Best Served Cold

“Can we not mention that damn place!” He parried her next effort and switched smartly to the attack with something close to his old vigour, driving her back towards the corner of the roof. He needed to bring this to a close before he died of exhaustion. He lunged again and caught her sword on his. He drove her off balance against the parapet, bent her back over the battlements, guards scraping together until their faces were no more than a few inches apart, the long drop to the street looming into view behind her head. He could feel her quick breath on his cheek. For the briefest moment he almost kissed her, and he almost pushed her off the roof. Perhaps it was only because he could not decide which to do that he did neither one.

“You were better with your right hand,” he hissed.

“You were better ten years ago.” She slid from under his sword and her gloved little finger came from nowhere and poked him in the eye.

“Eeeee!” he squealed, free hand clapped to his face. Her knee thudded almost silently into his fruits and sent a lance of pain through his belly as far as his neck. “Oooooof…” He tottered, blade clattering from his clutching fingers, bent over, unable to breathe. “A little something to remember me by.” And the glittering point of Monza’s sword left him a burning scratch across his cheek.

“Gah!” He sank down slowly to the roofing lead. Back on his knees. There really is no place like home…

Through the savage pain he heard slow clapping coming from the stairway. “Vitari,” he croaked, squinting over at her as she ambled out into the sunlight. “Why is it… you always find me… at my lowest moments?”

“Because I enjoy them so.”

“You bitches don’t know your luck… that you’ll never feel the pain… of a blow to the fruits.”

“Try childbirth.”

“A charming invitation… if I were a little less bruised in the relevant areas, I would definitely take you up on it.”

But, as so often, his wit was wasted. Vitari’s attention was already fixed far beyond the battlements, and Monza’s too. Cosca dragged himself up, bow-legged. A long column of horsemen had crested a rise to the west of the city, framed between two nearby towers, a cloud of dust rising from the hooves of their horses and leaving a brown smear across the sky.

“They’re here,” said Vitari. From somewhere behind them a bell began to ring, soon joined by others.

“And there,” said Monza. A second column had appeared. And a pillar of smoke, drifting up beyond a hill to the north.

Cosca stood as the sun slowly rose into the blue sky, no doubt administering a healthy dose of sunburn to his spreading bald patch, and watched Duke Orso’s army steadily deploy in the fields outside the city. Regiment after regiment smoothly found their positions, well out of bowshot from the walls. A large detachment forded the river to the north and completed the encirclement. The horse screened the foot as they formed neat lines, then fell back behind them, no doubt to set about the business of ravaging anything carelessly left unravaged last season.

Tents began to appear, and carts too as the supplies came up, stippling the muddy land behind the lines. The tiny defenders at the walls could do nothing but watch as the Talinese dug in around them, as orderly as the workings of a gigantic clock. Not Cosca’s style, of course, even when sober. More engineering than artistry, but one had to admire the discipline.

He spread his arms wide. “Welcome, one and all, to the siege of Visserine!”

The others had all gathered on the roof to watch Ganmark’s grip on the city tighten. Monza stood with her left hand on her hip, gloved right slack on the pommel of her sword, black hair stirring around her scowl. Shivers was on Cosca’s other side, staring balefully out from under his brows. Friendly sat near the door to the stairs, rolling his dice between his crossed legs. Day and Vitari muttered to each other further along the parapet. Morveer looked even more sour than usual, if that was possible.

“Can no one’s sense of humour withstand so small a thing as a siege? Cheer up, my comrades!” Cosca gave Shivers a hearty clap on his broad back. “It isn’t every day you get to see so large an army handled so well! We should all congratulate Monza’s friend General Ganmark on his exceptional patience and discipline. Perhaps we should pen him a letter.”

“My dear General Ganmark.” Monza worked her mouth, curled her tongue and blew spit over the battlements. “Yours ever, Monzcarro Murcatto.”

“A simple missive,” observed Morveer, “but no doubt he will treasure it.”

“Lot o’ soldiers down there,” Shivers grunted.

Friendly’s voice drifted gently over. “Thirteen thousand four hundred, or thereabouts.”