Mucum had no time to think. He put his fingers to his lips, shaking his head at Shiv to tell her to be quiet as he quickly hid the food and its lifesaving contents under the mattress. As the footsteps pulled to a halt outside the cell door, he hoped they hadn’t been overheard. If they had, then a dulberry pie and a tiny knife would be no defense against the thrust of a well-aimed sword.

33• THE MIRACLE OF TECHNOLOGY

“You had a very, very lucky escape.”

Petronio heard the words as if they were muffled. He knew they were addressed to him and that the voice was female. He also worked out that his chest hurt, as if some buddy carpenter had mistaken it for a plank and been practicing with hammer and nails. At that moment, his eyes were still closed, but the voice was evidence enough that he was probably alive. He doubted that the boatman on the River Sticks would have such a feminine lilt. Anyhow, if he were dead, it would hardly be called “an escape.”

What exactly had Petronio escaped from? It came flooding back as a groan of pain issued from his lips: his little spying expedition; the soldier ready to shoot him after he said his prayers; the nettles rubbed in the other soldier’s face. Petronio flexed his fingers, feeling the swollen bumps where the stinging plants had exacted their revenge.

As he tried to open his eyes, the voice continued. “As for my men, it took a good deal of persuasion to stop them from stringing you up from the nearest branch, especially as one of them had a shattered tibia thanks to your efforts. Though as a surgeon’s apprentice, I’m sure you knew what you were doing.”

He could detect a grudging hint of admiration in the now comfortingly familiar voice.

“Here, drink.”

Petronio felt his head lifted up as Lady Fenestra’s face finally came swimming into view. “Ow! Lights too bright …,” he murmured. The drink was fizzy and sweet.

“Yes, well, this is a flypod surgery bay after all. The morphine has reduced the pain. The eight hours of sleep should have helped as well. How the glass bullet managed to miss your heart, I will never know. It might be worth thanking the quaint goddess you worship on this little island.”

Petronio grunted with the effort as he tried to sit up. Fenestra obliged by putting more pillows behind his back to give support. Aside from the bed, it was as if he’d been transported into a fantasy land. There was some kind of clear tube running into his arm. And two discs rested on his bandaged chest, joined by wires to a square box on a trolley. A number blinked out of the box.

“Eighty-four bpm resting rate. Considering your internal injuries, your heart is doing remarkably well.”