Best Served Cold

“Yes,” Monza lied smoothly. “I never gamble.” An even bigger lie, so she delivered it with even greater confidence. There was no certainty where the Thousand Swords were concerned, and even less with the faithless bastards who commanded them. But there might be a chance, if she could kill Faithful. Get Rogont’s help with that, then they’d see.

“How high would be the price?”

“To turn against the winning side? Higher than I can afford, that’s sure.” Even if she’d had the rest of Hermon’s gold to hand, and most of it was still buried thirty strides from her dead father’s ruined barn. “But you, the Duke of Ospria-”

Rogont gave a sorry chuckle. “Oh, the bottomless purse of Ospria. I am in hock up to my neck and beyond. I’d sell my arse if I thought I could get more than a few coppers for it. No, you will coax no gold from me, I fear.”

“What about your Southern Powers?” asked Monza. “I hear the mountains of Gurkhul are made of gold.”

Ishri wriggled back against one of the pillars. “Of mud, like everyone else’s. But there may be much gold in them, if one knows where to dig. How do you plan to put an end to Faithful?”

“Lirozio will surrender to Orso’s army as soon as it arrives.”

“Doubtless,” said Rogont. “He is every bit as proficient at surrender as I am at retreat.”

“The Thousand Swords will push on southwards towards Ospria, picking the country clean, and the Talinese will follow.”

“I need no military genius to tell me this.”

“I’ll find a place, somewhere between, and bring Carpi out. With two-score men I can get him killed. Small risk for either one of you.”

Rogont cleared his throat. “If you can bring that loyal old hound out of his kennel, then I can surely spare some men to put him down.”

Ishri watched Monza, just as Monza might have watched an ant. “And once he is at peace, if you can buy the Thousand Swords then I can furnish the money.”

If, if, if. But that was more than Monza had any right to hope for here. She could just as easily have left the meeting feet first. “Then it’s as good as done. To strange companions, eh?”

“Indeed. God has truly blessed you.” Ishri gave an extravagant yawn. “You came looking for one friend, and you leave with two.”

“Lucky me,” said Monza, far from sure she was leaving with any. She turned towards the gate, boot heels scraping against the worn marble, hoping she didn’t start shaking before she got there.

“One more thing, Murcatto!” She looked back to Rogont, standing alone now by his maps. Ishri had vanished as suddenly as she’d appeared. “Your position is weak, and so you are obliged to play at strength. I see that. You are what you are, bold beyond recklessness. I would not have it any other way. But I am what I am, also. Some more respect, in future, will make our marriage of mutual desperation run ever so much more smoothly.”

Monza gave an exaggerated curtsey. “Your Resplendence, I am not only weak, but abject with regret.”

Rogont slowly shook his head. “That officer of mine really should have drawn and run you through.”

“Is that what you’d have done?”

“Oh, pity, no.” He looked back to his charts. “I’d have asked for more spit.”

Neither Rich nor Poor

S henkt hummed to himself as he walked down the shabby corridor, his footfalls making not the slightest sound. The exact tune always somehow eluded him. A nagging fragment of something his sister sang when he was a child. He could see the sunlight still, through her hair, the window at her back, face in shadow. All long ago, now. All faded, like cheap paints in the sun. He had never been much of a singer himself. But he hummed, at least, and imagined his sister’s voice singing along with him, and that was some comfort.

He put his knife away, and the carved bird too, almost finished now, though the beak was giving him some trouble and he did not wish to break it by rushing. Patience. As vital to the wood-carver as it is to the assassin. He stopped before the door. Soft, pale pine, full of knots, badly jointed, light shining through a split. He wished, sometimes, that his work took him to better places. He raised one boot, and burst the lock apart with a single kick.

Eight sets of hands leaped to weapons as the door splintered from its hinges. Eight hard faces snapped towards him, seven men and a woman. Shenkt recognised most of them. They had been among the kneeling half-circle in Orso’s throne room. Killers, sent after Prince Ario’s murderers. Comrades, of a kind, in the hunt. If the flies on a carcass can be said to be comrades to the lion that made the kill. He had not expected such as these to beat him to his quarry, but he was long past being surprised by the turns life took. His twisted like a snake in its death throes.

“Have I come at a bad time?” he asked.

“It’s him.”

“The one who wouldn’t kneel.”