Best Served Cold

For two years, half the Thousand Swords pretended to fight the other half. Cosca, when he was sober enough to speak, boasted that never before in history had men made so much for doing so little. They sucked the coffers of Nicante and Affoia bone dry, then turned north when their hopes were dashed by the sudden outbreak of peace, seeking new wars to profit from, or ambitious employers to begin them.

No employer was more ambitious than Orso, the new Grand Duke of Talins, kicked to power after his elder brother was kicked by his favourite horse. He was all too eager to sign a Paper of Engagement with the well-known mercenary Monzcarro Murcatto. Especially since his enemies in Etrea had but lately hired the infamous Nicomo Cosca to lead their troops.

It proved difficult to bring the two to battle, however. Like two cowards circling before a brawl, they spent a whole season in ruinously expensive manoeuvrings, doing much harm to the farmers of the region but little to each other. They were finally urged together in ripe wheat-fields near the village of Afieri, where a battle seemed sure to follow. Or something that looked very like one.

But that evening Monza had an unexpected visitor to her tent. None other than Duke Orso himself.

"Your Excellency, I had not expected—"

"No need for pleasantries. I know what Nicomo Cosca has planned for tomorrow."

Monza frowned. "I imagine he plans to fight, and so do I."

"He plans no such thing, and neither do you. The pair of you have been making fools of your employers for the past two years. I do not care to be made a fool of. I can see fake battles in the theatre at a fraction of the cost. That is why I will pay you twice to fight him in earnest."

Monza had not been expecting this. "I…"

"You have loyalty to him, I know. I respect that. Everyone must stick at something in their lives. But Cosca is the past, and I have decided that you are the future. Your brother agrees with me."

Monza had certainly not been expecting that. She stared at Benna, and he grinned back. "It's better like this. You deserve to lead."

"I can't… the other captains will never—"

"I spoke to them already," said Benna. "All except Faithful, and that old dog will follow along when he sees how the wind's blowing. They're sick of Cosca, and his drinking, and his foolishness. They want a long contract and a leader they can be proud of. They want you."

The Duke of Talins was watching. She could not afford to seem reluctant. "Then I accept, of course. You had me at paid twice," she lied.

Orso smiled. "I have a feeling you and I will do well for one another, General Murcatto. I will look forward to news of your victory tomorrow." And he left.

When the tent flap dropped Monza cuffed her brother across the face and knocked him to the ground. "What have you done, Benna? What have you done?"

He looked sullenly up at her, one hand to his bloody mouth. "I thought you'd be pleased."

"No you fucking didn't! You thought you'd be. I hope you are."

But there was nothing she could do but forgive him, and make the best of it. He was her brother. The only one who really knew her. And Sesaria, Victus, Andiche and most of the other captains had agreed. They were tired of Nicomo Cosca. So there could be no turning back. The next day, as dawn slunk out of the east and they prepared for the coming battle, Monza ordered her men to charge in earnest. What else could she do?

By evening she was sitting in Cosca's chair, with Benna grinning beside her and her newly enriched captains drinking to her first victory. Everyone laughed but her. She was thinking of Cosca, and all he had given her, what she had owed him and how she had paid him back. She was in no mood to celebrate.

Besides, she was captain general of the Thousand Swords. She could not afford to laugh.

Sixes

The dice came up a pair of sixes.

In the Union they call that score suns, like the sun on their flag. In Baol they call it twice won, because the house pays double on it. In Gurkhul they call it the Prophet or the Emperor, depending where a man's loyalty lies. In Thond it is the golden dozen. In the Thousand Isles, twelve winds. In Safety they call two sixes the jailer, because the jailer always wins. All across the Circle of the World men cheer for that score, but to Friendly it was no better than any other. It won him nothing. He turned his attention back to the great bridge of Puranti, and the men crossing it.

The faces of the statues on their tall columns might have worn to pitted blobs, the roadway might have cracked with age and the parapet crumbled, but the six arches still soared tall and graceful, scornful of the dizzy drop below. The great piers of rock from which they sprang, six times six strides high, still defied the battering waters. Six hundred years old and more, but the Imperial bridge was still the only way across the Pura's deep gorge at this time of year. The only way to Ospria by land.

The army of Grand Duke Rogont marched across it in good order, six men abreast. The regular tramp, tramp of their boots was like a mighty heartbeat, accompanied by the jingle and clatter of arms and harness, the occasional calls of officers, the steady murmur of the watching crowd, the rushing throb of the river far below. They had been marching across it all morning, now, by company, by battalion, by regiment. Moving forests of spear tips, gleaming metal and studded leather. Dusty, dirty, determined faces. Proud flags hanging limp on the still air. Their six-hundredth rank had passed not long before. Some four thousand men across already and at least as many more to follow. Six, by six, by six, they came.

"Good order. For a retreat." Shivers' voice had withered to a throaty whisper in Visserine.

Vitari snorted. "If there's one thing Rogont knows how to manage it's a retreat. He's had enough practice."

"One must appreciate the irony," observed Morveer, watching the soldiers pass with a look of faint scorn. "Today's proud legions march over the last vestiges of yesterday's fallen empire. So it always is with military splendour. Hubris made flesh."

"How incredibly profound." Murcatto curled her lip. "Why, travelling with the great Morveer is both pleasure and education."

"I am philosopher and poisoner all in one. I pray you not to worry, though, my fee covers both. Remunerate me for my bottomless insights, the poison comes free of charge."

"Does our luck have no end?" she grated back.

"Does it even have a beginning?" murmured Vitari.

The group was down to six, and those more irritable than ever. Murcatto, hood drawn up, black hair hanging lank from inside, only her pointed nose and chin and hard mouth visible. Shivers, half his head still bandaged and the other half milk-pale, his one eye sunk in a dark ring. Vitari, sitting on the parapet with her legs stretched out and her shoulders propped against a broken column, freckled face tipped back towards the bright sun. Morveer, frowning down at the churning water, his apprentice leaning nearby. And Friendly, of course. Six. Cosca was dead. In spite of his name, Friendly rarely kept friends long.

"Talking of remuneration," Morveer droned on, "we should visit the nearest bank and have a note drawn up. I hate to have debts outstanding between myself and an employer. It leaves a sour taste on our otherwise honey-sweet relationship."

"Sweet," grunted Day, around a mouthful, though whether she was talking about her cake or the relationship, it was impossible to say.

"You owe me for my part in General Ganmark's demise, a peripheral yet vital one, since it prevented you from partaking in a demise of your own. I have also to replace the equipment so carelessly lost in Visserine. Need I once again point out that, had you allowed me to remove our problematic farmers as I desired, there would have been no—"

"Enough," hissed Murcatto. "I don't pay you to be reminded of my mistakes."

"I imagine that service too is free of charge." Vitari slid down from the parapet. Day swallowed the last of her cake and licked her fingers. They all made ready to move, except for Friendly. He stayed, looking down at the water.

"Time to move," said Murcatto.

"Yes. I am going back to Talins."

"You're what?"

"Sajaam was sending word to me here, but there is no letter."

"It's a long way to Talins. There's a war—"

"This is Styria. There's always a war."

There was a pause while she looked at him, her eyes almost hidden in her hood. The others watched, none showing much feeling at his going. People rarely did, when he went, and nor did he. "You're sure?" she asked.

"Yes." He had seen half of Styria—Westport, Sipani, Visserine and much of the country in between—and hated it all. He had felt shiftless and scared sitting in Sajaam's smoke-house, dreaming of Safety. Now those long days, the smell of husk, the endless cards and posturing, the routine rounds of the slums collecting money, the occasional moments of predictable and well-structured violence, all seemed like some happy dream. There was nothing for him out here, where every day was under a different sky. Murcatto was chaos, and he wanted no more of her.

"Take this then." She pulled a purse out from her coat.

"I am not here for your money."

"Take it anyway. It's a lot less than you deserve. Might make the journey easier." He let her press it into his hand.

"Luck be at your back," said Shivers.

Friendly nodded. "The world is made of six, today."

"Six be at your back, then."

"It will be, whether I want it or not." Friendly swept up the dice with the side of his hand, wrapped them carefully in their cloth and tucked them down inside his jacket. Without a backward glance he slipped off through the crowds lining the bridge, against the endless current of soldiers, over the endless current of water. He left both behind, struck on into the smaller, meaner part of the city on the river's western side. He would pass the time by counting the number of strides it took him to reach Talins. Since he said his goodbyes he had made already three hundred and sixty-six—

"Master Friendly!" He jerked round, frowning, hands itching ready to move to knife and cleaver. A figure leaned lazily in a doorway off the street, arms and boots crossed, face all in shadow. "Whatever are the odds of meeting you here?" The voice sounded terribly familiar. "Well, you would know the odds better than me, I'm sure, but a happy chance indeed, on that we can agree."

"We can," said Friendly, beginning to smile as he realised who it was.

"Why, I feel almost as if I threw a pair of sixes…"

The Eye-Maker

A bell tinkled as Shivers shoved the door open and stepped through into the shop, Monza at his shoulder. It was dim inside, light filtering through the window in a dusty shaft and falling across a marble counter, shadowy shelves down one wall. At the back, under a hanging lamp, was a big chair with a leather pad to rest your head on. Might've looked inviting, except for the straps to hold the sitter down. On a table beside it a neat row of instruments were laid out. Blades, needles, clamps, pliers. Surgeon's tools.

That room might've given him a cold tremble fit to match his name once, but no more. He'd had his eye burned out of his face, and lived to learn the lessons. The world hardly seemed to have any horrors left. Made him smile, to think how scared he'd always been before. Scared of everything and nothing. Smiling tugged at the great wound under his bandages and made his face burn, so he stopped.

The bell brought a man creeping through a side door, hands rubbing nervously together. Small and dark-skinned with a sorry face. Worried they were here to rob him, more'n likely, what with Orso's army not far distant. Everyone in Puranti seemed worried, scared they'd lose what they had. Apart from Shivers himself. He hadn't much to lose.

"Sir, madam, can I be of assistance?"

"You're Scopal?" asked Monza. "The eye-maker?"

"I am Scopal," he bent a nervous bow, "scientist, surgeon, physician, specialising in all things relating to the vision."

Shivers undid the knot at the back of his head. "Good enough." And he started unwinding the bandages. "Fact is I've lost an eye."

That perked the surgeon up. "Oh, don't say lost, my friend!" He came forwards into the light from the window. "Don't say lost until I have had a chance to view the damage. You would be amazed at what can be achieved! Science is leaping forwards every day!"

"Springy bastard, ain't it."

Scopal gave an uncertain chuckle. "Ah… most elastic. Why, I have returned a measure of sight to men who thought themselves blind for life. They called me a magician! Imagine that! They called me… a…"

Shivers peeled away the last bandages, the air cold against his tingling skin, and he stepped up closer, turning the left side of his face forwards. "Well? What do you reckon? Can science make that big a jump?"

The man gave a polite nod. "My apologies. But even in the area of replacement I have made great discoveries, never fear!"

Shivers took a half-step further, looming over the man. "Do I look feared to you?"

"Not in the least, of course, I merely meant… well…" Scopal cleared his throat and sidled to the shelves. "My current process for an ocular prosthesis is—"

"The fuck?"

"Fake eye," said Monza.

"Oh, much, much more than that." Scopal slid out a wooden rack. Six metal balls sat on it, gleaming silver-bright. "A perfect sphere of the finest Midderland steel is inserted into the orbit where it will, one hopes, remain permanently." He brought down a round board, flipped it towards them with a showy twist. It was covered with eyes. Blue ones, green ones, brown ones. Each had the colour of a real eye, the gleam of a real eye, some of the whites even had a red vein or two in 'em. And still they looked about as much like a real eye as a boiled egg might've.

Scopal waved at his wares with high smugness. "A curved enamel such as these, painted with care to match perfectly your other eye, is then inserted between metal ball and eyelid. These are prone to wear, and must therefore be regularly changed, but, believe me, the results can be uncanny."

The fake eyes stared, unblinking, at Shivers. "They look like dead men's eyes."

An uncomfortable pause. "When glued upon a board, of course, but properly fitted within a living face—"

"Reckon it's a good thing. Dead men tell no lies, eh? We'll have no more lies." Shivers strode to the back of the shop, dropped down into the chair, stretched out and crossed his legs. "Get to it, then."

"At once?"

"Why not?"

"The steel will take an hour or two to fit. Preparing a set of enamels usually requires at least a fortnight—" Monza tossed a stack of silver coins onto the counter and they jingled as they spilled across the stone. Scopal humbly bowed his head. "I will fit the closest I have, and have the rest ready by tomorrow evening." He turned the lamp up so bright Shivers had to shield his good eye with one hand. "It will be necessary to make some incisions."

"Some whats, now?"

"Cuts," said Monza.

"'Course it will. Nothing in life worth doing that doesn't need a blade, eh?"

Scopal shuffled the instruments around on the little table. "Followed by some stitches, the removal of the useless flesh—"

"Dig out the dead wood? I'm all for it. Let's have a fresh start."

"Might I suggest a pipe?"

"Fuck, yes," he heard Monza whisper.

"Suggest away," said Shivers. "I'm getting bored o' pain the last few weeks."

The eye-maker bowed his head, eased off to charge the pipe. "I remember you getting your hair cut," said Monza. "Nervous as a lamb at its first shearing."

"Heh. True."

"Now look at you, keen to be fitted for an eye."

"A wise man once told me you have to be realistic. Strange how fast we change, ain't it, when we have to?"

She frowned back at him. "Don't change too far. I've got to go."

"No stomach for the eye-making business?"

"I've got to renew an acquaintance."

"Old friend?"

"Old enemy."

Shivers grinned. "Dearer yet. Watch you don't get killed, eh?" And he settled back in the chair, pulled the strap tight round his forehead. "We've still got work to do." He closed his good eye, the lamplight glowing pink through the lid.

Prince of Prudence

Grand duke rogont had made his headquarters in the Imperial Bath-Hall. The building was still one of the greatest in Puranti, casting half the square at the east end of the old bridge into shadow. But like the rest of the city, it had seen better centuries. Half its great pediment and two of the six mighty pillars that once held it up had collapsed lifetimes before, the stone pilfered for the mismatched walls of newer, meaner buildings. The stained masonry sprouted with grass, with dead ivy, with a couple of stubborn little trees, even. Probably baths had been a higher priority when it was built, before everyone in Styria started trying to kill each other. Happy times, when keeping the water hot enough had been anyone's biggest worry. The crumbling building might have whispered of the glories of a lost age, but made a sad comment on Styria's long decline.

If Monza had cared a shit.

But she had other things on her mind. She waited for a gap to appear between one tramping company of Rogont's retreating army and the next, then she forced her shoulders back and strode across the square. Up the cracked steps of the Bath-Hall, trying to walk with all her old swagger while her crooked hip bone clicked back and forth in its socket and sent stings right through her arse. She pushed her hood back, keeping her eyes fixed on the foremost of the guards, a grizzled-looking veteran wide as a door with a scar down one colourless cheek.

"I need to speak to Duke Rogont," she said.

"Of course."

"I'm Mon… what?" She'd been expecting to explain herself. Probably to be laughed at. Possibly to be strung up from one of the pillars. Certainly not to be invited in.

"You're General Murcatto." The man had a twist to his grey mouth that came somewhere near a smile. "And you're expected. I'll need the sword, though." She frowned as she handed it over, liking the feel of this less than if they'd kicked her down the street.

There was a great pool in the marble hall beyond, surrounded by tall columns, murky water smelling strongly of rot. Her old enemy Grand Duke Rogont was poring over a map on a folding table, in a sober grey uniform, lips thoughtfully pursed. A dozen officers clustered about him, enough gold braid between them to rig a carrack. A couple looked up as she made her way around the fetid pond towards them.

"It's her," she heard one say, his lip well curled.

"Mur… cat… to," another, as if the very name was poison. No doubt it was to them. She'd been making fools of these very men for the past few years and the more of a fool a man is, the less he cares to look like one. Still, the general with the smallest numbers should remain always on the offensive, Stolicus wrote. So she walked up unhurried, the thumb of her bandaged left hand hooked carelessly in her belt, as if this was her bath and she was the one with all the swords.

"If it isn't the Prince of Prudence, Duke Rogont. Well met, your Cautiousness. A proud-looking set of comrades you've got here, for men who've spent seven years retreating. Still, at least you're not retreating today." She let it sink in for a moment. "Oh, wait. You are."

That forced a few chins to haughtily rise, a nostril or two to flare. But the dark eyes of Rogont himself shifted up from the map without any rush, a little tired, perhaps, but still irritatingly handsome and at ease. "General Murcatto, what a pleasure! I wish we could have met after a great battle, preferably with you as a crestfallen prisoner, but my victories have been rather thin on the ground."

"Rare as summer snows."

"And you, so cloaked in glories. I feel quite naked under your victorious glare." He peered towards the back of the hall. "But wherever are your all-conquering Thousand Swords now?"

