Best Served Cold

“Truly? Quite the collection.” Salier slowly shook his head. “A most regrettable case of mistaken identity. For the time being, these two people are my honoured guests. Some clothes for them, and do what you can for his wound.”

“Of course.” She snatched the dowel out of Monza’s mouth and bowed her head. “I deeply regret my mistake, your Excellency.”

“Quite understandable. This is war. People get burned.” The duke gave a long sigh. “General Murcatto, I hope you will accept a bed in my palace, and join us for breakfast in the morning?”

The chains rattled free and her limp hands fell down into her lap. She thought she managed to gasp out a “yes” before she started sobbing so hard she couldn’t speak, tears running free down her face.

Terror, and pain, and immeasurable relief.

The Connoisseur

A nyone would have supposed it was an ordinary morning of peace and plenty in Duke Salier’s expansive dining chamber, a room in which his Excellency no doubt spent much of his time. Four musicians struck up sweet music in a far-distant corner, all smiling radiantly, as though serenading the doomed in a palace surrounded by enemies was all they had ever wished for. The long table was stacked high with delicacies: fish and shellfish, breads and pastries, fruits and cheeses, sweets, meats and sweetmeats, all arranged as neatly on their gilded plates as medals on a general’s chest. Too much food for twenty, and there were but three to dine, and two of those not hungry.

Monza did not look well. Both of her lips were split, her face was ashen in the centre, swollen and bruised shiny pink on both sides, the white of one eye red with bloodshot patches, fingers trembling. Cosca felt raw to look at her, but he supposed it might have been worse. Small help to their Northern friend. He could have sworn he could hear the groans through the walls all night long.

He reached out with his fork, ready to spear a sausage, well-cooked meat striped black from the grill. An image of Shivers’ well-cooked, black-striped face drifted through his mind, and he cleared his throat and caught himself instead a hard-boiled egg. It was only when it was halfway to his plate that he noticed its similarity to an eyeball. He shook it hastily off his fork and into its dish with a rumbling of nausea, and contented himself with tea, silently pretending it was heavily laced with brandy.

Duke Salier was busy reminiscing on past glories, as men are prone to do when their glories are far behind them. One of Cosca’s own favourite pastimes, and, if it was even a fraction as boring when he did it, he resolved to give it up. “… Ah, but the banquets I have held in this very room! The great men and women who have enjoyed my hospitality at this table! Rogont, Cantain, Sotorius, Orso himself, for that matter. I never trusted that weasel-faced liar, even back then.”

“The courtly dance of Styrian power,” said Cosca. “Partners never stay together long.”

“Such is politics.” The roll of fat around Salier’s jaw shifted softly as he shrugged. “Ebb and flow. Yesterday’s hero, tomorrow’s villain. Yesterday’s victory…” He frowned at his empty plate. “I fear the two of you will be my last guests of note and, if you will forgive me, you both have seen more notable days. Still! One takes the guests one has, and makes the merry best of it!” Cosca gave a weary grin. Monza did not stretch herself even that far. “No mood for levity? Anyone would think my city was on fire by your long faces! We will do no more good at the breakfast table, anyway. I swear I’ve eaten twice what the two of you have combined.” Cosca reflected that the duke undoubtedly weighed more than twice what the two of them did combined. Salier reached for a glass of white liquid and raised it to his lips.

“Whatever are you drinking?”

“Goat’s milk. Somewhat sour, but wondrous for the digestion. Come, friends-and enemies, of course, for there is nothing more valuable to a powerful man than a good enemy-take a turn with me.” He struggled from his chair with much grunting, tossed his glass away and led them briskly across the tiled floor, one plump hand waving in time to the music. “How is your companion, the Northman?”

“Still in very great pain,” murmured Monza, looking in some herself.

“Yes… well… a terrible business. Such is war, such is war. Captain Langrier tells me there were seven of you. The blond woman with the child’s face is with us, and your man, the quiet one who brought the Talinese uniforms and has apparently been counting every item in my larder since the crack of dawn this morning. One does not need his uncanny facility with numbers to note that two of your band are still… at large.”

“Our poisoner and our torturer,” said Cosca. “A shame, it’s so hard to find good ones.”

“Fine company you keep.”

“Hard jobs mean hard company. They’ll be out of Visserine by now, I daresay.” They would be halfway to being out of Styria by now, if they had any sense, and Cosca was far from blaming them.