Best Served Cold

“I did nothing!” she barked. “Except win his battles, make him the greatest man in Styria. Nothing!”

The Duke of Visserine sighed. “I have a fat body, Monzcarro, not a fat head, but have it your way. You are all innocence. Doubtless you handed out cakes at Caprile as well, rather than slaughter. Keep your secrets if you please. Much good may they do you now.”

Cosca narrowed his eyes against the sudden glare as they stepped out of an open doorway, through an echoing arcade and into the pristine garden at the centre of Salier’s gallery. Water trickled in pools at its corners. A pleasant breeze made the new flowers nod, stirred the leaves of the topiary, plucked specks of blossom from Suljuk cherry trees, no doubt torn from their native soil and brought across the sea for the amusement of the Duke of Visserine.

A magnificent sculpture towered over them in the midst of a cobbled space, twice life-size or more, carved from perfectly white, almost translucent marble. A naked man, lean as a dancer and muscular as a wrestler, one arm extended and with a bronze sword, turned dark and streaked with green, thrust forwards in the fist. As if directing a mighty army to storm the dining room. He had a helmet pushed back on the top of his head, a frown of stern command on his perfect features.

“The Warrior,” murmured Cosca, as the shadow of the great blade fell across his eyes, the glare of sunlight blazing along its edge.

“Yes, by Bonatine, greatest of all Styrian sculptors, and this perhaps his greatest work, carved at the height of the New Empire. It originally stood on the steps of the Senate House in Borletta. My father took it as an indemnity after the Summer War.”

“He fought a war?” Monza’s split lip curled. “For this?”

“Only a small one. But it was worth it. Beautiful, is it not?”

“Beautiful,” Cosca lied. To the starving man, bread is beautiful. To the homeless man, a roof is beautiful. To the drunkard, wine is beautiful. Only those who want for nothing else need find beauty in a lump of rock.

“Stolicus was the inspiration, I understand, ordering the famous charge at the Battle of Darmium.”

Monza raised an eyebrow. “Leading a charge, eh? You’d have thought he’d have put some trousers on for work like that.”

“It’s called artistic licence,” snapped Salier. “It’s a fantasy, one can do as one pleases.”

Cosca frowned. “Really? I always felt a man makes more points worth making if he steers always close to the truth…”

Hurried boot heels cut him off and a nervous-looking officer rushed across the garden, face touched with sweat, a long smear of black mud down the left side of his jacket. He came to one knee on the cobbles, head bowed.

“Your Excellency.”

Salier did not even look at him. “Speak, if you must.”

“There has been another assault.”

“So close to breakfast time?” The duke winced as he placed a hand on his belly. “A typical Union man, this Ganmark, he has no more regard for mealtimes than you did, Murcatto. With what result?”

“The Talinese have forced a second breach, towards the harbour. We drove them back, but with heavy losses. We are greatly outnumbered-”

“Of course you are. Order your men to hold their positions as long as possible.”

The colonel licked his lips. “And then…?”

“That will be all.” Salier did not take his eyes from the great statue.

“Your Excellency.” The man retreated towards the door. And no doubt to a heroic, pointless death at one breach or another. The most heroic deaths of all were the pointless ones, Cosca had always found.

“Visserine will soon fall.” Salier clicked his tongue as he stared up at the great image of Stolicus. “How profoundly… depressing. Had I only been more like this.”

“Thinner waisted?” murmured Cosca.

“I meant warlike, but while we are wishing, why not a thin waist too? I thank you for your… almost uncomfortably honest counsel, General Murcatto. I may have a few days yet to make my decision.” To delay the inevitable at the cost of hundreds of lives. “In the meantime, I hope the two of you will remain with us. The two of you, and your three friends.”

“Your guests,” asked Monza, “or your prisoners?”

“You have seen how my prisoners are treated. Which would be your choice?”

Cosca took a deep breath, and scratched slowly at his neck. A choice that more or less made itself.

Vile Jelly

S hivers’ face was near healed. Faint pink stripe left across his forehead, through his brow, across his cheek. More’n likely it would fade altogether in a few days more. His eye still ached a bit, but he’d kept his looks alright. Monza lay in the bed, sheet round her waist, skinny back turned towards him. He stood a moment, grinning, watching her ribs shift gently as she breathed, patches of shadow between them shrinking and growing. Then he padded from the mirror across to the open window, looking out. Beyond it the city was burning, fires lighting up the night. Strange thing though, he wasn’t sure which city, or why he was there. Mind was moving slowly. He winced, rubbing at his cheek.