Monza sucked her teeth. "Faithful Carpi's borrowed them from me."

"Without asking? How… rude. I fear you are too much soldier and not enough politician. I fear I am the opposite. Words may hold more power than swords, as Juvens said, but I have discovered to my cost that there are times when there is no substitute for pointy metal."

"These are the Years of Blood."

"Indeed they are. We are all the prisoners of circumstance, and circumstances have left me once again with no other choice but bitter retreat. The noble Lirozio, Duke of Puranti and owner of this wonderful bath, was as staunch and warlike an ally as could be imagined when Duke Orso's power was long leagues away on the other side of the great walls of Musselia. You should have heard him gnash his teeth, his sword never so eager to spring forth and spill hot blood."

"Men love to talk about fighting." Monza let her eyes wander over the sullen faces of Rogont's advisors. "Some like to dress for it, too. Getting blood on the uniforms is a different matter."

A couple of angry head-tosses from the peacocks, but Rogont only smiled. "My own sad realisation. Now Musselia's great walls are breached, thanks to you, Borletta fallen, thanks to you, and Visserine burned too. The army of Talins, ably assisted by your erstwhile comrades, the Thousand Swords, are picking the country clean on Lirozio's very doorstep. The brave duke finds his enthusiasm for drum and bugle much curtailed. Powerful men are as inconstant as the shifting water. I should have picked weaker allies."

"Bit late for that."

The duke puffed out his cheeks. "Too late, too late, shall be my epitaph. At Sweet Pines I arrived but two days tardy, and rash Salier had fought and lost without me. So Caprile was left helpless before your well-documented wrath." That was a fool's version of the story, but Monza kept it to herself, for now. "At Musselia I arrived with all my power, prepared to hold the great walls and block the Gap of Etris against you, and found you had stolen the city the day before, picked it clean already and now held the walls against me." More injury to the truth, but Monza kept her peace. "Then at the High Bank I found myself unavoidably detained by the late General Ganmark, while the also late Duke Salier, quite determined not to be fooled by you a second time, was fooled by you a second time and his army scattered like chaff on a stiff wind. So Borletta…" He stuck his tongue between his lips, jerked his thumb towards the floor and blew a loud farting sound. "So brave Duke Cantain…" He drew one finger across his throat and blew another. "Too late, too late. Tell me, General Murcatto, how come you are always first to the field?"

"I rise early, shit before daybreak, check I'm pointed in the right direction and let nothing stop me. That and I actually try to get there."

"Your meaning?" demanded a young man at Rogont's elbow, his face even sourer than the rest.

"My meaning?" she parroted, goggling like an idiot, and then to the duke himself, "Is that you could have reached Sweet Pines on time but chose to dither, knowing proud, fat Salier would piss before his trousers were down and more than likely waste all his strength whether he won or not. He lost, and looked the fool, and you the wiser partner, just as you hoped." It was Rogont's turn to stay carefully silent. "Two seasons later you could have reached the Gap in time and held it against the world, but it suited you to delay, and let me teach the proud Musselians the lesson you wanted them to learn. Namely to be humble before your prudent Excellency."

The whole chamber was very still as her voice grated on. "When did you realise time was running out? That you'd delayed so much you'd let your allies wane too weak, let Orso wax too strong? No doubt you would have liked to make it to the High Bank for once on time, but Ganmark got in your way. As far as playing the good ally, by that time it was…" She leaned forwards and whispered it. "Too late. All your policy was making sure you were the strongest partner when the League of Eight won, so you could be the first among them. A grand notion, and carefully managed. Except, of course, Orso has won, and the League of Eight…" She stuck her tongue between her lips and blew a long fart at the assembled flower of manhood. "So much for too late, fuckers."

The shrillest of the brood stepped towards her, fists clenched. "I will not listen to one word more of this, you… you devil! My father died at Sweet Pines!"

It seemed everyone had their own wrongs to avenge, but Monza had too many wounds of her own to be much stung by other people's. "Thank you," she said.

"What?"

"Since your father was presumably among my enemies, and the aim of a battle is to kill them, I take his death as a compliment. I shouldn't have to explain that to a soldier."

His face had turned a blotchy mixture of pink and white. "If you were a man I'd kill you where you stand."

"If you were a man, you mean. Still, since I took your father, it's only fair I give you something in trade." She curled her tongue and blew spit in his face.

He came at her clumsily, and with his hands, just as she'd guessed he would. Any man who needs to be worked up to it that hard isn't likely to be too fearful when he finally gets there. She was ready, dodged around him, grabbed the top and bottom rims of his gilded breastplate, used his own weight to swing him, caught his toe with one well-placed boot. She grabbed the hilt of his sword as he stumbled helplessly past, bent almost double, part running and part falling, and whipped it from his belt. He squawked as he splashed into the pool, sending up a fountain of shining spray, and she spun round, blade at the ready.

Rogont rolled his eyes. "Oh, for pity's—" His men bundled past, all fumbling their swords out, cursing, nearly knocking the table over in their haste to get at her. "Less steel, gentlemen, if you please, less steel!" The officer had surfaced now, or at least was fighting to, splashing and floundering, hauled down by the weight of his ornamental armour. Two of Rogont's other attendants hurried to drag him from the pool while the rest shuffled towards Monza, jostling at each other in their efforts to stab her first.

"Shouldn't you be the ones retreating?" she hissed as she backed away past the pillars.

The nearest jabbed at her. "Die, you damned—"

"Enough!" roared Rogont. "Enough! Enough!" His men scowled like naughty children called to account. "No swordplay in the bath, for pity's sake! Will my shame never end?" He gave a long sigh, then waved an arm. "Leave us, all of you!"

His foremost attendant's moustache bristled with horror. "But, your Excellency, with this… foul creature?"

"Never fear, I will survive." He arched one eyebrow at them. "I can swim. Now out, before someone hurts themselves. Shoo! Go!"

Reluctantly they sheathed their swords and grumbled their way from the hall, the soaked man leaving a squelching trail of wet fury behind him. Monza grinned as she tossed his gilded sword into the pool, where it vanished with a splash. A small victory, maybe, but she had to enjoy the ones she got these days.

Rogont waited in silence until they were alone, then gave a heavy sigh. "You told me she would come, Ishri."

"It is well that I never tire of being right." Monza started. A dark-skinned woman lay on her back on a high windowsill, a good stride or two above Rogont's head. Her legs were crossed, up against the wall, one arm and her head hanging off the back of the narrow ledge so that her face was almost upside down. "For it happens often." She slid off backwards, flipped over at the last moment and dropped silently to all fours, nimble as a lizard.

Monza wasn't sure how she'd missed her in the first place, but she didn't like that she had. "What are you? An acrobat?"

"Oh, nothing so romantic as an acrobat. I am the East Wind. You can think of me as but one of the many fingers on God's right hand."

"You talk enough rubbish to be a priest."

"Oh, nothing so dry and dusty as a priest." Her eyes rolled to the ceiling. "I am a passionate believer, in my way, but only men may take the robe, thanks be to God."

Monza frowned. "An agent of the Gurkish Emperor."

"Agent sounds so very… underhanded. Emperor, Prophet, Church, State. I would call myself a humble representative of Southern Powers."

"What's Styria to them?"

"A battlefield." And she smiled wide. "Gurkhul and the Union may be at peace, but…"

"The fighting goes on."

"Always. Orso's allies are our enemies, so his enemies are our allies. We find ourselves with common cause."

"The downfall of Grand Duke Orso of Talins," muttered Rogont. "Please God."

Monza curled her lip at him. "Huh. Praying to God now, Rogont?"

"To whoever will listen, and most fervently."

The Gurkish woman stood, stretching up on tiptoe to the ends of her long fingers. "And you, Murcatto? Are you the answer to this poor man's desperate prayers?"

"Maybe."

"And he to yours, perhaps?"

"I've been often disappointed by the powerful, but I can hope."

"You'd hardly be the first friend I've disappointed." Rogont nodded towards the map. "They call me the Count of Caution. The Duke of Delay. The Prince of Prudence. Yet you would make an ally of me?"

"Look at me, Rogont, I'm almost as desperate as you are. ‘Great tempests,' Farans said, ‘wash up strange companions.' "

"A wise man. How can I help my strange companion, then? And, more importantly, how can she help me?"

"I need to kill Faithful Carpi."

"Why would we care for treacherous Carpi's death?" Ishri sauntered forwards, head falling lazily onto one side, then further still. Too far to look at comfortably, let alone to do. "Are there not other captains among the Thousand Swords? Sesaria, Victus, Andiche?" Her eyes were pitch black, as empty and dead as the eye-maker's replacements. "Will not one of those infamous vultures fill your old chair, keen to pick at the corpse of Styria?"

Rogont pouted. "And so my weary dance continues, but with a fresh partner. I win only the most fleeting reprieve."

"Those three have no loyalty to Orso beyond their pockets. They were persuaded easily enough to betray Cosca for me, and me for Faithful, when the price was right. If the price is right, with Faithful gone I can bring them back to me, and from Orso's service to yours."

A slow silence. Ishri raised her fine black brows. Rogont tipped his head thoughtfully back. The two of them exchanged a lingering glance. "That would go a long way towards evening the odds."

"You are sure you can buy them?" asked the Gurkish woman.

"Yes," Monza lied smoothly. "I never gamble." An even bigger lie, so she delivered it with even greater confidence. There was no certainty where the Thousand Swords were concerned, and even less with the faithless bastards who commanded them. But there might be a chance, if she could kill Faithful. Get Rogont's help with that, then they'd see.

"How high would be the price?"

"To turn against the winning side? Higher than I can afford, that's sure." Even if she'd had the rest of Hermon's gold to hand, and most of it was still buried thirty strides from her dead father's ruined barn. "But you, the Duke of Ospria—"

Rogont gave a sorry chuckle. "Oh, the bottomless purse of Ospria. I am in hock up to my neck and beyond. I'd sell my arse if I thought I could get more than a few coppers for it. No, you will coax no gold from me, I fear."

"What about your Southern Powers?" asked Monza. "I hear the mountains of Gurkhul are made of gold."

Ishri wriggled back against one of the pillars. "Of mud, like everyone else's. But there may be much gold in them, if one knows where to dig. How do you plan to put an end to Faithful?"

"Lirozio will surrender to Orso's army as soon as it arrives."

"Doubtless," said Rogont. "He is every bit as proficient at surrender as I am at retreat."

"The Thousand Swords will push on southwards towards Ospria, picking the country clean, and the Talinese will follow."

"I need no military genius to tell me this."

"I'll find a place, somewhere between, and bring Carpi out. With two-score men I can get him killed. Small risk for either one of you."

Rogont cleared his throat. "If you can bring that loyal old hound out of his kennel, then I can surely spare some men to put him down."

Ishri watched Monza, just as Monza might have watched an ant. "And once he is at peace, if you can buy the Thousand Swords then I can furnish the money."

If, if, if. But that was more than Monza had any right to hope for here. She could just as easily have left the meeting feet first. "Then it's as good as done. To strange companions, eh?"

"Indeed. God has truly blessed you." Ishri gave an extravagant yawn. "You came looking for one friend, and you leave with two."

"Lucky me," said Monza, far from sure she was leaving with any. She turned towards the gate, boot heels scraping against the worn marble, hoping she didn't start shaking before she got there.

"One more thing, Murcatto!" She looked back to Rogont, standing alone now by his maps. Ishri had vanished as suddenly as she'd appeared. "Your position is weak, and so you are obliged to play at strength. I see that. You are what you are, bold beyond recklessness. I would not have it any other way. But I am what I am, also. Some more respect, in future, will make our marriage of mutual desperation run ever so much more smoothly."

Monza gave an exaggerated curtsey. "Your Resplendence, I am not only weak, but abject with regret."

Rogont slowly shook his head. "That officer of mine really should have drawn and run you through."

"Is that what you'd have done?"

"Oh, pity, no." He looked back to his charts. "I'd have asked for more spit."

Neither Rich nor Poor

Shenkt hummed to himself as he walked down the shabby corridor, his footfalls making not the slightest sound. The exact tune always somehow eluded him. A nagging fragment of something his sister sang when he was a child. He could see the sunlight still, through her hair, the window at her back, face in shadow. All long ago, now. All faded, like cheap paints in the sun. He had never been much of a singer himself. But he hummed, at least, and imagined his sister's voice singing along with him, and that was some comfort.

He put his knife away, and the carved bird too, almost finished now, though the beak was giving him some trouble and he did not wish to break it by rushing. Patience. As vital to the wood-carver as it is to the assassin. He stopped before the door. Soft, pale pine, full of knots, badly jointed, light shining through a split. He wished, sometimes, that his work took him to better places. He raised one boot, and burst the lock apart with a single kick.

Eight sets of hands leaped to weapons as the door splintered from its hinges. Eight hard faces snapped towards him, seven men and a woman. Shenkt recognised most of them. They had been among the kneeling half-circle in Orso's throne room. Killers, sent after Prince Ario's murderers. Comrades, of a kind, in the hunt. If the flies on a carcass can be said to be comrades to the lion that made the kill. He had not expected such as these to beat him to his quarry, but he was long past being surprised by the turns life took. His twisted like a snake in its death throes.

"Have I come at a bad time?" he asked.

"It's him."

"The one who wouldn't kneel."

"Shenkt." This last from the man who had blocked his path in Orso's throne room. The one he had advised to pray. Shenkt hoped he had taken the advice, but did not think it likely. A couple of them relaxed when they recognised his face, pushed back their half-drawn blades, thinking him one of their number.

"Well, well." A man with a pockmarked face and long, black hair seemed to be in charge. He reached out and gently pushed the woman's bow towards the floor with one finger. "My name's Malt. You're just in time to help us bring them in."

"Them?"

"The ones his Excellency Duke Orso's paying us to find, who do you think? Over there, in the smoke-house yonder."

"All of them?"

"The leader, anyway."

"How do you know you have the right man?"

"Woman. Pello knows, don't you, Pello?"

Pello was possessed of a ragged moustache and a look of sweaty desperation. "It's Murcatto. The same one who led Orso's army at Sweet Pines. She was in Visserine, not but a month ago. Took her prisoner. Questioned her myself. That's where the Northman lost his eye." The Northman called Shivers, that Sajaam had spoken of. "In Salier's palace. She killed Ganmark there, that general of Orso's, few days afterward."

"The Snake of Talins herself," said Malt proudly, "and still alive. What do you think of that?"

"I am all amazed." Shenkt walked slowly to the window and peered out across the street. A shabby-looking place for a famous general, but such was life. "She has men with her?"

"Just this Northman. Nothing we can't deal with. Lucky Nim and two of her boys are waiting in the alley at the back. When the big clock next chimes, we go in the front. They won't be getting away."

Shenkt looked slowly round at each suspicious face, and gave each man a chance. "You all are determined to do this? All of you?"

"Of fucking course we are. You'll find no faint hearts here, my friend." Malt looked at him through narrowed eyes. "You want to come in with us?"

"With you?" Shenkt took a long breath, then sighed. "Great tempests wash up strange companions."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"We don't need this fucker." The one Shenkt had told to pray, again, making a great show of a curved knife. A man of small patience, evidently. "I say we cut his throat, and one less share to pay."

Malt gently pushed his knife down. "Come now, no need to be greedy. I've been on jobs like that before, everyone stuck on the money not the work, watching their backs every minute. Bad for your health and your business. We'll do this civilised, or not at all. What do you say?"

"I say civilised," said Shenkt. "For pity's sake, let's kill like honest men."

"Exactly so. With what Orso's paying, there'll be enough for everyone. Equal shares all round, and we can all be rich."

"Rich?" Shenkt smiled sadly as he shook his head. "The dead are neither rich nor poor." The look of mild surprise was just forming on Malt's face when Shenkt's pointing finger split it neatly in half.

Shivers sat on the greasy bed, back pressed to the dirty wall, with Monza sprawled on top of him. Her head lay in his lap, breath hissing shallow, in and out. The pipe was still in her bandaged left hand, smoke twisting from the embers in a brown streak. He frowned at it creeping through the shafts of light, rippling, spreading, filling the room with sweet haze.

Husk was good stuff for pain. Too good, to Shivers' mind. So good you always needed more. So good that after a while stubbing your toe seemed like excuse enough. Took your edge off, all that smoking, left you soft. Maybe Monza had more edge than she wanted, but he didn't trust it. The smoke was tickling at his nose, making him feel sick and needy both together. His eye was itching under the bandages. Would've been easy to do it. Where was the harm…?

He had a sudden panic, wriggling out from under her like he was buried alive. Monza gave an irritated burble then fell back, eyelids flickering, hair stuck across her clammy face. Shivers ripped back the bolt on the window and pulled the wonky shutters open, getting a nice view of the rotting alley behind the building and a face full of cold, piss-smelling air. At least that smell was honest.

