Best Served Cold

“One of your most endearing features was always your readiness to swoon.” He cranked himself back up to standing. “A consequence of your sensitive, womanly heart, I suppose. Walk with me, I have something to show you.” He led her off through the trees towards the farmhouse, its whitewashed walls gleaming in the midday sun, Friendly and Shivers trailing them like bad memories. “I must confess that, as well as doing you a favour, and the sore temptation of placing my boot in Orso’s arse at long last, there were some trifling issues of personal gain to consider.”

“Some things never change.”

“Nothing ever does, and why should it? A considerable quantity of Gurkish gold was on offer. Well, you know it was, you were the first to offer it. Oh, and Rogont was kind enough to promise me, in the now highly likely event that he is crowned King of Styria, the Grand Duchy of Visserine.”

He was deeply satisfied by her gasp of surprise. “You? Grand fucking Duke of Visserine?”

“I probably won’t use the word fucking on my decrees, but otherwise, correct. Grand Duke Nicomo sounds rather well, no? After all, Salier is dead.”

“That much I know.”

“He had no heirs, not even distant ones. The city was plundered, devastated by fire, its government collapsed, much of the populace fled, killed or otherwise taken advantage of. Visserine is in need of a strong and selfless leader to restore her to her glories.”

“And instead they’ll have you.”

He allowed himself a chuckle. “But who better suited? Am I not a native of Visserine?”

“A lot of people are. You don’t see them helping themselves to its dukedom.”

“Well, there’s only one, and it’s mine.”

“Why do you even want it? Commitments? Responsibilities? I thought you hated all that.”

“I always thought so, but my wandering star led me only to the gutter. I have not had a productive life, Monzcarro.”

“You don’t say.”

“I have frittered my gifts away on nothing. Self-pity and self-hatred have led me by unsavoury paths to self-neglect, self-injury and the very brink of self-destruction. The unifying theme?”

“Yourself?”

“Precisely so. Vanity, Monza. Self-obsession. The mark of infancy. I need, for my own sake and those of my fellow men, to be an adult. To turn my talents outwards. It is just as you always tried to tell me-the time comes when a man has to stick. What better way than to commit myself wholeheartedly to the service of the city of my birth?”

“Your wholehearted commitment. Alas for the poor city of Visserine.”

“They’ll do better than they did with that art-thieving gourmand.”

“Now they’ll have an all-thieving drunk.”

“You misjudge me, Monzcarro. A man can change.”

“I thought you just said nothing ever does?”

“Changed my mind. And why not? In one day I bagged myself a fortune, and one of the richest dukedoms in Styria too.”

She shook her head in combined disgust and amazement. “And all you did was sit here.”

“Therein lies the real trick. Anyone can earn rewards.” Cosca tipped his head back, smiled up at the black branches and the blue sky beyond them. “Do you know, I think it highly unlikely that ever in history has one man gained so much for doing absolutely nothing. But I am hardly the only one to profit from yesterday’s exploits. Grand Duke Rogont, I daresay, is happy with the outcome. And you are a great stride nearer to your grand revenge, are you not?” He leaned close to her. “Speaking of which, I have a gift for you.”

She frowned at him, ever suspicious. “What gift?”

“I would hate to spoil the surprise. Sergeant Friendly, could you take your ex-employer and her Northern companion into the house, and show her what we found yesterday? For her to do with as she pleases, of course.” He turned away with a smirk. “We’re all friends now!”

– 

I n here.” Friendly pushed the low door creaking open. Monza gave Shivers a look. He shrugged back. She ducked under the lintel and into a dim room, cool after the sun outside, with a ceiling of vaulted brick and patches of light across a dusty stone floor. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom she saw a figure wedged into the furthest corner. He shuffled forwards, chain between his ankles rattling faintly, and criss-cross shadows from the grubby window panes fell across one half of his face.

Prince Foscar, Duke Orso’s younger son. Monza felt her whole body stiffen.

It seemed he’d finally grown up since she last saw him, running from his father’s hall in Fontezarmo, wailing that he wanted no part in her murder. He’d lost the fluff on his top lip, gained a bloom of bruises ringing one eye and swapped the apologetic look for a fearful one. He stared at Shivers, then at Friendly as they stepped through into the room behind her. Not two men to give a prisoner hope, on the whole. He met Monza’s eye, finally, reluctantly, with the haunted look of a man who knows what’s coming.

“It’s true then,” he whispered. “You’re alive.”