Page 103 of Fiorenzo

“Noted.” Fiore shut his jaw with a click.

The ensuing silence filled the chamber like a roiling fog, broken only by the steady drip and lap of water throughout, and the occasional scurry of unseen rats. His captor idly polished his knife with a ragged handkerchief. He hardly seemed to notice Fiore was there—though no doubt that would quickly change if Fiore so much as twitched towards freedom.

Minutes passed like hours. Not that Fiore could tell the difference between either with no watch and no sun. He wondered how long his captor would wait for his companions to return. Perhaps they’d both run away with the ransom and cut him out altogether.

“Do you do a lot of kidnapping?” Fiore asked.

“No,” said broken-nose, much to Fiore’s surprise. “Mostly we just make folk disappear.”

“Oh,” said Fiore. Then, a moment afterward and far more softly, “Oh.”

The ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his captor’s lips.

Fiore wracked his brains for something, anything, to distract his captor. He struck upon something. He didn’t like it. Still, he swallowed down his own disgust and said, “Perhaps you’d like to know for yourself what the duke sees in me?”

Broken-nose blinked. Whether at his hostage’s audacity or stupidity, Fiore couldn’t tell.

Fiore kept on. “After all, what’s good for the duke is good for the gander.”

It was barely a pun. Nonetheless, broken-nose laughed. Fiore misliked the sound.

“Thought you said he was fond of your cock,” broken-nose noted.

“He is,” Fiore quickly agreed—both because it was true and because he didn’t want his captor to consider cutting it off again. “But you don’t seem that sort. Unless I’m much mistaken.”

Broken-nose snorted. “No, indeed.”

Fiore threw out one last desperate crumb. “I’m told a hole is a hole.”

Broken-nose gave him a considering look.

Fiore tried to look enticing rather than terrified. There was nothing to hand save lamp oil, and he doubted his captor would waste it on his ass. It would hurt—a lot—but if it would keep him alive…

Broken-nose stood up.

Fiore swallowed hard. Bolting wouldn’t help. He’d get knifed before he gained three strides. And even if he made it to the water, he didn’t like his chances swimming with his hands tied behind his back.

Broken-nose stepped up to him.

Fiore resisted the urge to test his bonds again.

Before Fiore could even blink, broken-nose seized him by the arm, forced him face-down against the stones, and pinned him there with a knee between his shoulder blades. The hemp around his hands and wrists fell free—but he dared not even flinch towards freedom. Broken-nose had his wrists tied up again in a trice anyways, in case any doubt remained that he was at some point a sailor. Fiore’s legs splayed limp, his aching knees creaking their screams of equal relief and anguish.

Then broken-nose hauled him up by his bound wrists and slammed him face-first against the wall of bones. Another hostage might have felt terror. Fiore felt a queer sort of elation. His legs were all pins and needles—without his captor’s support he could never have stood—but they were free. When opportunity came, he could run. And if he made it to the water, he could at least kick, which was most of swimming. The water would make his bonds slicker even than blood. His newly narrowed hand could make it out, if he only had the chance.

But first he must wait for the opportune moment. And before that… well. Nothing he hadn’t done before.

Broken-nose laid the blade of his dagger against Fiore’s throat.

Fiore didn’t dare breathe.

“If I have you,” said broken-nose, “it’ll be like this all the while.”

Fiore forced his voice into a semblance of bravery. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Which was true enough, even if it wasn’t an experience he cared to repeat.

Broken-nose only laughed.

---