There were two men down there by a back door, and a woman holding one hand up. A bell rang out, from a high clock tower in the next street. The woman nodded, the men pulled out a bright sword and a heavy mace. She opened the door and they hurried in.

"Shit," hissed Shivers, hardly able to believe it. Three of 'em and, from the way they'd been waiting, most likely more coming in the front. Too late to run. But then Shivers was sick of running anyway. He had his pride, still, didn't he? Running from the North and down here to fucking Styria was what landed him in this one-eyed mess in the first place.

He reached towards Monza, but stopped short. State she was in she'd be no use. So he let her be, slid out the heavy knife she'd given him the first day they met. The grip was firm in his hand and he squeezed it tight. They were better armed, maybe, but big weapons and small rooms don't mix. Surprise was on his side, and that's the best weapon a man can have. He pressed himself into the shadows behind the door, feeling his heart thumping, the breath burning in his throat. No fear, no doubt, just furious readiness.

He heard their soft steps on the stairs and had to stop himself laughing. A bit of a giggle crept out all the same, and he didn't know why, 'cause there was nothing funny. A creak and a muttered curse. Not the sharpest assassins in the whole Circle of the World. He bit on his lip, trying to stop his ribs shaking. Monza stirred, stretched out smiling on the greasy blanket.

"Benna…" she murmured. The door was yanked open and the swordsman sprang in. Monza's eyes came blearily open. "Whathe—"

The second man barged in like a fool, knocking his mate off balance, lifting his mace over his head, tip scraping a little shower of plaster from the low ceiling. It was almost like he was offering it up. Would've seemed rude to turn it down, so Shivers snatched it from his hand while he stabbed the first one in the back.

The blade slid in and out of him. Quick, quiet scrapes, up to the hilt. Shivers growled through his teeth, half-sniggering with the leftover shreds of laughter, arm pumping in and out. The stabbed man made a shocked little hoot each time, not sure what was happening yet, twisted round, jerking the knife out of Shivers' hand.

The other one turned, eyes wide, too close to swing at. "Wha—"

Shivers thumped him in the nose with the butt of the mace and felt it pop, sent him reeling towards the empty fireplace. The stabbed man's knees went, he caught his sword point on the wall above Monza and pitched on top of her. No need to worry about him. Shivers took a short stride, dropping onto his knees so the mace wouldn't hit the ceiling, roaring as he swung the big lump of metal. It hit its previous owner in the forehead with a meaty crunch, stove his skull in, spattered the ceiling with spots of blood.

He heard a scream behind, twisted round. The woman sprang through the door, a short blade in each hand. Monza's kicking leg tripped her as she struggled out from under the dying swordsman. Happy chance, the woman's scream switching from fury to shock as she blundered into Shivers' arms, fumbling one of her knives. He grabbed her other wrist as he went down under her, on top of the maceman's corpse, his head smacking against the side of the fireplace and leaving him blinded for a moment.

He kept his grip on her wrist, felt her nails tearing at his bandages. They growled stupidly at each other, her hair hanging down and tickling at him, tongue stuck between her teeth with the effort as she tried to push the blade into his neck with all her weight. Her breath smelled of lemons. He wrenched himself round and punched her under the jaw, snapped her head up, teeth sinking deep into her tongue.

Same moment the sword hacked clumsily into her arm, the point almost catching Shivers' shoulder, making him jerk back. Monza's white face behind her, eyes hardly focused. The woman howled, tried to drag herself free. Another fumbling sword blow caught the top of her head with the flat and knocked her sideways. Monza floundered into the wall, tripped over the bed, almost stabbing herself as the sword clattered from her hand. Shivers twisted the blade from the woman's limp grip and stabbed her under the jaw right to the hilt, blood spraying out across Monza's shirt and up the wall.

He kicked himself free of the tangle of limbs, scrabbling up the mace, pulling his knife from the dead swordsman's back and pushing it into his belt, stumbling for the door. The corridor outside was empty. He grabbed Monza's wrist and dragged her up. She was staring down at herself, soaked with the woman's blood.

"Wha… wha…"

He pulled her limp arm over his shoulder and hauled her through the door, bundled her down the stairs, her boots clattering against the treads. Out through the open back door into sunlight. She tottered a step and blew thin vomit down the wall. Groaned and heaved again. He pushed the haft of the mace up his sleeve, the bloody head in his fist, ready to let it drop if he needed to. He realised he was sniggering again as he did it. Couldn't see why. Still nothing funny. Quite the opposite, far as he could tell. Still laughing, though.

Monza took a drunken step or two, bent almost double. "I got stop smoking," she muttered, spitting bile.

"'Course. Just as soon as my eye grows back." He grabbed her elbow, pulled her after him towards the end of the alley, folk moving in the sunlit street. He paused at the corner, took a quick look both ways, then dragged her arm around his shoulder again, and away.

Aside from the three corpses, the room was empty. Shenkt padded to the window, stepping carefully around the slick of blood across the boards, and peered out. Of Murcatto and the one-eyed Northman there was no sign. But it was better they should escape than someone else should find them before he did. That he would not allow. When Shenkt took on a job, he always saw it through.

He squatted down, forearms resting on his knees, hands dangling. He had hardly made a worse mess of Malt and his seven friends than Murcatto and her Northman had of these three. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, the bed, all spattered and smeared with red. One man lay by the fireplace, his skull roundly pulped. The other was face down, the back of his shirt ripped with stab-wounds, soaked through with blood. The woman had a yawning gash in her neck.

Lucky Nim, he presumed. It seemed her luck had deserted her.

"Just Nim, then."

Something gleamed in the corner, by the wall. He stooped and picked it up, held it to the light. A golden ring with a large, blood-red ruby. Far too fine a ring for any of these scum to wear. Murcatto's ring, even? Still warm from her finger? He slid it onto his own, then took hold of Nim's ankle and dragged her corpse up onto the bed, humming to himself as he stripped it bare.

Her right leg had a patch of scaly rash across the thigh, so he took the left instead, cut it free, buttock and all, with three practised movements of his butcher's sickle. He popped the bone from the hip joint with a sharp twist of his wrists, took the foot off with two jerks of the curved blade, wrapped her belt around the neatly butchered leg to hold it folded and slid it into his bag.

A rump steak, then, thick-cut and pan-fried. He always carried a special mix of Suljuk four-spice with him, crushed to his taste, and the oil native to the region around Puranti had a wonderful nutty flavour. Then salt, and crushed pepper. Good meat was all in the seasoning. Pink in the centre, but not bloody. Shenkt had never been able to understand people who liked their meat bloody, the notion disgusted him. Onions sizzling alongside. Perhaps then dice the shank and make stew, with roots and mushrooms, a broth from the bones, a dash of that old Muris vinegar to give it…

"Zing."

He nodded to himself, carefully wiped the sickle clean, shouldered the bag, turned for the door and… stopped.

He had passed a baker's earlier, and thought what fine, crusty, new-baked loaves they had in the window. The smell of fresh bread. That glorious scent of honesty and simple goodness. He would very much have liked to be a baker, had he not been… what he was. Had he never been brought before his old master. Had he never followed the path laid out for him, and had he never rebelled against it. How well that bread would be, he now thought, sliced and thickly smeared with a coarse pвtй. Perhaps with a quince jelly, or some such, and a good glass of wine. He drew his knife again and went in through Lucky Nim's back for her liver.

After all, it was no use to her now.

Heroic Efforts, New Beginnings

The rain stopped, and the sun came out over the farmland, a faint rainbow stretching down from the grey heavens. Monza wondered if there was an elf-glade where it touched the ground, the way her father used to tell her. Or if there was just shit, like everywhere else. She leaned from her saddle and spat into the wheat.

Elf shit, maybe.

She pushed her wet hood back and scowled to the west, watching the showers roll off towards Puranti. If there was any justice they'd dump a deluge on Faithful Carpi and the Thousand Swords, their outriders probably no more than a day's ride behind. But there was no justice, and Monza knew it. The clouds pissed where they pleased.

The damp winter wheat was spattered with patches of red flowers, like smears of blood across the tawny country. It would be ready to harvest soon, except there'd be no one here to do the reaping. Rogont was doing what he was best at—pulling back, and the farmers were taking everything they could carry and pulling back with him towards Ospria. They knew the Thousand Swords were coming, and knew better than to be there when they did. There were no more infamous foragers in the world than the men Monza used to lead.

Forage, Farans wrote, is robbery so vast that it transcends mere crime, and enters the arena of politics.

She'd lost Benna's ring. She kept fussing at her middle finger with her thumb, endlessly disappointed to find it wasn't there. A pretty piece of rock hadn't changed the fact Benna was dead. But still it felt as if she'd lost some last little part of him she'd managed to cling on to. One of the last little parts of herself worth keeping.

She was lucky a ring was all she'd lost back in Puranti, though. She'd been careless, and it had nearly been the end of her. She had to stop smoking. Make a new beginning. Had to, and yet she was smoking more than ever. Each time she woke from sweet oblivion she told herself it would have to be the last, but a few hours later and she'd be sweating desperation from every pore. Waves of sick need, like an incoming tide, each one higher than the last. Each one resisted took a heroic effort, and Monza was no hero, however the people of Talins might once have cheered for her. She'd thrown her pipe away, then in a sticky panic bought another. She wasn't sure how many times she'd hidden the dwindling lump of husk down at the bottom of one bag or another. But she'd found there's a problem with hiding a thing yourself.

You always know where it is.

"I do not care for this country." Morveer stood from his swaying seat and peered out across the flat land. "This is good country for an ambush."

"That's why we're here," Monza growled back. Hedgerows, the odd stand of trees, brown houses and barns alone or in groups away across the fields—plenty of hiding places. Scarcely a thing moved. Scarcely a sound but for the crows, the wind flapping the canvas on the cart, the wheels rattling, splattering through an occasional puddle.

"Are you sure it is prudent to put your faith in Rogont?"

"You don't win battles with prudence."

"No, one plans murders with it. Rogont is notoriously untrustworthy even for a grand duke, and an old enemy of yours besides."

"I can trust him as far as what's in his own interest." The question was all the more irritating as it was one she'd been asking herself ever since they left Puranti. "Small risk for him killing Faithful Carpi, but a hell of a pay-off if I can bring him the Thousand Swords."

"But it would hardly be your first miscalculation. What if we are marooned out here in the path of an army? You are paying me to kill one man at a time, not fight a war single—"

"I paid you to kill one man in Westport, and you murdered fifty at a throw. I need no lessons from you in taking care."

"Scarcely more than forty, and that was due to too much care to get your man, not too little! Was your butcher's bill any shorter at Cardotti's House of Leisure? Or in Duke Salier's palace? Or at Caprile, for that matter? Forgive me if I have scant faith in your ability to keep violence contained!"

"Enough!" she snarled at him. "You're like a goat that won't stop bleating! Do the job I pay you for, and that's the end of it!"

Morveer pulled up the cart suddenly with a haul on the reins and Day squawked as she nearly fumbled her apple. "Is this the thanks I get for your timely rescue in Visserine? After you so pointedly ignored my sage advice?"

Vitari, sprawling among the supplies on the back of the cart, stuck up one long arm. "That rescue was as much my doing as his. No one's thanked me."

Morveer ignored her. "Perhaps I should find a more grateful employer!"

"Perhaps I should find a more obedient fucking poisoner!"

"Perhaps…! But wait." Morveer held up a finger, squeezing his eyes shut. "But wait." He puckered his lips and sucked in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then slowly blew it out. And again. Shivers rode up, raised his one eyebrow at Monza. One more breath, and Morveer's eyes came open, and he gave a chuckle of sickening falseness. "Perhaps… I should most sincerely apologise."

"What?"

"I realise I am… not always the easiest company." A sharp burst of laughter from Vitari and Morveer winced, but carried on. "If I seem always contrary it is because I want only the best for you and your venture. It has ever been a failing of mine to be too intransigent in my pursuit of excellence. There is no more important characteristic than pliability in a man who must, perforce, be your humble servant. Can I entreat you to make with me… a heroic effort? To put this unpleasantness behind us?" He snapped the reins and moved the cart on, still smiling thinly over his shoulder. "I feel it! A new beginning!"

Monza caught Day's eye as she passed, rocking gently on her seat. The blond girl lifted her brows, stripped her apple to the last fragment of stalk and flicked it away into the field. Vitari was on the back of the cart, just pulling off her coat and sprawling out on the canvas in the sunlight. "Sun's coming out. New beginning." She pointed across the country, one hand pressed to her chest. "And aaaaaaaw, a rainbow! You know, they say there's an elf-glade where it touches the ground!"

Monza scowled after them. Seemed more likely they'd stumble on an elf-glade than that Morveer would make a new beginning. She trusted this sudden obedience even less than his endless carping.

"Maybe he just wants to be loved," came Shivers' whispery voice as they set off again.

"If men can change like that." And Monza snapped her fingers in his face.

"That's the only way they do change, ain't it?" His one eye stayed on her. "If things change enough around 'em? Men are brittle, I reckon. They don't bend into new shapes. They get broken into them. Crushed into them."

Burned into them, maybe. "How's your face?" she muttered.

"Itchy."

"Did it hurt, at the eye-maker's?"

"On a scale between stubbing your toe and having your eye burned out, it was down near the bottom."

"Most everything is."

"Falling down a mountain?"

"Not that bad, as long as you lie still. It's when you try to get up it starts to sting some." That got a grin from him, though he was grinning a lot less than he used to. Small surprise after what he'd been through, maybe. What she'd put him through. "I suppose… I should be thanking you for saving my life, again. It's getting to be a habit."

"What you're paying me for, ain't it, Chief? Work well done is its own reward, my father always used to tell me. Fact is I'm good at it. As a fighter I'm a man you need to respect. As anything else I'm just a big shiftless fuck wasted a dozen years in the wars, with nothing to show for it but bloody dreams and one less eye than most. I've got my pride, still. Man's got to be what he is, I reckon. Otherwise what is he? Just pretending, no? And who wants to spend all the time they're given pretending to be what they ain't?"

Good question. Luckily they crested a rise, and she was spared having to think of an answer. The remains of the Imperial road stretched away, an arrow-straight stripe of brown through the fields. Eight centuries old, and still the best road in Styria. A sad comment on the leadership since. There was a farm not far from it. A stone house of two storeys, windows shuttered, roof of red tiles turned mossy brown with age, a small stable-block beside. A waist-high wall of lichen-splattered drystone round a muddy yard, a couple of scrawny birds pecking at the dirt. Opposite the house a wooden barn, roof slumping in the middle. A weather vane in the shape of a winged snake flapped limply on its leaning turret.

"That's the place!" she called out, and Vitari stuck her arm up to show she'd heard.

A stream wound past the buildings and off towards a mill-house a mile or two distant. The wind came up, shook the leaves on a hedgerow, made soft waves in the wheat, drove the ragged clouds across the sky, their shadows flowing over the land beneath.

It reminded Monza of the farm where she was born. She thought of Benna, a boy running through the crop, just the top of his head showing above the ripening grain, hearing his high laughter. Long ago, before their father died. Monza shook herself and scowled. Maudlin, self-indulgent, nostalgic shit. She'd hated that farm. The digging, the ploughing, the dirt under her nails. And all for what? There weren't many things you worked so hard at to make so little.

The only other one she could think of right off was revenge.

Since his earliest remembrances, Morveer seemed always to have had an uncanny aptitude for saying the wrong thing. When he meant to contribute, he would find he was complaining. When he intended to be solicitous, he would discover he was insulting. When he sought earnestly to provide support, he would be construed as undermining. He wanted only to be valued, respected, included, and yet somehow every attempt at good fellowship only made matters worse.

He was almost starting to believe, after thirty years of failed relationships—a mother who had left him, a wife who had left him, apprentices who had left, robbed or attempted to kill him, usually by poison but on one memorable occasion with an axe—that he simply was not very good with people. He should have been glad, at least, that the loathsome drunk Nicomo Cosca was dead, and indeed he had at first felt some relief. But the dark clouds had soon rolled back to re-establish the eternal baseline of mild depression. He found himself once more squabbling with his troublesome employer over every detail of their business.

Probably it would have been better if he had simply retired to the mountains and lived as a hermit, where he could injure nobody's feelings. But the thin air had never suited his delicate constitution. So he had resolved, once more, to make a heroic effort at camaraderie. To be more compliant, more graceful, more indulgent of the shortcomings of others. He had taken the first step, therefore, while the rest of the party were out surveying the land for signs of the Thousand Swords, by pretending at a headache and preparing a pleasant surprise, in the form of his mother's recipe for mushroom soup. Perhaps the only tangible thing which she had left her only son.

He nicked his finger while slicing, singed his elbow upon the hot stove, both of which events almost caused him to forsake his new beginning in a torrent of unproductive rage. But by the time he heard the horses returning to the farm, just as the sun was sinking and the shadows in the yard outside were stretching out, he had the table set, two stubs of candle casting a welcoming glow, two loaves of bread sliced and the pot of soup at the ready, exuding a wholesome fragrance.

