away.
Thur whirled around as a scraping clatter grew deafening. It was the scrabble of hooves on the cobblestones. Half a dozen green-clad Losimon cavalrymen were riding down from the castle to succor their lord. They slammed into the street men from behind, scattering them and totally disrupting their attack. Each man turned from the assault on Ferrante and began to try to save himself. Losimons chased them severally up the alleyway. Thur felt around himself; he had not, thank God, dropped his pack nor spilled its incriminating contents across the cobbles.
Ferrante, breathing heavily, soothed his pawing horse. The animal's eyes rolled white, nostrils flaring with the scent of blood. The boy-groom, whey-faced, eyes fixed and staring, lay now across Ferrante's lap. Ferrante sheathed his sword and, murmuring, turned the boy's head around to his. He stared for a stunned moment into the dead face, then growled like a wolf.
Two of the guards were injured. Three dead Montefoglians lay on the stones, including the one Thur had wrestled. Two dismounted cavalrymen held the struggling Yellow-hose a prisoner.
Ferrante's face went from red to livid gray. He pointed to the prisoner, and spoke to his cavalry captain. "Squeeze that one. Find out the names of his accomplices. Then hunt them down and kill them." The chestnut horse danced uneasily beneath its rigid rider.