Best Served Cold

Her smile leaked away, and she walked to the window and dragged open one of the flaking shutters. Rain had thrown a grey veil across the dark city, pelting down now, spattering against the sill. A stroke of distant lightning picked out the tangle of wet roofs below for an instant, the grey outlines of other towers looming from the murk. A few moments later the thunder crackled sullen and muffled across the city.

“Where do I sleep?” Shivers stood in the doorway, arm up on the frame and some blankets over one shoulder.

“You?” She glanced up to the little glass statue above his head, then back to Shivers’ face. Maybe she’d had high standards, long ago, but back then she’d had Benna, and both her hands, and an army behind her. She had nothing behind her now but six well-paid misfits, a good sword and a lot of money. A general should keep her distance from her troops, maybe, and a wanted woman from everyone, but Monza wasn’t a general anymore. Benna was dead, and she needed something. You can weep over your misfortunes, or you can pick yourself up and make the best of things, shit though they may be. She elbowed the shutter closed, sank down wincing on the bed and set the lamp on the floor.

“You’re in here, with me.”

His brows went up. “I am?”

“That’s right, optimist. Your lucky night.” She leaned back on her elbows, old bed-frame creaking, and stuck one foot up at him. “Now shut the door and help me get my fucking boots off.”

Rats in a Sack

C osca squinted as he stepped out onto the roof of the tower. Even the sunlight seemed set on tormenting him, but he supposed he richly deserved it. Visserine was spread out around him: jumbles of brick-and-timber houses, villas of cream-coloured stone, the green tops of leafing trees where the parks and broad avenues were laid out. Everywhere windows glinted, statues of coloured glass on the rooflines of the grandest buildings catching the morning sun and shining like jewels. Other towers were widely scattered, dozens of them, some far taller than the one he stood on, each casting its own long shadow across the sprawl.

Southwards the grey-blue sea, the smoke of industry still rising from the city’s famous glass-working district on its island just offshore, the gliding specks of seabirds circling above it. To the east the Visser was a dark snake glimpsed through the buildings, four bridges linking the two halves of the city. Grand Duke Salier’s palace squatted jealously on an island in its midst. A place where Cosca had spent many enjoyable evenings, an honoured guest of the great connoisseur himself. When he had still been loved, feared and admired. So long ago it seemed another man’s life.

Monza stood motionless at the parapet, framed by the blue sky. The blade of her sword and her sinewy left arm made a line, perfectly straight, from shoulder to point. The steel shone bright, the ruby on her middle finger glittered bloody, her skin gleamed with sweat. Her vest stuck to her with it. She let the sword drop as he came closer, as he lifted the wine jug and took a long, cool swallow.

“I wondered how long it would take you.”

“Only water in it, more’s the pity. Did you not witness my solemn oath never to touch wine again?”

She snorted. “That I’ve heard before, with small results.”

“I am in the slow and agonising process of mending my ways.”

“I’ve heard that too, with even smaller ones.”

Cosca sighed. “Whatever must a man do to be taken seriously?”

“Keep his word once in his life?”

“My fragile heart, so often broken in the past! Can it take such a buffeting?” He wedged one boot up on the battlements beside her. “I was born in Visserine, you know, no more than a few streets away. A happy childhood but a wild youth, full of ugly incidents. Including the one that obliged me to flee the city to seek my fortune as a paid soldier.”

“Your whole life has been full of ugly incidents.”

“True enough.” He had few pleasant memories, in fact. And most of those, Cosca realised as he peered sideways at Monza, had involved her. Most of the best moments of his life, and the very worst of all. He took a sharp breath and shielded his eyes with a hand, looking westwards, past the grey line of the city walls and out into the patchwork of fields beyond. “No sign of our friends from Talins yet?”

“Soon. General Ganmark isn’t a man to turn up late to an engagement.” She paused for a moment, frowning, as always. “When are you going to say you told me?”

“Told you what?”

“About Orso.”

“You know what I told you.”

“Never trust your own employer.” A lesson he had learned at great cost from Duchess Sefeline of Ospria. “And now I’m the one paying your wages.”

Cosca made an effort at a grin, though it hurt his sore lips to do it. “But we are fittingly suspicious in all our dealings with each other.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t trust you to carry my shit to the stream.”