"Excellent." His rehabilitation was assured.

His new vein of optimism did not survive the arrival of the diners, however. When they entered, incidentally without removing their boots and therefore treading mud across his gleaming floor, they looked towards his lovingly cleaned kitchen, his carefully laid table, his laboriously prepared potage with all the enthusiasm of convicts being shown the executioner's block.

"What's this?" Murcatto's lips were pushed out and her brows drawn down in even deeper suspicion than usual.

Morveer did his best to float over it. "This is an apology. Since our number-obsessed cook has returned to Talins, I thought I might occupy the vacuum and prepare dinner. My mother's recipe. Sit, sit, pray sit!" He hurried round dragging out chairs and, notwithstanding some uncomfortable sideways glances, they all found seats.

"Soup?" Morveer advanced on Shivers with pan and ladle at the ready.

"Not for me. You did, what do you call it…"

"Paralyse," said Murcatto.

"Aye. You paralysed me that time."

"You mistrust me?" he snapped.

"Almost by definition," said Vitari, watching him from under her ginger brows. "You're a poisoner."

"After all we have been through together? You mistrust me, over a little paralysis?" He was making heroic efforts to repair the foundering ship of their professional relationship, and nobody appreciated it one whit. "If my intention was to poison you, I would simply sprinkle Black Lavender on your pillow and lull you to a sleep that would never end. Or put Amerind thorns in your boots, Larync on the grip of your axe, Mustard Root in your water flask." He leaned down towards the Northman, knuckles white around the ladle. "There are a thousand thousand ways that I could kill you and you would never suspect the merest shadow of a thing. I would not go to all the trouble of cooking you dinner!"

Shivers' one eye stared levelly back into his for what seemed a very long time. Then the Northman reached out, and for the briefest moment Morveer wondered if he was about to receive his first punch in the face for many years. But instead Shivers only folded his big hand round Morveer's with exaggerated care, tipping the pan so soup spilled out into his bowl. He picked up his spoon, dipped it in his soup, blew delicately on it and slurped up the contents. "It's good. Mushroom, is it?"

"Er… yes, it is."

"Nice." Shivers held Morveer's eye a moment longer before letting go his hand.

"Thank you." Morveer hefted the ladle. "Now, does anyone not want soup?"

"Me!" The voice barked out of nowhere like boiling water squirted in Morveer's ear. He jerked away, the pan tumbling, hot soup flooding out across the table and straight into Vitari's lap. She leaped up with a screech, wet cutlery flying. Murcatto's chair went clattering over as she lurched out of it, fumbling for her sword. Day dropped a half-eaten slice of bread as she took a shocked step back towards the door. Morveer whipped around, dripping ladle clutched pointlessly in one fist—

A Gurkish woman stood smiling beside him, arms folded. Her skin was smooth as a child's, flawless as dark glass, eyes midnight black.

"Wait!" barked Murcatto, one hand up. "Wait. She's a friend."

"She's no friend of mine!" Morveer was still desperately trying to understand how she could have appeared from nothing in such a manner. There was no door near her, the window was tightly shuttered and barred, the floor and ceiling intact.

"You have no friends, poisoner," she purred at him. Her long, brown coat hung open. Underneath, her body seemed to be swaddled entirely in white bandages.

"Who are you?" demanded Day. "And where the hell did you come from?"

"They used to call me the East Wind." The woman displayed two rows of utterly perfect white teeth as she turned one finger gracefully round and round. "But now they call me Ishri. I come from the sun-bleached South."

"She meant—" began Morveer.

"Magic," murmured Shivers, the only member of the party who had remained in his seat. He calmly raised his spoon and slurped up another mouthful. "Pass the bread, eh?"

"Damn your bread!" he snarled back. "And your magic too! How did you get in here?"

"One of them." Vitari had a table-knife in her fist, eyes narrowed to deadly slits as the remains of the soup dripped from the table and tapped steadily on the floor. "An Eater."

The Gurkish woman pushed one fingertip through the spilled soup and curled her tongue around it. "We must all eat something, no?"

"I don't care to be on the menu."

"You need not worry. I am very picky about my food."

"I tangled with your kind before, in Dagoska." Morveer did not fully understand what was being said, a sensation which was among his least favourite, but Vitari seemed worried, and that made him worried. She was by no means a woman prone to high-blown fancies. "What deals have you been making, Murcatto?"

"The ones that needed making. She works for Rogont."

Ishri let her head fall to one side, so far that it was almost horizontal. "Or perhaps he works for me."

"I don't care who's the rider and who's the donkey," snapped Murcatto, "as long as one or the other of you is sending men."

"He is sending them. Two score of his best."

"In time?"

"Unless the Thousand Swords come early, and they will not. Their main body are camped six miles distant still. They were held up picking a village clean. Then they just had to burn the place. A destructive little crowd." Her gaze fell on Morveer. Those black eyes made him unnecessarily nervous. He did not like the fact that she was wrapped up in bandages. He found himself curious as to why—

"They keep me cool," she said. He blinked, wondering whether he might have spoken the question out loud. "You did not." He felt himself turn cold to the roots of his hair. Just as he had when the nurses uncovered his secret materials at the orphanage, and guessed their purpose. He could not escape the irrational conclusion that this Gurkish devil somehow knew his private thoughts. Knew the things he had done, that he had thought no one would ever know…

"I will be in the barn!" he screeched, voice far more shrill than he had intended. He dragged it down with difficulty. "I must prepare, if we are to have visitors tomorrow. Come, Day!"

"I'll just finish this." She had quickly grown accustomed to their visitor, and was busy buttering three slices of bread at once.

"Ah… yes… I see." He stood twitching for a moment, but there was nothing he could achieve by staying but further embarrassment. He stalked towards the door.

"You need your coat?" asked Day.

"I will be more than warm enough!"

It was only when he was through the door of the farmhouse and into the darkness, the wind sighing chill across the wheat and straight through his shirt, that he realised he would not be warm enough by any stretch of the imagination. It was too late to return without looking entirely the fool, and that he steadfastly refused to do.

"Not me." He cursed most bitterly as he picked his way across the darkened farmyard, wrapping his arms around himself and already beginning to shiver. He had allowed some Gurkish charlatan to unnerve him with simple parlour tricks. "Bandaged bitch." Well, they would all see. "Oh yes." He had got the better of the nurses at the orphanage, in the end, for all the whippings. "We'll see who whips who now." He peered over his shoulder to make sure he was unobserved. "Magic!" he sneered. "I'll show you a trick or—"

"Eeee!" His boot squelched, slid, and he went over on his back in a patch of mud. "Bah! Damn it to your bastard arse!" So much for heroic efforts, and new beginnings too.

The Traitor

Shivers reckoned it was an hour or two short of dawn. The rain had slacked right off but water still drip-dripped from the new leaves, pattering in the dirt. The air was weighty with chill damp. A swollen stream gurgled near the track, smothering the muddy falls of his horse's hooves. He knew he was close, could see the faintest ruddy campfire glow at the edges of the slick tree-trunks.

Dark times are the best for dark business, Black Dow always used to say, and he should've known.

Shivers nudged his horse through the wet night, hoping some drunk sentry didn't get nervous and serve him up an arrow through the guts. One of those might hurt less than having your eye burned out, but it was nought to look forward to. Luckily, he saw the first guard before the guard saw him, pressed up against a tree, spear resting on his shoulder. He had an oilskin draped right over his head, couldn't have seen a thing, even if he'd been awake.

"Oy!" The man jerked round, dropped his spear in the muck. Shivers grinned as he watched him fumbling for it in the dark, arms crossed loose on his saddle-bow. "You want to give me a challenge, or shall I just head on and leave you to it?"

"Who goes there?" he growled, tearing his spear up along with a clump of wet grass.

"My name's Caul Shivers, and Faithful Carpi's going to want to talk to me."

The Thousand Swords' camp looked pretty much like camps always do. Men, canvas, metal and mud. Mud in particular. Tents scattered every which way. Horses tethered to trees, breath smoking in the darkness. Spears stacked up one against the other. Campfires, some burning, some down to fizzling embers, the air sharp with their smoke. A few men still awake, wrapped in blankets mostly, on guard or still drinking, frowning as they watched Shivers pass.

Reminded him of all the cold, wet nights he'd spent in camps across the North and back. Huddled around fires, hoping to the dead the rain didn't get heavier. Roasting meat, spitted on dead men's spears. Curled up shivering in the snow under every blanket he could find. Sharpening blades for dark work on the morrow. He saw faces of men dead and gone back to the mud, that he'd shared drink and laughter with. His brother. His father. Tul Duru, that they'd called the Thunderhead. Rudd Threetrees, the Rock of Uffrith. Harding Grim, quieter than the night. Brought up a swell of unexpected pride, those memories. Then a swell of unexpected shame at the work he was about now. More feeling than he'd had since he lost his eye, or he'd expected to have again.

He sniffed, and his face stung underneath the bandages, and the soft moment slipped away and left him cold again. They stopped at a tent big as a house, lamplight leaking out into the night round the edges of its flap.

"Now you'd best behave yourself in here, you Northern bastard." The guard jabbed at Shivers with his own axe. "Or I'll—"

"Fuck yourself, idiot." Shivers brushed him out of the way with one arm and pushed on through. Inside it smelled of stale wine, mouldy cloth, unwashed men. Ill-lit by flickering lamps, hung round the edges with slashed and tattered flags, trophies from old battlefields.

A chair of dark wood set with ivory, stained, scarred and polished with hard use, stood on a pair of crates up at the far end. The captain general's chair, he guessed. The one that had been Cosca's, then Monza's, and now was Faithful Carpi's. Didn't look much more than some battered rich man's dining chair. Surely didn't look like much to kill folk over, but then small reasons often serve for that.

There was a long table set up in the midst, men sat down each side. Captains of the Thousand Swords. Rough-looking men, scarred, stained and battered as the chair, and with quite a collection of weapons too, between 'em. But Shivers had smiled in harder company, and he smiled now. Strange thing was, he felt more at home with these lot than he had in months. He knew the rules here, he reckoned, better'n he did with Monza. Seemed as if they'd started out doing some planning, by the maps that were spread across the wood, but some time in the middle of the night the strategy had turned to dice. Now the maps were weighted down with scattered coins, with half-full bottles, with old cups, chipped glasses. One great chart was soaked red with spilled wine.

A big man stood at the head of the table—a faceful of scars, short hair grey and balding. He had a bushy moustache, the rest of his thick jaw covered in white stubble. Faithful Carpi himself, from what Monza had said. He was shaking the dice in one chunk of fist. "Come on, you shits, come on and give me nine!" They came up one and three, to a few sighs and some laughter. "Damn it!" He tossed some coins down the table to a tall, pock-faced bastard with a hook-nose and the ugly mix of long black hair and a big bald patch. "One of these days I'll work your trick out, Andiche."

"No trick. I was born under a lucky star." Andiche scowled at Shivers, about as friendly a look as a fox spares for a chicken. "Who the hell's this bandaged arsehole?"

The guard pushed in past Shivers, giving him a dirty look sideways. "General Carpi, sir, this Northman says he needs to speak to you."

"That a fact?" Faithful spared Shivers a quick glance, then went back to stacking up his coins. "And why would I want to speak to the likes of him? Toss me the dice there, Victus, I ain't done."

"That's the problem with generals." Victus was bald as an egg and gaunt as famine, bunches of rings on his fingers and chains round his neck doing nothing to make him look prettier. "They never do know when they're done." And he tossed the dice back down the table, couple of his fellows chuckling.

The guard swallowed. "He says he knows who killed Prince Ario!"

"Oh, you do, do you? And who was that?"

"Monzcarro Murcatto." Every hard face in the tent turned sharp towards Shivers. Faithful carefully set the dice down, eyes narrowed. "Looks like you know the name."

"Should we hire him for a jester or hang him for a liar?" Victus grated out.

"Murcatto's dead," another.

"That so? I wonder who it is I been fucking for the past month, then?"

"If you've been fucking Murcatto I'd advise you to get back to it." Andiche grinned around him. "From what her brother told me, no one here can suck a cock as well as she could."

A good few chuckles at that. Shivers wasn't sure what he meant about her brother, but it didn't matter none. He'd already undone the bandages, and now he dragged the lot off in one go, turned his face towards the lamplight. Such laughter as there was mostly sputtered out. He had the kind of face now put a sharp end to mirth. "Here's what she's cost me so far. For a handful of silver? Shit on that, I ain't half the fool she takes me for, and I've got my pride, still. I'm done with the bitch."

Faithful Carpi was frowning at him. "Describe her."

"Tall, lean, black hair, blue eyes, frowns a lot. Sharp tongue on her."

Victus waved one jewel-crusted hand at him. "Common knowledge!"

"She's got a broken right hand, and marks all over. From falling down a mountain, she says." Shivers pushed his finger into his stomach, keeping his eyes on Faithful. "Got a scar just here, and one matching in her back. Says a friend of hers gave it to her. Stabbed her through with her own dagger."

Carpi's face had turned grim as a gravedigger's. "You know where she is?"

"Hold up just a trice, there." Victus looked even less happy than his chief. "You saying Murcatto's alive?"

"I'd heard a rumour," said Faithful.

A huge black-skinned man with long ropes of iron-grey hair stood up sharp from the table. "I'd heard all kinds of rumours," voice slow and deep as the sea. "Rumours and facts are two different things. When were you planning to fucking tell us?"

"When you fucking needed to know, Sesaria. Where is she?"

"At a farm," said Shivers. "Maybe an hour's hard ride distant."

"How many does she have with her?"

"Just four. A whining poisoner and his apprentice, hardly more'n a girl. A red-haired woman name of Vitari and some brown bitch."

"Where exactly?"

Shivers grinned. "Well, that's why I'm here, ain't it? To sell you the where exactly."

"I don't like the smell of this shit," snarled Victus. "If you're asking me—"

"I'm not," growled Faithful, without looking round. "What's your price for it?"

"A tenth part of what Duke Orso's offering on the head o' Prince Ario's killer."

"Just a tenth?"

"I reckon a tenth is plenty more'n I'll get from her, but not enough to get me killed by you. I want no more'n I can carry away alive."

"Wise man," said Faithful. "Nothing we hate more than greed, is there, boys?" A couple of chuckles, but most were still looking far from happy at their old general's sudden return from the land of the dead. "Alright, then, a tenth part is fair. You've a deal." And Faithful stepped forwards and slapped his hand into Shivers', looking him right in the face. "If we get Murcatto."

"You need her dead or alive?"

"Sorry to say, I'd prefer dead myself."

"Good, so would I. Last thing I want is a running score with that crazy bitch. She don't forget."

Faithful nodded. "So it seems. I reckon we can do business, you and me. Swolle?"

"General?" A man with a heavy beard stepped up.

"Get three-score horsemen ready to ride, and quick, those with the fastest—"

"Might be best to keep it to fewer," said Shivers.

"That so? And how would fewer men be better?"

"The way she tells it, she's got friends here still." Shivers let his eye wander round the hard faces in the tent. "The way she tells it, there's plenty o' men in this camp wouldn't say no to having her back in charge. The way she tells it, they won victories to be proud of with her, and with you they skulk around and scout, while Orso's men get all the prizes." Faithful's eyes darted sideways, then back. Enough to let Shivers know he'd touched a wound. There's no chief in the world so sure of himself he don't worry some. No chief of men like these, leastways. "Best keep it to a few, and them ones you're sure of. I've no problem stabbing Murcatto in the back, I reckon she's got it coming. Getting stabbed by one o' these is another matter."

"Five all told, and four of 'em women?" Swolle grinned. "A dozen should do it."

Faithful kept his eyes on Shivers. "Still. Make it three score, like I said, just in case there's more at the party than we're expecting. I'd be all embarrassed to arrive at a job short-handed."

"Sir." And Swolle shouldered his way out through the tent flap.

Shivers shrugged. "Have it your way."

"Why, that I will. You can depend on it." Faithful turned to his frowning captains. "Any of you old bastards want to come out on the hunt?"

Sesaria shook his big head, long hair swaying. "This is your mess, Faithful. You can swing the broom."

"I've foraged enough for one night." Andiche was already pushing out through the flap, a few others following in a muttering crowd, some looking suspicious, some looking careless, some looking drunk.

"I too must take my leave, General Carpi." The speaker stood out among all these rough, scarred, dirty men, if only 'cause nothing much about him stood out. He had a curly head of hair, no weapon Shivers could see, no scar, no sneer, no fighter's air of menace in the least. But Faithful still chuckled up to him like he was a man needed respect.

"Master Sulfur!" Folding his hand in both of his big paws and giving it a squeeze. "My thanks for stopping by. You're always welcome here."

