Best Served Cold

She couldn’t do any of the things her body desperately needed to do-bring her arms down, or fold up, or fall over, or breathe even. She was helpless as a carcass on a hook. When Langrier got tired of pounding the guts out of her she shuddered silently for a moment, eyes bulging, every muscle cramped up bursting tight, creaking back and forth by her wrists. Then she coughed watery puke into her armpit, heaved half a desperate, moaning breath in and drooled out some more. She drooped limp as a wet sheet on a drying line, hair tangled across her face, heard that she was whimpering like a beaten dog with every shallow breath but couldn’t stop it and didn’t care.

She heard Langrier’s boots scraping over to Shivers. “So she’s a fucking idiot, that’s proven. Let’s give you a chance, big man. I’ll start with something simple. What’s your name?”

“Caul Shivers,” voice high and tight with fear.

“Shivers.” Pello chuckled.

“Northerners. Who dreams up all these funny names? What about her?”

“Murcatto, she calls herself. Monzcarro Murcatto.” Monza slowly shook her head. Not because she blamed him for saying her name. Just because she knew the truth couldn’t help.

“What do you know? The Butcher of Caprile herself in my little cell! Murcatto’s dead, idiot, months ago, and I’m getting bored. You’d think none of us would ever die, the way you’re wasting our time.”

“You reckon they’re very stupid,” asked Pello, “or very brave?”

“What’s the difference?”

“You want to hold him?”

“You mind doing it?” Langrier winced as she worked one elbow around. “Damn shoulder’s aching today. Wet weather always gets it going.”

“You and your bloody shoulder.” Metal rattled as Pello let a stride of chain out through the pulley above and Shivers’ hands dropped down around his head. Any relief he felt was short lived, though. Pello came up behind and kicked him in the back of his legs, sent him lurching onto his knees, arms stretched out again, kept him there by planting one boot on the back of his calves.

“Look!” It was cold but Shivers’ face was all beaded up with sweat. “We’re not with Orso! I don’t know nothing about his army. I just… I just don’t know!”

“It’s the truth,” Monza croaked, but so quiet no one could hear her. Even that started her coughing, each heave stabbing through her battered ribs.

Pello slid one arm around Shivers’ head, elbow under his jaw, his other hand firm behind, tilting his face back.

“No!” squawked Shivers, the one bulging eye Monza could see rolling towards her. “It was her! Murcatto! She hired me! To kill seven men! Vengeance, for her brother! And… and-”

“You’ve got him?” asked Langrier.

“I’ve got him.”

Shivers’ voice rose higher. “It was her! She wants to kill Duke Orso!” He was trembling now, teeth chattering together. “We did Gobba, and a banker! A banker… called Mauthis! Poisoned him, and then… and then… Prince Ario, in Sipani! At Cardotti’s! And now-”

Langrier stuck a battered wooden dowel between his jaws, putting a quick end to his wasted confession. “Wouldn’t want you to chew your tongue off. Still need you to tell me something worth hearing.”

“I’ve got money!” croaked Monza, her voice starting to come back.

“What?”

“I’ve got money! Gold! Boxes full of it! Not with me, but… Hermon’s gold! Just-”

Langrier chuckled. “You’d be amazed how everyone remembers buried treasure at a time like this. Doesn’t often work out.”

Pello grinned. “If I had just a tenth of what I’ve been promised in this room I’d be a rich man. I’m not, in case you’re wondering.”

“But if you did have boxes full of gold, where the hell would I spend it now? You came a few weeks too late to bribe us. The Talinese are all around the city. Money’s no use here.” Langrier rubbed at her shoulder, winced, worked her arm in a circle, then dragged an iron from the brazier. It squealed out with the sound of metal on metal, sent up a drifting shower of orange sparks and a sick twist of fear through Monza’s churning guts.

“It’s true,” she whispered. “It’s true.” But all the strength had gone out of her.

“’Course it is.” And Langrier stepped forwards and pressed the yellow-hot metal into Shivers’ face. It made a sound like a slice of bacon dropped into a pan, but louder, and with his mindless, blubbering screech on top of it, of course. His back arched, his body thrashed and trembled like a fish on a line, but Pello kept his grip on him, grim-faced.

Greasy steam shot up, a little gout of flame that Langrier blew out with a practised puff of air through pursed lips, grinding the iron one way then the other, into his eye. While she did it, she had the same look she might have had wiping a table. A tedious, distasteful chore that had fallen to her and unfortunately had to be done.