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“Keep back, your grace,” Canello called out even as Enzo approached.
Enzo ignored the advice. By the hooded lantern’s light he beheld a man of some thirty-odd years bearing a well-waxed moustache. Wide eyes flicked a panicked gaze between Enzo and the two guards.
“Shall we take him alive, your grace?” Ferruzzi asked.
Enzo nodded.
A sigh escaped the brigand. “Thank you, your grace! You shan’t regret—”
What further deceptions the brigand wished to spin were silenced as Enzo dropt to his knees and shoved his handkerchief into his lying mouth. By the time they had him trussed up, Zanetta had descended from the rooftop to join them.
“What of the other one?” she asked as she approached.
“Dead,” Ferruzzi declared, having knelt to examine the enormous body.
“Shall we bring the corpse back with us as well?” Canello asked. Both his gaze and his crossbow remained fixed on the smaller brigand as he spoke.
Enzo shook his head. Hauling so many pounds of flesh would only slow them down. Fiore needed him quick. “Into the canal.”
Zanetta and Ferruzzi shared a speaking glance. But none of the guard questioned the order aloud. Canello kept watch over the smaller brigand as the other two searched the larger’ s corpse. They found nothing of consequence.
It took the combined strength of Zanetta, Ferruzzi, and Enzo himself to roll the dead weight into the canal. A tribute, Enzo supposed, to Saturn or Neptune or Bellenos himself—whichever god chose to watch over their deeds this night. He hoped it would gratify them to have a true human sacrifice for once rather than a mere effigy.
For Fiore’s plight required all the blessings the gods could bestow.
~
Trapped in a sepulchral chthonic prison, Fiore couldn’t keep time by the passage of the sun or moon. A cleverer sort might have known the hour by the rising and falling of the tide. Even if Fiore were so clever, pain proved a constant distraction.
Besides, he needed to focus what little wit and artifice remained to him on planning his escape.
He knew he would be slain the very moment the brute and the mustachioed fellow returned with the ransom money. He’d seen all their faces. Once they had the money in hand, they no longer needed him breathing. If he wanted to live, he had to escape before they returned.
And for all he knew, they would return at any moment.
Broken-nose had ignored him since the departure of the mustachioed fellow and the brute. In a fair fight Fiore had no chance against him. And the fight certainly wouldn’t be fair. Even if he could somehow slip his bonds, they’d warped him out-of-joint and mangled his hand besides. Fiore took a fight off the table and focused on his remaining options; persuasion, which seemed unlikely to bring success, or distraction.
Fiore wished he knew more of the man. It would give him something to work off of. From his garb—loose slops rather than breeches—he appeared a sailor. Whether common merchant sailor or pirate, Fiore couldn’t say. He knew well the tastes of both. Many of his suitors were seamen, seeking familiar delights in a vessel of familiar shape.
This fancied familiarity gave Fiore enough courage to seek still more. He ran his dry tongue over his cracked lips and forced strength into his voice to ask, “What ought I to call you?”
Broken-nose glared at him. “Call me anything and I’ll cut out your tongue.”
“The duke will miss that as well,” Fiore replied before he could stop himself.
Broken-nose didn’t seem amused. Fiore hoped he might consider the thought regardless.
“I’m called Fiore,” he said. Perhaps offering his own name would encourage reciprocity.
Broken-nose gave him a dull stare. “I know.”
Fiore supposed he ought to have expected that. They had, after all, sought him out specifically. He flailed internally for some point of commonality between himself and his captor. “Don’t suppose I could interest you in a game of cards?”
Broken-nose remained unmoved. “I don’t need your blood on my deck.”
Fiore winced at the reminder of his mangled hand. It’d been rather too much to hope for that his kidnapper might untie him for the sake of mere gambling. “Riddles?”
“Not if you wish to keep your tongue.”