"Oh, I am loved wherever I go. Easy to remain on good terms with the man who brings the money."

"Tell Duke Orso, and your people at the bank, they've nothing to worry on here. It'll all be taken care of, like we discussed. Just as soon as I've dealt with this little problem."

"Life does love to throw up problems, doesn't it?" Sulfur gave Shivers a splinter of a smile. He had odd-coloured eyes, one blue, one green. "Happy hunting, then." And he ambled out into the dawn.

Faithful was back in Shivers' face right away. "An hour's ride, you said?"

"If you move quick for your age."

"Huh. How do you know she won't have missed you by then, slipped away?"

"She's asleep. Husk sleep. She smokes more o' that shit every day. Half her time drooling with it, the rest drooling for it. She won't be waking any time soon."

"Best to waste no time, though. That woman can cause unpleasant surprises."

"That's a fact. And she's expecting help. Two-score men from Rogont, coming by tomorrow afternoon. They're planning to shadow you, lay an ambush as you turn south."

"No better feeling than flipping a surprise around, eh?" Faithful grinned. "And you'll be riding at the front."

"For a tenth part o' the take I'll ride at the front side-saddle."

"Just in front will do. Right next to me and you can point out the ground. We honest men need to stick together."

"That we do," said Shivers. "No doubt."

"Alright." Faithful clapped his big hands and rubbed them together. "A piss, then I'm getting my armour on."

King of Poisons

Boss?" came Day's high voice. "You awake?"

Morveer exhaled a racking sigh. "Merciful slumber has indeed released me from her soft bosom… and back into the frigid embrace of an uncaring world."

"What?"

He waved it bitterly away. "Never mind. My words fall like seeds… on stony ground."

"You said to wake you at dawn."

"Dawn? Oh, harsh mistress!" He threw back his one thin blanket and struggled up from the prickling straw, truly a humble repose for a man of his matchless talents, stretched his aching back and clambered stiffly down the ladder to the floor of the barn. He was forced to concede that he had long been too advanced in years, not to mention too refined in tastes, for haylofts.

Day had assembled the apparatus during the hours of darkness and now, as the first anaemic flicker of dawn niggled at the narrow windows, the burners were alight. Reagents happily simmered, steam carelessly condensed, distillations merrily dripped into the collecting flasks. Morveer processed around the makeshift table, rapping his knuckles against the wood as he passed, making the glassware clink and tinkle. Everything appeared to be entirely in order. Day had learned her business from a master, after all, perhaps the greatest poisoner in all the wide Circle of the World, who would say nay? But even the sight of the good work well done could not coax Morveer from his maudlin mood.

He puffed out his cheeks and gave vent to a weary sigh. "No one understands me. I am doomed to be misunderstood."

"You're a complex person," said Day.

"Exactly! Exactly so! You see it!" Perhaps she alone appreciated that beneath his stern and masterful exterior there were reservoirs of feeling deep as mountain lakes.

"I've made tea." She held a battered metal mug out to him, steam curling from within. His stomach grumbled unpleasantly.

"No. I am grateful for your kind attentions, of course, but no. My digestion is unsettled this morning, terribly unsettled."

"Our Gurkish visitor making you nervous?"

"Absolutely and entirely not," he lied, suppressing a shiver at the very remembrance of those midnight eyes. "My dyspepsia is the result of my ongoing difference of opinion with our employer, the notorious Butcher of Caprile, the ever-contrary Murcatto! I simply cannot seem to find the correct approach with that woman! However cordially I behave, however spotless my intentions, she bears it ill!"

"She's somewhat prickly, true."

"In my opinion she passes beyond prickly and enters the arena of… sharp," he finished, lamely.

"Well, the betrayal, the being thrown down the mountain, the dead brother and all—"

"Explanations, not excuses! We all have suffered painful reverses! I declare, I am half-tempted to abandon her to her inevitable fate and seek out fresh employment." He snorted with laughter at a sudden thought. "With Duke Orso, perhaps!"

Day looked up sharply. "You're joking."

It had, in fact, been intended as a witticism, for Castor Morveer was not the man to abandon an employer once he had accepted a contract. Certain standards of behaviour had to be observed, in his business more than any other. But it amused him to explore the notion further, counting off the points one by one upon his outstretched digits. "A man who can undoubtedly afford my services. A man who undoubtedly requires my services. A man who has proved himself unencumbered by the slightest troublesome moral qualm."

"A man with a record of pushing his employees down mountains."

Morveer dismissed it. "One should never be foolish enough to trust the sort of person who would hire a poisoner. In that he is no worse an employer than any other. Why, it is a profound wonder the thought did not occur sooner!"

"But… we killed his son."

"Bah! Such difficulties are easily explained away when two men find they need each other." He airily waved one hand. "Some invention will suffice. Some wretched scapegoat can always be found to shoulder the blame."

She nodded slowly, mouth set hard. "A scapegoat. Of course."

"A wretched one." One less mutilated Northman in the world would be no loss to posterity. Nor one less insane convict or abrasive torturer, for that matter. He was almost warming to the notion. "But I daresay for the time being we are stuck with Murcatto and her futile quest for revenge. Revenge. I swear, is there a more pointless, destructive, unsatisfying motive in all the world?"

"I thought motives weren't our business," observed Day, "only jobs and the pay."

"Correct, my dear, very correct, every motive is a pure one that necessitates our services. You see straight to the heart of the matter as always, as though the matter were entirely transparent. Whatever would I do without you?" He came smiling around the apparatus. "How are our preparations proceeding?"

"Oh, I know what to do."

"Good. Very good. Of course you do. You learned from a master."

She bowed her head. "And I marked your lessons well."

"Most excellent well." He leaned down to flick at a condenser, watched the Larync essence dripping slowly down into the retort. "It is vital to be exhaustively prepared for any and every eventuality. Caution first, always, of—Ah!" He frowned down at his forearm. A tiny speck of red swelled, became a dot of blood. "What…" Day backed slowly away from him, an expression of the most peculiar intensity on her face. She held a mounted needle in her hand.

"Someone to take the blame?" she snarled at him. "Scapegoat, am I? Fuck yourself, bastard!"

Come on, come on, come on." Faithful was pissing again, stood by his horse, back to Shivers, shaking his knees around. "Come on, come on. Bloody years catching up on me, that's what this is."

"That or your dark deeds," said Swolle.

"I've done nothing black enough to deserve this shit, surely. You feel like you never had to go so bad in your life, then when you finally get your prick out, you end up stood here in the wind for an age of… ah… ah… there's the fucker!" He leaned backwards, showing off his big bald spot. A brief spatter, then another. One more, he worked his shoulders around as he shook the drips off, and started lacing up again.

"That's it?" asked Swolle.

"What's your interest?" snapped the general. "To bottle it? Years catching up on me is all it is." He picked his way up the slope bent over, heavy red cloak held out of the mud in one hand, and squatted down next to Shivers. "Right then. Right then. That's the place?"

"That's the place." The farm sat at the end of an open paddock, in the midst of a sea of grey wheat, under the grey sky, clouds smudged with watery dawn. Faint light flickered at the narrow windows of the barn, but no more signs of life. Shivers rubbed his fingers slowly against his palms. He'd never done much treachery. Nothing so sharply cut as this, leastways, and it was making him nervy.

"Looks peaceful enough." Faithful ran a slow hand over his white stubble. "Swolle, you get a dozen men and take 'em round the side, out of sight, into that stand of trees down there, get on the flank. Then if they see us and make a run for it you can finish up."

"Right y'are, General. Nice and simple, eh?"

"Nothing worse than too much plan. More there is to remember, more there is to make a shit of. Don't need to tell you not to make a shit of it, do I, Swolle?"

"Me? No, sir. Into the trees, then if I see anyone running, charge. Just like at the High Bank."

"Except Murcatto's on the other side now, right?"

"Right. Fucking evil bitch."

"Now, now," said Faithful. "Some respect. You were happy enough to clap for her when she brought you victories, you can clap for her now. Shame things have come to this, is all. Nothing else for it. Don't mean there can't be some respect."

"Right. Sorry." Swolle paused for a moment. "Sure it wouldn't be better to try and creep down there on foot? I mean, we can't ride into that farmhouse, can we?"

Faithful gave him a long look. "Did they pick a new captain general while I was away, and are you it?"

"Well, no, 'course not, just—"

"Creeping up ain't my style, Swolle. Knowing how often you wash, more than likely Murcatto'd fucking smell you before we got within a hundred strides, and be ready. No, we'll ride down there and spare my knees the wear. We can always get down once we've given the place the check over. And if she's got any surprises for us, well, I'd rather be in my saddle." He frowned sideways at Shivers. "You see a problem with that, boy?"

"Not me." From what Shivers had seen he reckoned Faithful was one o' those men make a good second and a poor chief. Lots of bones but no imagination. Looked like he'd got stuck to one way of doing things over the years and had to do it now whether it fit the job or not. But he weren't about to say so. Strong leaders might like it when someone brings 'em a better idea, but weak ones never do. "You reckon I could get my axe back, though?"

Faithful grinned. "'Course you can. Just as soon as I see Murcatto's dead body. Let's go." He nearly tripped on his cloak as he turned for the horses, angrily dragged it up and tossed it over his shoulder. "Bloody thing. Knew I should've got a shorter one."

Shivers took one last look at the farm before he followed, shaking his head. There's nothing worse'n too much plan, that's true. But too little comes in close behind.

Morveer blinked. "But…" He took a slow step towards Day. His ankle wobbled and he slumped sideways against the table, knocking over a flask and making the fizzing contents spill across the wood. He clutched one hand to his throat, his skin flushing, burning. He knew already what she must have done, the realisation spreading out frigid through his veins. He knew already what the consequences would have to be. "The King…" he rasped, "of Poisons?"

"What else? Caution first, always."

He grimaced, at the meagre pain of the tiny prick in his arm, and at the far deeper wound of bitter betrayal besides. He coughed, fell forwards onto his knees, one hand stretching, trembling upwards. "But—"

Day kicked his hand away with the toe of one shoe. "Doomed to be misunderstood?" Her face was twisted with contempt. With hatred, even. The pleasing mask of obedience, of admiration, of innocence too, finally dropped. "What do you think there is to understand about you, you swollen-headed parasite? You're thin as tissue paper!" There was the deepest cut of all—ingratitude, after all he had given her! His knowledge, his money, his… fatherly affection! "The personality of a baby in the body of a murderer! Bully and coward in one. Castor Morveer, greatest poisoner in the world? Greatest bore in the world, maybe, you—"

He sprang forwards with consummate nimbleness, nicked her ankle with his scalpel as he passed, rolled under the table and came up on the other side, grinning at her through the complexity of apparatus, the flickering flames of the burners, the distorting shapes of twisted tubes, the glinting surfaces of glass and metal.

"Ha ha!" He shouted, entirely alert and not dying in the least. "You, poison me? The great Castor Morveer, undone by his assistant? I think not!" She stared down at her bleeding ankle, and then up at him, eyes wide. "There is no King of Poisons, fool!" he cackled. "The method I showed you, that produces a liquid that smells, tastes and looks like water? It makes water! Entirely harmless! Unlike the concoction with which I just now pricked you, which was enough to kill a dozen horses!"

He slipped his hand inside his shirt, deft fingertips unerringly selecting the correct vial and sliding it out into the light. Clear fluid gleamed inside. "The antidote." She winced as she saw it, made to dive one way around the table then came the other, but her feet were clumsy and he evaded her with negligible effort. "Most undignified, my dear! Chasing each other around our apparatus, in a barn, in the middle of rural Styria! Most terribly undignified!"

"Please," she hissed at him. "Please, I'll… I'll—"

"Don't embarrass us both! You have displayed your true nature now, you… you ingrate harpy! You are unmasked, you treacherous cuckoo!"

"I didn't want to take the blame is all! Murcatto said sooner or later you'd go over to Orso! That you'd want to use me as the scapegoat! Murcatto said—"

"Murcatto? You listen to Murcatto over me? That degenerate, husk-addled and notorious butcher of the bloody battlefield? Oh, commendable guiding light! Curse me for an imbecile to trust either one of you! It seems you were correct, at least, that I am like to a baby. All unspoiled innocence! All undeserved mercy!" He flicked the vial through the air at Day. "Let it never again be said," as he watched her fumbling through the straw for it, "that I am not," as she clawed it up and ripped out the cork, "as generous, merciful and forgiving as any poisoner," as she sucked down the contents, "within the entire Circle of the World."

Day wiped her mouth and took a shuddering breath. "We need… to talk."

"We certainly do. But not for long." She blinked, then a strange spasm passed over her face. Just as he had known it would. He wrinkled his nose as he tossed his scalpel clattering across the table. "The blade carried no poison, but you have just consumed a vial of undiluted Leopard Flower."

She flopped over, eyes rolling back, skin turning pink, began to jerk around in the straw, froth gurgling from her mouth.

Morveer stepped forwards, leaned down over her, baring his teeth, stabbing at his chest with a clawing finger. "Kill me, would you? Poison me? Castor Morveer?" The heels of her shoes drummed out a rapid beat on the hard-packed earth, sending up puffs of straw-dust. "I am the only King of Poisons, you… you child-faced fool!" Her thrashing became a locked-up trembling, back arched impossibly far. "The simple insolence of you! The arrogance! The insult! The, the, the…" He fumbled breathlessly for the right word, then realised she was dead. There was a long, slow silence as her corpse gradually relaxed.

"Shit!" he barked. "Entirely shit!" The scant satisfaction of victory was already fast melting, like an unseasonable flurry of snow on a warm day, before the crushing disappointment, wounding betrayal and simple inconvenience of his new, assistant-less, employer-less situation. For Day's final words had left him in no doubt that Murcatto was to blame. That after all his thankless, selfless toil on her behalf she had plotted his death. Why had he not anticipated this development? How could he not have expected it, after all the painful reverses he had suffered in his life? He was simply too soft a personage for this harsh land, this unforgiving epoch. Too trusting and too comradely for his own good. He was prone to see the world in the rosy tones of his own benevolence, cursed always to expect the best from people.

"Thin as paper, am I? Shit! You… shit!" He kicked Day's corpse petulantly, his shoe thudding into her body over and over and making it shudder again. "Swollen-headed? " He near shrieked it. "Me? Why, I am humility … its… fucking… self!" He realised suddenly that it ill befit a man of his boundless sensitivity to kick a person already dead, especially one he had cared for almost as a daughter. He felt a sudden bubbling-up of melodramatic regret.

"I'm sorry! So sorry." He knelt beside her, gently pushed her hair back, touched her face with trembling fingers. That vision of innocence, never more to smile, never more to speak. "I'm so sorry, but… but why? I will always remember you, but—Oh… urgh!" There was a sharp smell of urine. The corpse voiding itself, an inevitable side effect of a colossal dose of Leopard Flower that a man of his experience really should have seen coming. The pool had already spread out through the straw and soaked the knees of his trousers. He tottered up, wincing with disgust.

"Shit! Shit!" He snatched up a flask and flung it against the wall in a fury, fragments of glass scattering. "Bully and coward in one?" He gave Day's body another petulant kick, bruised his toes and set off limping around the barn at a great pace.

"Murcatto!" That evil witch had incited his apprentice to treachery. The best and most loved apprentice he had trained since he was obliged to pre-emptively poison Aloveo Cray back in Ostenhorm. He knew he should have killed Murcatto in his orchard, but the scale, the importance and the apparent impossibility of the work she offered had appealed to his vanity. "Curse my vanity! The one flaw in my character!"

But there could be no vengeance. "No. " Nothing so base and uncivilised, for that was not Morveer's way. He was no savage, no animal like the Serpent of Talins and her ilk, but a refined and cultured gentleman of the highest ethical standards. He was considerably out of pocket, now, after all his hard and loyal work, so he would have to find a proper contract. A proper employer and an entirely orderly and clean-motived set of murders, resulting in "a proper, honest profit."

And who would pay him to murder the Butcher of Caprile and her barbaric cronies? The answer was not so very difficult to fathom.

He faced a window and practised his most sycophantic bow, the one with the full finger twirl at the end. "Grand Duke Orso, an incom… parable honour." He straightened, frowning. At the top of the long rise, silhouetted against the grey dawn, were several dozen riders.

For honour, glory and, above all, a decent pay-off!" A scattering of laughter as Faithful drew his sword and held it up high. "Let's go!" And the long line of horsemen started moving, keeping loosely together as they thrashed through the wheat and out into the paddock, upping the pace to a trot.

Shivers went along with 'em. There wasn't much choice since Faithful was right at his side. Hanging back would've seemed poor manners. He would've liked his axe to hand, but hoping for a thing often brought on the opposite. Besides, as they picked up speed to a healthy canter, keeping both hands on the reins seemed like an idea with some weight to it.

