Best Served Cold

“A shame. Your shit smells sweet as roses, I am sure.” He leaned back against the parapet and blinked into the sun. “Do you remember how we used to spar, in the mornings? Before you got too good.”

“Before you got too drunk.”

“Well, I could hardly spar afterwards, could I? There is a limit to how much a man should be willing to embarrass himself before breakfast. Is that a Calvez you have there?”

She lifted the sword, sun’s gleam gliding along its edge. “I had it made for Benna.”

“For Benna? What the hell would he do with a Calvez? Use it as a spit and cook apples on it?”

“He didn’t even do that much, as it goes.”

“I used to have one, you know. Damn good sword. Lost it in a card game. Drink?” He held out the jug.

She reached for it. “I could-”

“Hah!” He flung the water in her face and she yelped, stumbling back, drops flying. He ripped his sword from its sheath and as the jug shattered against the roof he was already swinging. She managed to parry the first cut, ducked desperately under the second, slipped, sprawled, rolled away as Cosca’s blade squealed down the roofing lead where she had been a moment before. She came up in a crouch, sword at the ready.

“You’re getting soft, Murcatto.” He chuckled as he paced out into the centre of the roof. “You’d never have fallen for the old water in the face ten years ago.”

“I didn’t fall for it just now, idiot.” She wiped her brow slowly with her gloved hand, water dripping from the ends of her wet hair, never taking her eyes from his. “You got anything more than water in the face, or is that as far as your swordsmanship reaches these days?”

Not much further, if he was honest. “Why don’t we find out?”

She sprang forwards and their blades feathered together, metal ringing and scraping. She had a long scar on her bare right shoulder, another curving round her forearm and into her black glove.

He waved his sword at it. “Fighting left-handed, eh? Hope you’re not taking pity on an old man.”

“Pity? You know me better than that.” He flicked away a jab, but another came so quickly behind it he only just got out of the way, the blade punching a ragged hole in his shirt before it whipped back out.

He raised his brows. “Good thing I lost some weight during my last binge.”

“You could lose more, if you’re asking me.” She circled him, the point of her tongue showing between her teeth.

“Trying to get the sun behind you?”

“You never should’ve taught me all those dirty tricks. Care to use your left, even things up a little?”

“Give up an advantage? You know me better than that!” He feinted right then went the other way and left her lunging at nothing. She was quick, but not near as quick as she had been with her right hand. He trod on her boot as she passed, made her stumble, the point of his sword left a neat scratch across the scar on her shoulder, and made a cross of it.

She peered down at the little wound, a bead of blood forming at its corner. “You old bastard.”

“A little something to remember me by.” And he twirled his sword around and slashed ostentatiously at the air. She lunged at him again and their swords rang together, cut, cut, jab and parry. All a touch clumsy, like sewing with gloves on. The time was they had given exhibitions, but it seemed time had done nothing for either of them. “One question…” he murmured, keeping his eyes on hers. “Why did you betray me?”

“I got tired of your fucking jokes.”

“I deserved to be betrayed, of course. Every mercenary ends up stabbed in the front or the back. But by you?” He jabbed at her, followed it with a cut that made her shuffle back, wincing. “After all I taught you? All I gave you? Safety, and money, and a place to belong? I treated you like my own daughter!”

“Like your mother, maybe. You’ve left out getting so drunk you’d shit in your clothes. I owed you, but there’s a limit.” She circled him, looking for an opening, no more than the thickness of a finger between the points of their swords. “I might’ve followed you to hell, but I wasn’t taking my brother there with me.”

“Why not? He’d have been right at home.”

“Fuck yourself!” She tricked him with a feint, switched angle and forced him to hop away with all the grace of a dying frog. He had forgotten how much work swordplay required. His lungs were burning already, shoulder, forearm, wrist, hand, all aching with a vengeance. “If it hadn’t been me it would’ve been one of the other captains. Sesaria! Victus! Andiche!” She pushed home each hated name with a sharp cut, jarring the sword in his hand. “They were all falling over themselves to be rid of you at Afieri!”