Best Served Cold

Outside it was far worse. Sunlight stabbed at her. Faces, dozens of them, blurred together into a mass of eyes, all fixed on her. A jury of scum. She tried to look ahead, always ahead, but she couldn’t stop her lids from flickering. She tried to walk in the old way, head back, but her knees were trembling so hard she was sure they must be able to hear them slapping against the insides of her trousers. It was as if she’d been putting off the fear, the weakness, the pain. Putting it off, storing it up, and now it was breaking on her in one great wave, sweeping her under, helpless. Her skin was icy with cold sweat. Her hand was aching all the way to her neck. They saw what she really was. Saw she’d lost. A lonely cripple with a bloody past, just like Cosca said. Her guts shifted and she gagged, an acid tickle at the back of her throat. The world lurched.

Hate only keeps you standing so long.

“Can’t,” she whispered. “Can’t.” She didn’t care what happened, as long as she could stop. Her leg buckled and she started to fall, felt Shivers grab hold of her arm and drag her up.

“Walk,” he hissed in her ear.

“Can’t-”

His fist dug hard into her armpit, and the pain stopped the world spinning for a moment. “Fucking walk, or we’re finished.”

Enough strength, with Shivers’ help, to make it to the horses. Enough to put a boot in a stirrup. Enough, with an aching groan, to get herself into the saddle, pull her horse around and get it facing the right way. As they rode from the camp she could hardly see. The great captain general, Duke Orso’s would-be nemesis, sagging in her saddle like dead meat.

You make yourself too hard, you make yourself brittle too. Crack once, crack all to pieces.

VI

O SPRIA

“I like a look of agony, because I know it’s true”

Emily Dickinson

I t seemed a little gold could spare a lot of blood.

Musselia could not be captured without an indefinite siege, this was well known. It had once been a great fortress of the New Empire, and its inhabitants placed great pride in their ancient walls. Too much pride in walls, perhaps, and not enough gold in the pockets of their defenders. It was for a sum almost disappointing that Benna arranged for a small side gate to be left unlocked.

Even before Faithful and his men had taken possession of the defences, and long before the rest of the Thousand Swords spilled out into the city to begin the sack, Benna was leading Monza through the darkened streets. Him leading her was unusual enough in itself.

“Why did you want to be at the front?”

“You’ll see.”

“Where are we going?”

“To get our money back. Plus interest.”

Monza frowned as she hurried after him. Her brother’s surprises tended always to have a sting in them. Through a narrow archway in a narrow street. A cobbled courtyard inside, lit by two flickering torches. A Kantic man in simple travelling clothes stood beside a canvas-covered cart, horse hitched and ready. Monza did not know him, but he knew Benna, coming forwards, hands out, his smile gleaming in the darkness.

“Benna, Benna. It is good to see you!” They embraced like old comrades.

“And you, my friend. This is my sister, Monzcarro.”

The man bowed to her. “The famous and fearsome. An honour.”

“Somenu Hermon,” said Benna, smiling wide. “Greatest merchant of Musselia.”

“No more than a humble trader, like any other. There are only a few last… things… to move. My wife and children have already left.”

“Good. That makes this much easier.”

Monza frowned at her brother. “What’s going-”

Benna snatched her dagger from her belt and stabbed Hermon overhand in his face. It happened so fast that the merchant was still smiling as he fell.

Monza drew her sword on an instinct, staring into the shadows around the courtyard, out into the street, but all was quiet.

“What the hell have you done?” she snarled at him. He was up on the cart, ripping back the canvas, a mad, eager look on his face. He fumbled open the lid of a box underneath, delved inside and let coins slowly drop with the jingling rattle of falling money.

Gold.

She hopped up beside him. More gold than she had ever seen at once. With a sickly widening of her eyes she realised there were more boxes. She pushed the canvas back with trembling hands. Many more.

“We’re rich!” squeaked Benna. “We’re rich!”

“We were already rich.” She was looking down at her knife stuck through Hermon’s eye, blood black in the lamplight. “Did you have to kill him?”

He stared at her as if she had gone mad. “Rob him and leave him alive? He would have told people we had the money. This way we’re safe.”

“Safe? This much gold is the opposite of safe, Benna!”

He frowned, as though he was hurt by her. “I thought you’d be pleased. You of all people, who slaved in the dirt for nothing.” As though he was disappointed in her. “This is for us. For us, do you understand?” As though he was disgusted with her. “Mercy and cowardice are the same, Monza! I thought you knew that.”

What could she do? Unstab Hermon’s face?

It seemed a little gold could cost a lot of blood.

His Plan of Attack