Maybe a hundred strides out now, and all still looking peaceful. Shivers frowned at the farmhouse, at the low wall, at the barn, gathering himself, making ready. It all seemed like a bad plan, now. It had seemed a bad plan at the time, but having to do it made it seem a whole lot worse. The ground rushed past hard under his horse's hooves, the saddle jolted at his sore arse, the wind nipped at his narrowed eye, tickled at the raw scars on the other side of his face, bitter cold without the bandages. Faithful rode on his right, sitting up tall, cloak flapping behind him, sword still raised, shouting, "Steady! Steady!" On his left the line shifted and buckled, eager faces of men and horses in a twisting row, spears jolting up and down at all angles. Shivers worked his boots free of the stirrups.

Then the shutters of the farmhouse flew open all together with an echoing bang. Shivers saw the Osprians at the windows, first light glinting on their steel caps as a long row of 'em came up from behind the wall together, flatbows levelled. Comes a time you just have to do a thing, shit on the consequences. The air whooped in his throat as he sucked in a great breath and held it, then threw himself sideways and tumbled from the saddle. Over the batter of hooves, the clatter of metal, the rushing of wind he heard Monza's sharp cry.

Then the dirt struck him, jarred his teeth together. He rolled, grunting, over and over, took a mouthful of mud. The world spun, all dark sky and flicking soil, flying horses, falling men. Hooves thudded around him, mud spattered in his eyes. He heard screams, fought his way up as far as his knees. A corpse dropped, flailing, crashed into Shivers and knocked him on his back again.

Morveer made it to the double doors of the barn and wrestled one wide enough to stick his head through, just in time to see the Osprian soldiers rise from behind the farmyard wall and deliver a disciplined and deadly volley of flatbow fire.

Out in the grassy paddock men jerked and tumbled from their saddles, horses fell and threw their riders. Flesh plunged down, ploughed into the wet dirt, limbs flailing. Beasts and men roared and wailed in shock and fury, pain and fear. Perhaps a dozen riders dropped, but the rest broke into a full charge without the slightest hint of reluctance, weapons raised and gleaming, releasing war cries to match the death screams of their fallen comrades.

Morveer whimpered, shoved the door shut and pressed his back against it. Red-edged battle. Rage and randomness. Pointed metal moving at great speed. Blood spilled, brains dashed, soft bodies ripped open and their innards laid sickeningly bare. A most uncivilised way to carry on, and decidedly not his area of expertise. His own guts, thankfully still within his abdomen, shifted with a first stab of bestial terror and revulsion, then constricted with a more reasoned wash of fear. If Murcatto won, her lethal intentions towards him had already been clearly displayed. She had not balked for a moment at engineering the death of his innocent apprentice, after all. If the Thousand Swords won, well, he was an accomplice of Prince Ario's killer. In either case his life would undoubtedly be painfully forfeit.

"Damn it!"

Beyond the one doorway the farmyard was rapidly becoming a slaughteryard, but the windows were too narrow to squeeze through. Hide in the hayloft? No, no, what was he, five years old? Lie down beside poor Day and play dead? What? Lie down in urine? Never! He dashed to the back of the barn with all despatch, poked desperately at the planking for a way through. He found a loose board and began kicking at it.

"Break, you wooden bastard! Break! Break! Break! " The sounds of mortal combat were growing ever more intense in the yard behind him. Something crashed against the side of the barn and made him startle, dust filtering down from the rafters with the force of it. He turned back to the carpentry, whimpering now with fear and frustration, face prickling with sweat. One last kick and the wood tore free. Wan daylight slunk in through a narrow gap between two ragged-edged planks. He knelt, turning sideways on, forced his head through the crack, splinters digging at his scalp, gained a view of flat country, brown wheat, a stand of trees perhaps two hundred strides distant. Safety. He worked one arm through into the free air, clutching vainly at the weathered outside of the barn. One shoulder, half his chest, and then he stuck fast.

It had been optimistic of him, to say the least, to imagine that he might have effortlessly slipped through that gap. Ten years ago he had been slender as a willow-swatch, could have glided through a space half the width with the grace of a dancer. Too many pastries in the interim had rendered such an operation impossible, however, and there appeared to be a growing prospect that they might have cost him his life. He wriggled, squirmed, sharp wood digging at his belly. Is this how they would find him? Is this the tale that they would snigger over in after years? Would that be his legacy? The great Castor Morveer, death without a face, most feared of all poisoners, finally brought to book, wedged in a crack in the back of a barn while fleeing?

"Damn pastries!" he screamed, and with one last effort tore himself through, teeth gritted as a rogue nail ripped his shirt half-off and left him a long and painful cut down his ribs. "Damn it! Shit!" He dragged his aching legs through after him. Finally liberated from the clawing embrace of poor-quality joinery and riddled with splinters, he began to dash towards the proffered safety of the trees, waist-high wheat stalks tripping him, thrashing him, snatching at his legs.

He had progressed no further than five wobbly strides when he fell headlong, sprawling in the damp crop with a squeal. He struggled up, cursing. One of his shoes had been snatched off by the jealous wheat as he went down. "Damn wheat!" He was just beginning to cast about for it when he became aware of a loud drumming sound. To his disbelieving horror, a dozen horsemen had burst from the trees towards which he had been fleeing, and were even now bearing down on him at full gallop, spears lowered.

He gave vent to a breathless squeak, spun, slipped on his bare foot, began to limp back to the crack that had so mauled him on their first acquaintance. He wedged one leg through, whimpered at a stab of agony as he accidentally squashed his fruits against a plank. His back prickled as the hammering of hooves grew louder. The riders were no more than fifty strides from him, eyes of men and beasts starting, teeth of men and beasts bared, brightening morning sun catching warlike metal, chaff flying from threshing hooves. He would never tear his bleeding body back through the narrow gap in time. Would he be thrashed, now? Poor, humble Castor Morveer, who only ever wanted to be—

The corner of the barn exploded in a gout of bright flame. It made no sound beyond the crack and twang of shattering wood. The air suddenly swarmed with spinning debris: a tumbling chunk of flaming beam, ripped planks, bent nails, a scouring cloud of splinters and sparks. A cone of wheat was flattened in one great rustling wave, sucking up a rippling swell of dust, stalk, grain, embers. Two not insignificant barrels were suddenly exposed, standing proud in the midst of the levelled crop, directly in the path of the charging horsemen. Flames leaped up from them, black char spreading spontaneously across their sides.

The right-hand barrel exploded with a blinding flash, the left almost immediately after. Two great fountains of soil were hurled into the sky. The lead horse, trapped between them, seemed to stop, frozen, twist, then burst apart along with its rider. Most of the rest were enveloped in the spreading clouds of dust and, presumably, reduced to flying mincemeat.

A wave of wind flattened Morveer against the side of the barn, tearing at his ripped shirt, his hair, his eyes. A moment later the thunderous double detonation reached his ears and made his teeth rattle. A couple of horses at either end of the line remained largely in one piece, flapping bonelessly as they were tossed through the air like an angry toddler's toys, one mount turned mostly inside out, crashing down to leave bloody scars through the crop near the trees from which they had first emerged.

Clods of earth rattled against the plank wall. Dust began to settle. Patches of damp wheat burned reluctantly around the edges of the blast, sending up smudges of acrid smoke. Charred splinters of wood, blackened chaff, smouldering fragments of men and beasts still rained from the sky. Ash wafted softly down on the breeze.

Morveer stood, still wedged in the side of the barn, struck to the heart with cold amazement. Gurkish fire, it seemed, or something darker, more… magical? A figure appeared around the smouldering corner of the barn just as he wrenched himself free and dived into the wheat, peering up between the stalks.

The Gurkish woman, Ishri. One arm and the hem of her brown coat were thoroughly on fire. She seemed suddenly to notice as the flames licked up around her face, shrugged the burning garment off without rush and tossed it aside, standing bandaged from neck to toe, unburned and pristine as the body of some ancient desert queen embalmed and ready for burial. She took one long look towards the trees, then smiled and slowly shook her head.

She said something happily in Kantic. Morveer's mastery of the tongue was not supreme, but it sounded like, "You still have it, Ishri." She swept the wheat where Morveer was hiding with her black eyes, at which he ducked down with the greatest alacrity, then she turned and disappeared behind the shattered corner of the barn from whence she came. He heard her faintly chuckling to herself.

"You still have it."

Morveer was left only with an overpowering—but in his opinion entirely justifiable—desire to flee, and never look back. So he wormed his way through the gore-spattered crops on his belly. Towards the trees, inch by painful inch, breath wheezing in his burning chest, terror pricking at his arse all the long way.

No Worse

Monza jerked the Calvez back and the man gave a wheezing grunt, face all squeezed up with shock, clutching at the little wound in his chest. He took a tottering step forwards, hauling up his short-sword as if it weighed as much as an anvil. She stepped out to the left and ran him through the side, just under his ribs, a foot of well-used blade sliding through his studded leather jerkin. He turned his head in her direction, face pink and trembling, veins bulging in his stretched-out neck. When she pulled the sword out, he dropped as if it had been the only thing holding him up. His eyes rolled towards her.

"Tell my…" he whispered.

"What?"

"Tell… her—" He strained up from the boards, dust caked across one side of his face, then coughed black vomit and stopped moving.

Monza placed him, all of a sudden. Baro, his name had been, or Paro, something with an "o" on the end. Some cousin of old Swolle's. He'd been there at Musselia, after the siege, after they sacked the town. He'd laughed at one of Benna's jokes. She remembered because it hadn't seemed the time for jokes, after they'd murdered Hermon and stolen his gold. She hadn't felt much like laughing, she knew that.

"Varo?" she muttered, trying to think what that joke had been. She heard a board creak, saw movement just in time to drop down. Her head jolted, the floor hit her in the face. She got up, the room tipped over and she ploughed into the wall, put one elbow out of the window, almost fell right through it. Roaring outside, clatter and clash of combat.

Through a head full of lights she saw something come at her and she tumbled out of the way, heard it smash into plaster. Splinters in her face. She screamed, reeling off balance, slashed at a black shape with the Calvez, saw her hand was empty. Dropped it already. There was a face at the window.

"Benna?" And some blood trickled from her mouth.

No time for jokes. Something clattered into her back and drove her breath out. She saw a mace, dull metal gleaming. Saw a man's face, snarling. A chain whipped around his neck and jerked him up. The room was settling, blood whooshing in her head, she tried to stand and only rolled onto her back.

Vitari had him round the throat and they lurched together about the dim room. He elbowed at her, other hand fiddling at the chain, but she dragged it tight, eyes ground to two furious little slits. Monza struggled up, made it to her feet, wobbled towards them. He fished at his belt for a knife but Monza got there first, pinned his free arm with her left hand, drew the blade with her right and started stabbing him with it.

"Uh, uh, uh." Squelch, scrape, thud, honking and spitting in each other's faces, her stuttering moan, and his squealing grunts, and Vitari's low growl all mingling together into an echoing, animal mess. Pretty much the same sounds they would have made if they were fucking rather than killing each other. Scrape, thud, squelch. "Uh, ah, uh."

"Enough!" hissed Vitari. "He's done!"

"Uh." She let the knife clatter to the boards. Her arm was sticky wet inside her coat all the way to her elbow, gloved hand locked up into a burning claw. She turned to the door, narrowing her stinging eyes against the brightness, stepped clumsily over the corpse of an Osprian soldier and through the broken wood in the doorway.

A man with blood down his cheek clawed at her, near dragged her over as he fell, smearing gore across her coat. A mercenary was stabbed from behind as he tried to stagger up from the yard, went down thrashing on his face. Then the Osprian soldier who'd speared him got kicked in the head by a horse, his steel cap flying right off and him toppling sideways like a felled tree. Men and mounts strained all around—a deadly storm of thumping boots, hooves, clattering metal, swinging weapons and flying dirt.

And not ten strides from her, through the mass of writhing bodies, Faithful Carpi sat on his big warhorse, roaring like a madman. He hadn't much changed—the same broad, honest, scarred face. The bald pate, the thick white moustache and the white stubble round it. He'd got himself a shiny breastplate and a long red cloak better suited to a duke than a mercenary. He had a flatbow bolt sticking from his shoulder, right arm hanging useless, the other raised to point a heavy sword towards the house.

The strange thing was that she felt a rush of warmth when she first laid eyes on him. That happy pang you get when you see a friend's face in a crowd. Faithful Carpi, who'd led five charges for her. Who'd fought for her in all weathers and never let her down. Faithful Carpi, who she would've trusted with her life. Who she had trusted with her life, so he could sell it cheap for Cosca's old chair. Sell her life, and sell her brother's too.

The warmth didn't last long. The dizziness faded with it, left her a dose of anger scalding her guts and a stinging pain down the side of her head where the coins held her skull together.

The mercenaries could be bitter fighters when they had no other choice, but they much preferred foraging to fighting and they'd been withered by that first volley, rattled by the shock of men where they hadn't expected them. They had spears ahead, enemies in the buildings, archers at the windows and on the flat stable roof, shooting down at their leisure. A rider shrieked as he was dragged from his saddle, spear tumbling from his hand and clattering at Monza's feet.

A couple of his comrades turned their horses to run. One made it back into the paddock. The other was poked wailing from his saddle with a sword, foot caught in one stirrup, dancing upside down while his horse thrashed about. Faithful Carpi was no coward, but you don't last thirty years as a mercenary without knowing when to make a dash for it. He wheeled his horse around, chopping an Osprian soldier down and laying his skull wide open in the mud. Then he was gone round the side of the farmhouse.

Monza clawed up the fallen spear in her gloved hand, snatched hold of the bridle of the riderless horse with the other and dragged herself into the saddle, her sudden bitter need to kill Carpi putting some trace of the old spring back into her lead-filled legs. She pulled the horse around to face the farmyard wall, gave it her heels and jumped it, an Osprian soldier flinging his flatbow down and diving out of her way with a cry. She thumped down on the other side, jolting in the saddle and near stabbing herself in the face, crashed out into the wheat, stalks thrashing at the legs of her stolen horse as it struggled up the long slope. She fumbled the spear across into her left hand, took the reins in her right, crouched down and drummed up a jagged canter with her heels. She saw Carpi stop at the top of the rise, a black outline against the bright eastern sky, then turn his horse and tear away.

She burst out from the wheat and across a field spotted with thorny bushes, downhill now, clods of mud flying from the soft ground as she dug her mount to a full gallop. Not far ahead of her Carpi jumped a hedgerow, greenery thrashing at his horse's hooves. He landed badly, flailing in the saddle to keep his balance. Monza picked her spot better, cleared the hedge easily, gaining on him all the time. She kept her eyes ahead, always ahead. Not thinking of the speed, or the danger, or the pain in her hand. All that was in her mind was Faithful Carpi, and his horse, and the overpowering need to stick her spear into one or the other.

They thundered across an unplanted field, hooves hammering at the thick mud, towards a crease in the ground that looked like a stream. A whitewashed building gleamed beside it in the brightening morning sun, a mill-house from what Monza could tell with the world shaking, wobbling, rushing around her. She strained forwards over her horse's neck, gripping hard at the spear couched under her arm, wind rushing at her narrowed eyes. Willing herself closer to Faithful Carpi. Willing herself closer to vengeance. It looked as though his horse might have picked up a niggle when he spoiled that jump, she was making ground on him now, making ground fast.

There were just three lengths between them, then two, specks of mud from the hooves of Carpi's warhorse flicking in her face. She drew herself up in the saddle, pulling back the spear, sun twinkling on the tip for a moment. She caught a glimpse of Faithful's familiar face as he jerked his head round to look over his shoulder, one grey eyebrow thick with blood, streaks down his stubbly cheek from a cut on his forehead. She heard him growl, digging hard with his spurs, but his horse was a heavy beast, better suited to charging than fleeing. The bobbing head of her mount crept slowly closer and closer to the streaming tail of Carpi's, the ground a brown blur rushing by between the two.

She screamed as she rammed the spear point into the horse's rump. It jerked, twisted, head flailing, one eye rolling wild, foam on its bared teeth. Faithful jolted in the saddle, one boot torn from the stirrup. The warhorse carried on for a dizzy moment, then its wounded leg twisted underneath it and all at once it went down, pitching forwards, head folding under its hurtling weight, hooves flailing, mud flying. She heard Carpi squeal as she flashed past, heard the thumping behind her as his horse tumbled over and over across the muddy field.

She hauled on the reins with her right hand, pulled her horse up, snorting and tossing, legs shaky from the hard ride. She saw Carpi pushing himself drunkenly from the ground, tangled with his long red cloak, all spattered and streaked with dirt. She was surprised to see him still alive, but not unhappy. Gobba, Mauthis, Ario, Ganmark, they'd had their part in what Orso had done to her, done to her brother, and they'd paid their price for it. But none of them had been her friends. Faithful had ridden beside her. Eaten with her. Drunk from her canteen. Smiled, and smiled, then stabbed her when it suited him, and stolen her place.

