Best Served Cold

He cut a pretty picture, there was no denying that. Tall, strong and handsome, dark curls stirred by the breeze. His armour was studded with glittering gems, steel polished so bright it was almost painful to look at. But his men had made an effort too. Heavy infantry in the centre, well armoured under a forest of polearms or clutching broadswords in their gauntleted fists, shields and blue surcoats all stitched with the white tower of Ospria. Light infantry on the wings, all standing to stiff attention in studded leather, pikes kept carefully vertical. Archers too, steel-capped flatbowmen, hooded longbowmen. A detachment of Affoians on the far right slightly spoiled the pristine organisation, weapons mismatched and their ranks a little skewed, but still a good stretch neater than any men Monza had ever led.

And that was before she turned to the cavalry lined up behind her, a gleaming row in the shadow of the outermost wall of Ospria. Every man noble of birth and spirit, horses in burnished bardings, helmets with sculpted crests, lances striped, polished and ready to be steeped in glory. Like something out of a badly written storybook.

She snorted some snot from the back of her nose, and spat again. In her experience, and she had plenty, clean men were the keenest to get into battle and the keenest to get clear of it.

Rogont was busy cranking up his rhetoric to new heights. “We stand now upon a battlefield! Here, in after years, men will say heroes fought! Here, men will say the fate of Styria was decided! Here, my friends, here, on our own soil! In sight of our own homes! Before the ancient walls of proud Ospria!” Enthusiastic cheering from the companies drawn up closest to him. She doubted the rest could hear a word of it. She doubted most could even see him. For those that could, she doubted the sight of a shiny speck in the distance would do much for their morale.

“Your fate is in your own hands!” Their fate had been in Rogont’s hands, and he’d frittered it away. Now it was in Cosca’s and Foscar’s, and it was likely to be a bloody one.

“Now for freedom!” Or at best a better-looking brand of tyranny.

“Now for glory!” A glorious place in the mud at the bottom of the river.

Rogont jerked on the reins with his free hand and made his chestnut charger rear, lashing at the air with its front hooves. The effect was only slightly spoiled by a few heavy clods of shit that happened to fall from its rear end at the same moment. It sped off past the massed ranks of infantry, each company cheering Rogont as he passed, lifting their spears in unison and giving a roar. It might have been an impressive sight. But Monza had seen it all before, with grim results. A good speech wasn’t much compensation for being outnumbered three to one.

The Duke of Delay trotted up towards her and the rest of his staff, the same gathering of heavily decorated and lightly experienced men she’d made fools of in the baths at Puranti, arrayed for battle now rather than the parade ground. Safe to say they hadn’t warmed to her. Safe to say she didn’t care.

“Nice speech,” she said. “If your taste runs to speeches.”

“Most kind.” Rogont turned his horse and drew it up beside her. “Mine does.”

“I’d never have guessed. Nice armour too.”

“A gift from the young Countess Cotarda.” A knot of ladies had gathered to observe at the top of the slope in the shade of the city walls. They sat side-saddle in bright dresses and twinkling jewels, as if they were expecting to attend a wedding rather than a slaughter. Cotarda herself, milk-pale in flowing yellow silks, gave a shy wave and Rogont returned it without much vigour. “I think her uncle has it in mind that we might marry. If I live out the day, of course.”

“Young love. My heart is all aglow.”

“Damp down your sentimental soul, she’s not at all my type. I like a woman with a little… bite. Still, it is a fine armour. An impartial observer might mistake me for some kind of hero.”

“Huh. ‘Desperation bakes heroes from the most rotten flour,’ Farans wrote.”

Rogont blew out a heavy sigh. “We are running short of time for this particular loaf to rise.”

“I thought that talk about you having trouble rising was all scurrilous rumours…” There was something familiar about one of the ladies in Countess Cotarda’s party, more simply dressed than the others, long-necked and elegant. She turned her head and then her horse, began to ride down the grassy slope towards them. Monza felt a cold twinge of recognition. “What the hell is she doing here?”

“Carlot dan Eider? You know her?”

“I know her.” If punching someone in the face in Sipani counted.

“An old… friend.” He said the word in a way that implied more than that. “She came to me in peril of her life, begging for protection. Under what circumstances could I possibly refuse?”

“If she’d been ugly?”

Rogont shrugged with a faint rattling of steel. “I freely admit it, I’m every bit as shallow as the next man.”