Best Served Cold

“Shenkt.” This last from the man who had blocked his path in Orso’s throne room. The one he had advised to pray. Shenkt hoped he had taken the advice, but did not think it likely. A couple of them relaxed when they recognised his face, pushed back their half-drawn blades, thinking him one of their number.

“Well, well.” A man with a pockmarked face and long, black hair seemed to be in charge. He reached out and gently pushed the woman’s bow towards the floor with one finger. “My name’s Malt. You’re just in time to help us bring them in.”

“Them?”

“The ones his Excellency Duke Orso’s paying us to find, who do you think? Over there, in the smoke-house yonder.”

“All of them?”

“The leader, anyway.”

“How do you know you have the right man?”

“Woman. Pello knows, don’t you, Pello?”

Pello was possessed of a ragged moustache and a look of sweaty desperation. “It’s Murcatto. The same one who led Orso’s army at Sweet Pines. She was in Visserine, not but a month ago. Took her prisoner. Questioned her myself. That’s where the Northman lost his eye.” The Northman called Shivers, that Sajaam had spoken of. “In Salier’s palace. She killed Ganmark there, that general of Orso’s, few days afterward.”

“The Snake of Talins herself,” said Malt proudly, “and still alive. What do you think of that?”

“I am all amazed.” Shenkt walked slowly to the window and peered out across the street. A shabby-looking place for a famous general, but such was life. “She has men with her?”

“Just this Northman. Nothing we can’t deal with. Lucky Nim and two of her boys are waiting in the alley at the back. When the big clock next chimes, we go in the front. They won’t be getting away.”

Shenkt looked slowly round at each suspicious face, and gave each man a chance. “You all are determined to do this? All of you?”

“Of fucking course we are. You’ll find no faint hearts here, my friend.” Malt looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You want to come in with us?”

“With you?” Shenkt took a long breath, then sighed. “Great tempests wash up strange companions.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“We don’t need this fucker.” The one Shenkt had told to pray, again, making a great show of a curved knife. A man of small patience, evidently. “I say we cut his throat, and one less share to pay.”

Malt gently pushed his knife down. “Come now, no need to be greedy. I’ve been on jobs like that before, everyone stuck on the money not the work, watching their backs every minute. Bad for your health and your business. We’ll do this civilised, or not at all. What do you say?”

“I say civilised,” said Shenkt. “For pity’s sake, let’s kill like honest men.”

“Exactly so. With what Orso’s paying, there’ll be enough for everyone. Equal shares all round, and we can all be rich.”

“Rich?” Shenkt smiled sadly as he shook his head. “The dead are neither rich nor poor.” The look of mild surprise was just forming on Malt’s face when Shenkt’s pointing finger split it neatly in half.

– 

S hivers sat on the greasy bed, back pressed to the dirty wall, with Monza sprawled on top of him. Her head lay in his lap, breath hissing shallow, in and out. The pipe was still in her bandaged left hand, smoke twisting from the embers in a brown streak. He frowned at it creeping through the shafts of light, rippling, spreading, filling the room with sweet haze.

Husk was good stuff for pain. Too good, to Shivers’ mind. So good you always needed more. So good that after a while stubbing your toe seemed like excuse enough. Took your edge off, all that smoking, left you soft. Maybe Monza had more edge than she wanted, but he didn’t trust it. The smoke was tickling at his nose, making him feel sick and needy both together. His eye was itching under the bandages. Would’ve been easy to do it. Where was the harm…?

He had a sudden panic, wriggling out from under her like he was buried alive. Monza gave an irritated burble then fell back, eyelids flickering, hair stuck across her clammy face. Shivers ripped back the bolt on the window and pulled the wonky shutters open, getting a nice view of the rotting alley behind the building and a face full of cold, piss-smelling air. At least that smell was honest.

There were two men down there by a back door, and a woman holding one hand up. A bell rang out, from a high clock tower in the next street. The woman nodded, the men pulled out a bright sword and a heavy mace. She opened the door and they hurried in.

“Shit,” hissed Shivers, hardly able to believe it. Three of ’em and, from the way they’d been waiting, most likely more coming in the front. Too late to run. But then Shivers was sick of running anyway. He had his pride, still, didn’t he? Running from the North and down here to fucking Styria was what landed him in this one-eyed mess in the first place.