She had a mind to stretch this out.

He took a dizzy step, mouth hanging open, eyes wide in his bloody face. He saw her and she grinned, held the spear up high and gave a whoop. Like a hunter might do, seeing the fox in the open. He started limping desperately away towards the edge of the field, wounded arm cradled against his chest, the shaft of the flatbow bolt jutting broken from his shoulder.

The smile tugged hard at her face as she trotted up closer, close enough to hear his wheezing breath as he struggled pointlessly towards the stream. The sight of that treacherous bastard crawling for his life made her happier than she'd been in a long while. He hauled his sword from its scabbard with his left hand, floundering desperately forwards, using it as a crutch.

"Takes time," she called to him, "to learn to use the wrong hand! I should know! You don't have that much fucking time, Carpi!" He was close to the stream, but she'd be on him before he got there, and he knew it.

He turned, clumsily raising the blade. She jerked the reins and sent her mount sideways so he hacked nothing but air. She stood in the stirrups, stabbed down with the spear, caught him in the shoulder and tore the armour from it, ripped a gash in his cloak and knocked him to his knees, sword left stuck in the earth. He moaned through gritted teeth, blood trickling down his breastplate, struggling to get up again. She pulled one boot from the stirrup, brought her horse closer and kicked him in the face, snapped his head back and sent him rolling down the bank and into the stream.

She tossed the spear point-first into the soil, swung her leg over the saddle and slid down. She stood a moment, watching Carpi floundering, shaking the life back into her stiff legs. Then she snatched the spear up, took a long, slow breath and started picking her way down the bank to the water's edge.

Not far downstream the mill-house stood, waterwheel clattering as it slowly turned. The far bank had been walled up with rough stone, all bearded with moss. Carpi was fumbling at it, cursing, trying to drag himself up onto the far side. But weighed down with armour, his cloak heavy with water, a flatbow bolt in one shoulder and a spear wound in the other, he had less than no chance. So he waded doggedly along, up to his waist in the stream, while she shadowed him on the other bank, grinning, spear levelled.

"You keep on going, Carpi, I'll give you that. No one could call you a coward. Just an idiot. Stupid Carpi." She forced out a laugh. "I can't believe you fell for this shit. All those years taking my orders, you should've known me better. Thought I'd be sitting waiting, did you, weeping over my misfortunes?"

He edged back through the water, eyes fixed on the point of her spear, breathing hard. "That fucking Northman lied to me."

"Almost as if you can't trust anyone these days, eh? You should've stabbed me in the heart, Faithful, instead of the guts."

"Heart?" he sneered. "You don't have one!" He floundered through the water at her, sending up a shower of glittering spray, dagger in his fist. She thrust at him, felt the spear's shaft jolt in her aching right hand as the point took him in the hip, twisted him round and sent him over backwards. He struggled up again, snarling through his gritted teeth. "I'm better'n you at least, you murdering scum!"

"If you're so much better than me, how come you're the one in the stream and I'm the one with the spear, fucker?" She moved the point in slow circles, shining with wet. "You keep on coming, Carpi, I'll give you that. No one could call you a coward. Just a fucking liar. Traitor Carpi."

"Me a traitor?" He dragged himself down the wall towards the slowly clattering waterwheel. "Me? After all those years I stuck with you? I wanted to be loyal to Cosca! I was loyal to him. I'm Faithful!" He thumped his wet breastplate with his bloody hand. "That's what I am. What I was. You stole that from me! You and your fucking brother!"

"I didn't throw Cosca down a mountain, bastard!"

"You think I wanted to do it? You think I wanted any of this?" There were tears in the old mercenary's eyes as he struggled away from her. "I'm not made to lead! Ario comes to me, says Orso's decided you can't be trusted! That you have to go! That you're the past and I'm the future, and the rest of the captains already agreed. So I took the easy way. What was my choice?"

Monza wasn't enjoying herself anymore. She remembered Orso standing smiling in her tent. Cosca is the past, and I have decided that you are the future. Benna smiling beside him. It's better like this. You deserve to lead. She remembered taking the easy way. What had been her choice? "You could've warned me, given me a chance to—"

"Like you warned Cosca? Like you warned me? Fuck yourself, Murcatto! You pointed out the path and I followed, that's all! You sow bloody seeds, you'll reap a bloody harvest, and you sowed seeds across Styria and back! You did this to yourself! You did this to—Gah!" He twisted backwards, fumbling weakly at his neck. That fine cloak of his had floated back and got all caught up in the gears of the waterwheel. Now the red cloth was winding tighter and tighter, dragging him hard against the slowly turning wood.

"Fucking…" He fumbled with his one half-good arm at the mossy slats, at the rusted bolts of the great wheel, but there was no stopping it. Monza watched, mouth half-open but no words to say, spear hanging slack from her hands as he was dragged down, down under the wheel. Down, down, into the black water. It surged and bubbled around his chest, then around his shoulders, then around his neck.

His bulging eyes rolled up towards her. "I'm no worse'n you, Murcatto! Just did what I had to!" He was fighting to keep his mouth above the frothing water. "I'm… no worse… than—"

His face disappeared.

Faithful Carpi, who'd led five charges for her. Who'd fought for her in all weathers and never let her down. Faithful Carpi, who she'd trusted with her life.

Monza floundered down into the stream, cold water closing around her legs. She caught hold of Faithful's clutching hand, felt his fingers grip hers. She pulled, teeth gritted, growling with the effort. She lifted the spear, rammed it into the gears hard as she could, felt the shaft jam there. She hooked her gloved hand under his armpit, up to her neck in surging water, fighting to drag him out, straining with every burning muscle. She felt him starting to come up, arm sliding out of the froth, elbow, then shoulder, she started fumbling at the buckle on his cloak with her gloved hand but she couldn't make the fingers work. Too cold, too numb, too broken. There was a crack as the spear shaft splintered. The waterwheel started turning, slowly, slowly, metal squealing, cogs grating, and dragged Faithful back under.

The stream kept on flowing. His hand went limp, and that was that.

Five dead, two left.

She let it go, breathing hard. She watched as his pale fingers slipped under the water, then she waded out of the stream and limped up onto the bank, soaked to the skin. There was no strength left in her, legs aching deep in the bones, right hand throbbing all the way up her forearm and into her shoulder, the wound on the side of her head stinging, blood pounding hard as a club behind her eyes. It was all she could manage to get one foot in the stirrup and drag herself into the saddle.

She took a look back, felt her guts clench and double her over, spat a mouthful of scalding sick into the mud, then another. The wheel had pulled Faithful right under and now it was dragging him up on the other side, limbs dangling, head lolling, eyes wide open and his tongue hanging out, some waterweed tangled around his neck. Slowly, slowly, it hoisted him up into the air, like an executed traitor displayed as an example to the public.

She wiped her mouth on the back of her arm, scraped her tongue over her teeth and tried to spit the bitterness away while her sore head spun. Probably she should have cut him down from there, given him some last shred of dignity. He'd been her friend, hadn't he? No hero, maybe, but who was? A man who'd wanted to be loyal in a treacherous business, in a treacherous world. A man who'd wanted to be loyal and found it had gone out of fashion. Probably she should have dragged him up onto the bank at least, left him somewhere he could lie still. But instead she turned her horse back towards the farm.

Dignity wasn't much help to the living, it was none to the dead. She'd come here to kill Faithful, and he was killed.

No point weeping about it now.

Harvest Time

Shivers sat on the steps of the farmhouse, trimming some loose skin from the big mass of grazes on his forearm and watching some man weep over a corpse. Friend. Brother, even. He weren't trying to hide it, just sat slumped over, tears dripping off his chin. A moving sight, most likely, if you were that way inclined.

And Shivers always had been. His brother had called him pig-fat when he was a boy on account of his being that soft. He'd cried at his brother's grave and at his father's. When his friend Dobban got stabbed through with a spear and took two days going back to the mud. The night after the fight at Dunbrec, when they buried half his crew along with Threetrees. After the battle in the High Places, even, he'd gone off and found a spot on his own, let fall a full puddle of salt water. Though that might've been relief the fighting was done, rather than sorrow some lives were.

He knew he'd wept all those times, and he knew why, but he couldn't remember for the life of him how it had felt to do it. He wondered if there was anyone left in the world he'd cry for now, and he wasn't sure he liked the answer.

He took a swig of sour water from his flask, and watched a couple of Osprian soldiers picking over the bodies. One rolled a dead man over, some bloody guts slithering out of his split side, wrestled his boot off, saw it had a hole in the sole, tossed it away. He watched another pair, shirt-sleeves rolled up, one with a shovel over his shoulder, arguing the toss over where'd be easiest to start digging. He watched the flies, floating about in the soupy air, already gathering round the open mouths, the open eyes, the open wounds. He looked at ragged gashes and broken bone, cut-off limbs and spilled innards, blood in sticky streaks, drying spots and spatters, red-black pools across the stony yard, and felt no pleasure at a job well done, but no disgust either, no guilt and no sorrow. Just the stinging of his grazes, the uncomfortable stickiness of the heat, the tiredness in his bruised limbs and a niggling trace of hunger, since he'd missed breakfast.

There was a man screaming inside the farmhouse, where they were dealing with the wounded. Screaming, screaming, hoarse and blubbery. But there was a bird tweeting happily from the eaves of the stable too, and Shivers found without too much effort he could concentrate on one and forget the other. He smiled and nodded along with the bird, leaned back against the door frame and stretched his leg out. Seemed a man could get used to anything, in time. And he was damned if he was going to let some screaming shift him off a good spot on the doorstep.

He heard hoofbeats, looked round. Monza, trotting slowly down the slope, a black figure with the bright-blue sky behind her. He watched her pull her lathered horse up in the farmyard, frowning at the bodies. Her clothes were sodden wet, as if she'd been dunked in a stream. Her hair was matted with blood on one side, her pale cheek streaked with it.

"Aye aye, Chief. Good to see you." Should've been true but it felt like some kind of a lie, still. He felt not much of anything either way. "Faithful dead, is he?"

"He's dead." She slid stiffly down. "Have any trouble getting him here?"

"Not much. He wanted to bring more friends than we'd planned for, but I couldn't bring myself to turn 'em down. You know how it is when folk hear about a party. They looked so eager, poor bastards. Have any trouble killing him?"

She shook her head. "He drowned."

"Oh aye? Thought you'd have stabbed him." He picked her sword up and offered it to her.

"I stabbed him a bit." She looked at the blade for a moment, then took it from his hand and sheathed it. "Then I let him drown."

Shivers shrugged. "Up to you. Drowning'll do it, I reckon."

"Drowning did it."

"Five of seven, then."

"Five of seven." Though she didn't look like celebrating. Hardly any more than the man crying over his dead friend. It weren't much of a joyous occasion for anyone, even on the winning side. There's vengeance for you.

"Who's that screaming?"

"Someone. No one." Shivers shrugged. "Listen to the bird instead."

"What?"

"Murcatto!" Vitari stood, arms folded, in the open doorway of the barn. "You'll want to see this."

It was cool and dim inside, sunlight coming in through a ragged hole in the corner, through the narrow windows, throwing bright stripes across the darkened straw. One fell over Day's corpse, yellow hair tangled across her face, body twisted awkwardly. No blood. No marks of violence at all.

"Poison," muttered Monza.

Vitari nodded. "Oh, the irony."

A hellish-looking mess of copper rods, glass tubes and odd-shaped bottles was stood on the table beside the body, a couple of lamps with yellow-blue flames flickering underneath, stuff bubbling away inside, trickling, dripping. Shivers liked the look of the poisoner's equipment even less than the look of the poisoner's corpse. Bodies he was good and familiar with, science was all unknown.

"Fucking science," he muttered. "Even worse'n magic."

"Where's Morveer?" asked Monza.

"No sign." The three of them looked hard at each other for a moment.

"Not among the dead?"

Shivers slowly shook his head. "It's a shame, but I didn't see him."

Monza took a worried step back. "Best not touch anything."

"You think?" growled Vitari. "What happened?"

"Difference of opinion between master and apprentice, by the look of things."

"Serious difference," muttered Shivers.

Vitari slowly shook her spiky head. "That's it. I'm finished."

"You're what?" asked Monza.

"I'm out. In this business you have to know when to quit. It's war now, and I try not to get involved with that. Too hard to pick the outcome." She nodded towards the yard where, out in the sunshine, they were piling up the corpses. "Visserine was a step too far for me, and this is a step further. That and I've no taste for being on the wrong side of Morveer. I could do without looking over my shoulder every day of my life."

"You'll still be looking over your shoulder for Orso," said Monza.

"Knew it when I took the job. Needed the money." Vitari held out her open palm. "Talking of which…"

Monza frowned at her hand, then her face. "You've only come halfway. Halfway, half what we agreed."

"Seems fair. All the money and dead is no kind of payment. I'll settle for half and live."

"I'd sooner keep you on. I can use you. And you won't be safe as long as Orso's alive—"

"Then you'd best get on and kill the bastard, hadn't you? But without me."

"Your choice." Monza reached inside her coat and pulled out a flat leather pouch, a little stained with water. She unfolded it twice and slid a paper from inside, damp at one corner, covered with fancy-looking script. "More than half what we agreed. Five thousand two hundred and twelve scales, in fact." Shivers frowned at it. He still couldn't see how you could turn such a weight of silver into a scrap of paper.

"Fucking banking," he murmured. "Even worse'n science."

Vitari took the bill from Monza's gloved hand, gave it a quick look over. "Valint and Balk?" Her eyes went even narrower than usual, which was some achievement. "This paper better pay. If not, there's no place in the Circle of the World you'll be safe from—"

"It'll pay. If there's one thing I don't need it's more enemies."

"Then let's part friends." Vitari folded the paper and pushed it down into her shirt. "Maybe we'll work together again some time."

Monza stared right into her face, that way she had. "I'll count the minutes."

Vitari backed off for a few steps, then turned towards the sunlit square of the doorway.

"I fell in a river!" Shivers called after her.

"What?"

"When I was young. First time I went raiding. I got drunk, and I went for a piss, and I fell in the river. Current sucked my trousers off, dumped me half a mile downstream. Time I got back to camp I'd more or less turned blue with cold, shivering so bad I near shook my fingers off."

"And?"

"That's why they called me Shivers. You asked. Back in Sipani." And he grinned. Seemed like he could see the funny side of it, these days. Vitari stood there for a moment, a lean black outline, then slid out through the door. "Well, Chief, looks like it's just you and me—"

"And me!" He snapped round, reaching for his axe. Beside him Monza crouched, sword already half-drawn, both straining into the darkness. Ishri's grinning face hung on one side, over the edge of the hayloft. "And a fine afternoon to my two heroes." She slid down the ladder face first, as smooth as if her bandaged body had no bones in it. Up onto her feet, looking impossibly thin without her coat, and she sauntered across the straw towards Day's corpse. "One of your killers killed the other. There's killers for you." She looked at Shivers, eyes black as coal, and he gripped his axe tight.

"Fucking magic," he mumbled. "Even worse'n banking."

She crept up, all white-toothed, hungry grin, touched one finger to the pick on the back of his axe and pushed it gently down towards the floor. "Do I take it you murdered your old friend Faithful Carpi to your satisfaction?"

Monza slapped her sword back into its sheath. "Faithful's dead, if that's the point of your fucking performance."

"You have a strange manner of celebration." She lifted her long arms to the ceiling. "Vengeance is yours! Praise be to God!"

"Orso still lives."

"Ah, yes." Ishri opened her eyes very wide, so wide Shivers wondered if they might drop out. "When Orso dies you will smile."

"What do you care whether I smile?"

"I, care? Not a particle. You Styrians have a habit of boasting, and boasting, and never following through. I am pleased to find one who can get the job done. Do the job, scowl by all means." She ran her fingers across the table-top then casually snuffed the flames of the burners out with the palm of her hand. "Speaking of which, you told our mutual friend Duke Rogont you could bring the Thousand Swords over to his side, as I recall?"

"If the Emperor's gold is forthcoming—"

"In your shirt pocket."

Monza frowned as she pulled something from her pocket and held it up to the light. A big red-gold coin, shining with that special warmth gold has that somehow makes you want to hold it. "Very nice, but it'll take more than one."

"Oh, there'll be more. The mountains of Gurkhul are made of gold, I hear." She peered at the charred edges of the hole in the corner of the barn, then happily clicked her tongue. "I still have it." And she twisted her body through the gap like a fox through a fence and was gone.

Shivers left it a moment, then leaned close to Monza. "Can't put my finger on it, but there's something odd about her."

"You've got this amazing sense for people, haven't you?" She turned without smiling and left the barn.

Shivers stood there a moment longer, frowning down at Day's body, working his face around, feeling the scars on the left side stretching, shifting, itching. Cosca dead, Day dead, Vitari gone, Friendly gone, Morveer fled and, by the look of things, turned against them. So much for the merry company. He should've been all nostalgic for the happy friends of long ago, the bands of brothers he'd been a part of. United in a common cause, even if it was no more'n staying alive. Dogman, and Harding Grim, and Tul Duru. Black Dow, even, all men with a code. All faded into the past, and left him alone. Down here in Styria, where no one had any code that meant a thing.

Even then, his right eye was about as close to crying as his left.

He scratched at the scar on his cheek. Ever so gently, just with his fingertips. He winced, scratched harder. And harder still. He stopped himself, hissing through his teeth. Now it itched worse than ever, and hurt into the bargain. He'd yet to work out a way to scratch that itch that didn't make matters worse.

There's vengeance for you.

The Old New Captain General

Monza had seen wounds past counting, in all their wondrous variety. The making of them had been her profession. She'd witnessed bodies ruined in every conceivable manner. Men crushed, slashed, stabbed, burned, hanged, skinned, gutted, gored. But Caul Shivers' scar might well have been the worst she'd ever seen on the face of a living man.

It started as a pink mark near the corner of his mouth, became a ragged groove thick as a finger below his cheekbone, then widened, a stream of mottled, melted flesh flowing towards his eye. Streaks and spots of angry red spread out from it across his cheek, down the side of his nose. There was a thin mark to match slanting across his forehead and taking off half his eyebrow. Then there was the eye itself. It was bigger than the other. Lashes gone, lids shrivelled, the lower one drooping. When he blinked with his right eye, the left only twitched, and stayed open. He'd sneezed a while back, and it had puckered up like a swallowing throat, the dead enamelled pupil still staring at her through the pink hole. She'd had to will herself not to spew, and yet she was gripped with a horrified fascination, constantly looking to see if it would happen again, and it hardly helped that she knew he couldn't see her looking.

She should have felt guilt. She'd been the cause of it, hadn't she? She should have felt sympathy. She'd scars of her own, after all, and ugly enough. But disgust was as close as she could get. She wished she'd started off riding on the other side of him, but it was too late now. She wished he'd never taken the bandages off, but she could hardly tell him to put them back on. She told herself it might heal, might get better, and maybe it would.

But not much, and she knew it.

He turned suddenly, and she realised why he'd been staring at his saddle. His right eye was on her. His left, in the midst of all that scar, still looked straight downwards. The enamel must have slipped, and now his mismatched eyes gave him a look of skewed confusion.

"What?"

"Your, er…" She pointed at her face. "It's slipped… a bit."

"Again? Fucking thing." He put his thumb in his eye and slid it back up. "Better?" Now the false one was fixed straight ahead while the real one glared at her. It was almost worse than it had been.

"Much," she said, doing her best to smile.

Shivers spat something in Northern. "Uncanny results, did he say? If I happen back through Puranti I'll give that eye-making bastard a visit…"

The mercenaries' first picket came into view around a curve in the track—a scattering of shady-looking men in mismatched armour. She knew the one in charge by sight. She'd made it her business to know every veteran in the Thousand Swords, and what he was good for. Secco was this one's name, a tough old wolf who'd served as a corporal for six years or more.

He pointed his spear at her as they brought their horses to a walk, his fellows around him, flatbows, swords, axes at the ready. "Who goes—"

She pushed her hood back. "Who do you think, Secco?"

The words froze on his lips and he stood, spear limp, as she rode past. On into the camp, men going about their morning rituals, eating their breakfasts, getting ready to march. A few looked up as she and Shivers passed on the track, or at any rate the widest stretch of mud between the tents. A few of them started staring. Then a few more, watching, following at a distance, gathering along the way.

"It's her."

"Murcatto."

"She's alive?"

She rode through them the way she used to, shoulders back, chin up, sneer locked on her mouth, not even bothering to look. As if they were nothing to her. As if she was a better kind of animal than they were. And all the while she prayed silently they didn't work out what they'd never worked out yet, but what she was always afraid to the pit of her stomach they would.

That she didn't know what the hell she was doing, and a knife would kill her just as dead as anyone else.

But none of them spoke to her, let alone tried to stop her. Mercenaries are cowards, on the whole, even more so than most people. Men who'll kill because it's the easiest way they've found to make a living. Mercenaries have no loyalty in them, on the whole, by definition. Not much to their leaders, even less to their employers.

That was what she was counting on.

The captain general's tent was pitched on a rise in a big clearing, red pennant hanging limp from its tallest pole, well above the jumble of badly pitched canvas around it. Monza kicked her horse up, making a couple of men scurry out of her way, trying not to let the nerves that were boiling up her throat show. It was a long enough gamble as it was. Show one grain of fear and she'd be done.

She swung down from her horse, tossed the reins carelessly round a sapling trunk. She had to sidestep a goat someone had tethered there, then strode up towards the flap. Nocau, the Gurkish outcast who'd guarded the tent during the daylight since way back in Sazine's time, stood staring, his big scimitar not even drawn.

"You can shut your mouth now, Nocau." She leaned in close and pushed his slack jaw shut with her gloved finger so his teeth snapped together. "Wouldn't want a bird nesting in there, eh?" And she pushed through the flap.

The same table, even if the charts on it were of a different stretch of ground. The same flags hanging about the canvas, some of them that she'd added, won at Sweet Pines and the High Bank, at Musselia and Caprile. And the same chair, of course, that Sazine had supposedly stolen from the Duke of Cesale's dining table the day he formed the Thousand Swords. It stood empty on a pair of crates, waiting for the arse of the new captain general. For her arse, if the Fates were kind.

Though she had to admit they weren't usually.

The three most senior captains left in the great brigade stood close to the improvised dais, muttering to each other. Sesaria, Victus, Andiche. The three Benna had persuaded to make her captain general. The three who'd persuaded Faithful Carpi to take her place. The three she needed to persuade to give it back to her. They looked up, and they saw her, and they straightened.

"Well, well," rumbled Sesaria.

"Well, well, well," muttered Andiche. "If it isn't the Serpent of Talins."

"The Butcher of Caprile herself," whined Victus. "Where's Faithful?"

She looked him right in the eye. "Not coming. You boys need a new captain general."

The three of them swapped glances, and Andiche sucked noisily at his yellowed teeth. A habit Monza had always found faintly disgusting. One of many disgusting things about the lank-haired rat of a man. "As it happens, we'd reached the same conclusion on our own."

"Faithful was a good fellow," rumbled Sesaria.

"Too good for the job," said Victus.

"A decent captain general needs to be an evil shit at best."

Monza showed her teeth. "Any one of you three is more than evil enough, I reckon. There aren't three bigger shits in Styria." It was no kind of joke. She should've murdered these three rather than Faithful. "Too big a set of shits to work for each other, though."

"True enough," said Victus sourly.

Sesaria tipped his head back and stared at her down his flat nose. "We need someone new."

"Or someone old," said Monza.

Andiche grinned at his two fellows. "As it happens, we'd reached the same conclusion on our own," he said again.

"Good for you." This was going more smoothly even than she'd hoped. Eight years she'd led the Thousand Swords, and she knew how to handle the likes of these three. Greed, nice and simple. "I'm not the type to let a little bad blood get in the way of a lot of good money, and I damn well know that none of you are." She held Ishri's coin up to the light, a Gurkish double-headed coin, Emperor on one side, Prophet on the other. She flicked it to Andiche. "There'll be plenty more like that, to go over to Rogont."

Sesaria stared at her from under his thick grey brows. "Fight for Rogont, against Orso?"

"Fight all the way back across Styria?" The chains round Victus' neck rattled as he tossed his head. "The same ground we've fought over the past eight years?"

Andiche looked up from the coin to her, and puffed out his acne-scarred cheeks. "Sounds like an awful lot of fighting."

"You've won against longer odds, with me in charge."

"Oh, that's a fact." Sesaria gestured at the tattered flags. "We've won all kinds of glory with you in the chair, all kinds of pride."

"But try paying a whore with that." Victus was grinning, and that weasel never grinned. Something was wrong about their smiles, something mocking in them.

"Look." Andiche rested one lazy hand on the arm of the captain general's chair and dusted the seat off with the other. "We don't doubt for a moment that when it comes to a fight, you're the best damn general a man could ask for."

"Then what's the problem?"

Victus' face twisted into a snarl. "We don't want to fight! We want to make… fucking… money!"

"Who ever brought you more money than me?"

"Ahem," came a voice right in her ear. Monza jerked round, and froze, hand halfway to the hilt of her sword. Standing just behind her, with a faintly embarrassed smile, was Nicomo Cosca.

He'd shaved off his moustache, and all his hair besides, left only a black and grey stubble over his knobbly skull, his sharp jaw. The rash had faded to a faint pink splash up the side of his neck. His eyes were less sunken, his face no longer trembling or beaded with sweat. But the smile was the same. The faint little smile and the playful gleam in his dark eyes. The same he used to have, when she first met him.

"A delight to see you both well."

"Uh," grunted Shivers. Monza found she'd made a kind of strangled cough, but no words came with it.

"I am in resplendent health, your concern for my welfare is most touching." Cosca strolled past, slapping a puzzled-looking Shivers on the back, more captains of the Thousand Swords pushing their way through the flap after him and spreading out around the edges of the tent. Men whose names, faces, qualities, or lack of them, she knew well. A thick-set man with a stoop, a worn coat and almost no neck came at the rear. He raised his heavy brows at her as he passed.

"Friendly?" she hissed. "I thought you were going back to Talins!"

He shrugged, as if it was nothing. "Didn't make it all the way."

"So I fucking see!"

Cosca stepped up onto the packing cases and turned to the assembly with a self-satisfied flourish. He'd acquired a grand black breastplate with golden scrollwork from somewhere, a sword with a gilded hilt, fine black boots with shining buckles. He settled himself into the captain general's chair with as much pomp as an Emperor into his throne, Friendly standing watchful beside the cases, arms crossed. As Cosca's arse touched the wood the tent broke into polite applause, every captain tapping their fingers against their palms as daintily as fine ladies attending the theatre. Just as they had for Monza, when she stole the chair. If she hadn't felt suddenly so sick she might almost have laughed.

Cosca waved away the applause while obviously encouraging it. "No, no, really, entirely undeserved. But it's good to be back."

"How the hell—"

"Did I survive? The wound, it appears, was not quite so fatal as we all supposed. The Talinese took me, on account of my uniform, for one of their own, and bore me directly to an excellent surgeon, who was able to staunch the bleeding. I was two weeks abed, then slipped out of a window. I made contact in Puranti with my old friend Andiche, who I had gathered might be desirous of a change in command. He was, and so were all his noble fellows." He gestured to the captains scattered about the tent, then to himself. "And here I am."

Monza snapped her mouth shut. There was no planning for this. Nicomo Cosca, the very definition of an unpredictable development. Still, a plan too brittle to bend with circumstances is worse than no plan at all. "My congratulations, then, General Cosca," she managed to grate. "But my offer still stands. Gurkish gold in return for your services to Duke Rogont—"

"Ah." Cosca winced, sucking air through his teeth. "Tiny little problem there, unfortunately. I already signed a new engagement with Grand Duke Orso. Or with his heir, to be precise, Prince Foscar. A promising young man. We'll be moving against Ospria just as Faithful Carpi planned, prior to his untimely demise." He poked at the air with his forefinger. "Putting paid to the League of Eight! Taking the fight to the Duke of Delay! There's plenty to sack in Ospria. It was a good plan." Agreeing mutters from the captains. "Why work out another?"

"But you hate Orso!"

"Oh, I despise him utterly, that's well known, but I've nothing against his money. It's the exact same colour as everybody else's. You should know. He paid you enough of it."

"You old cunt," she said.

"You really shouldn't talk to me that way." Cosca stuck his lips out at her. "I am a mature forty-eight. Besides, I gave my life for you!"

"You didn't fucking die!" she snarled.

"Well. Rumours of my death are often exaggerated. Wishful thinking, on the part of my many enemies."

"I'm beginning to know how they feel."

"Oh, come, come, whatever were you thinking? A noble death? Me? Very much not my style. I mean to go with my boots off, a bottle in my hand and a woman on my cock." His eyebrows went up. "It's not that job you've come for, is it?"

Monza ground her teeth. "If it's a question of money—"

"Orso has the full support of the Banking House of Valint and Balk, and you'll find no deeper pockets anywhere. He's paying well, and better than well. But it's not about the money, actually. I signed a contract. I gave my solemn word."

She stared at him. "When have you ever cared a shit about your word?"

"I'm a changed man." Cosca pulled a flask from a back pocket, unscrewed it and took a long swig, never taking his amused eyes from her face. "And I must admit I owe it all to you. I've put the past behind me. Found my principles." He grinned at his captains, and they grinned back. "Bit mossy, but they should polish up alright. You forged a good relationship with Orso. Loyalty. Honesty. Stability. Hate to toss all your hard work down the latrine. Besides, there's the soldier's first rule to consider, isn't there, boys?"

Victus and Andiche spoke in unison, just the way they'd used to, before she took the chair. "Never fight for the losing side!"

Cosca's grin grew wider. "Orso holds the cards. Find a good hand of your own, my ears are always open. But we'll stick with Orso for now."

"Whatever you say, General," said Andiche.

"Whatever you say," echoed Victus. "Good to have you back."

Sesaria leaned down, muttering something in Cosca's ear. The new captain general recoiled as though stung. "Give them over to Duke Orso? Absolutely not! Today is a happy day! A joyous occasion for one and all! There'll be no killing here, not today." He wafted a hand at her as though he was shooing a cat out of the kitchen. "You can go. Better not come back tomorrow, though. We might not be so joyous, then."

Monza took a step towards him, a curse half-out of her mouth. There was a rattling of metal as the assorted captains began to draw their weapons. Friendly blocked her path, arms coming uncrossed, hands dropping to his sides, expressionless face turned towards her. She stopped still. "I need to kill Orso!"

"And if you manage it, your brother will live again, yes?" Cosca cocked his head to one side. "You'll get your hand back? No?"

She was cold all over, skin prickling. "He deserves what's coming!"

"Ah, but most of us do. All of us will get it regardless. How many others will you suck into your little vortex of slaughter in the meantime?"

"For Benna—"

"No. For you. I know you, don't forget. I've stood where you stand now, beaten, betrayed, disgraced, and come out the other side. As long as you have men to kill you are still Monzcarro Murcatto, the great and fearsome! Without that, what are you?" Cosca's lip curled. "A lonely cripple with a bloody past."

The words were strangled in her throat. "Please, Cosca, you have to—"

"I don't have to do a thing. We're even, remember? More than even, say I. Out of my sight, snake, before I pack you off back to Duke Orso in a jar. You need a job, Northman?"

Shivers' good eye crept across to Monza, and for a moment she was sure he'd say yes. Then he slowly shook his head. "I'll stick with the chief I've got."

"Loyalty, eh?" Cosca snorted. "Be careful with that nonsense, it can get you killed!" A scattering of laughter. "The Thousand Swords is no place for loyalty, eh, boys? We'll have none of that childishness here!" More laughter, a score or more hard grins all aimed at Monza.

She felt dizzy. The tent seemed too bright and too dark at once. Her nose caught a waft of something—sweaty bodies, or strong drink, or stinking cooking, or a latrine pit too close to the headquarters, and her stomach turned over, set her mouth to watering. A smoke, oh please, a smoke. She turned on her heel, somewhat unsteadily, shoved her way between a couple of chuckling men and through the flap, out of the tent and into the bright morning.

Outside it was far worse. Sunlight stabbed at her. Faces, dozens of them, blurred together into a mass of eyes, all fixed on her. A jury of scum. She tried to look ahead, always ahead, but she couldn't stop her lids from flickering. She tried to walk in the old way, head back, but her knees were trembling so hard she was sure they must be able to hear them slapping against the insides of her trousers. It was as if she'd been putting off the fear, the weakness, the pain. Putting it off, storing it up, and now it was breaking on her in one great wave, sweeping her under, helpless. Her skin was icy with cold sweat. Her hand was aching all the way to her neck. They saw what she really was. Saw she'd lost. A lonely cripple with a bloody past, just like Cosca said. Her guts shifted and she gagged, an acid tickle at the back of her throat. The world lurched.

Hate only keeps you standing so long.

"Can't," she whispered. "Can't." She didn't care what happened, as long as she could stop. Her leg buckled and she started to fall, felt Shivers grab hold of her arm and drag her up.

"Walk," he hissed in her ear.

"Can't—"

His fist dug hard into her armpit, and the pain stopped the world spinning for a moment. "Fucking walk, or we're finished."

Enough strength, with Shivers' help, to make it to the horses. Enough to put a boot in a stirrup. Enough, with an aching groan, to get herself into the saddle, pull her horse around and get it facing the right way. As they rode from the camp she could hardly see. The great captain general, Duke Orso's would-be nemesis, sagging in her saddle like dead meat.

You make yourself too hard, you make yourself brittle too. Crack once, crack all to pieces.