Best Served Cold

“Some folk don’t like the right thing,” said Shivers in his gravelly whisper, sliding his knife away. “You ain’t learned that yet?”

“Every day alive is a lesson. This way, comrades! Just up ahead we can get a fine view of the assault.”

“You’re attacking? Now?”

“We tried in daylight. Didn’t work.” It didn’t look like darkness was working any better. There were wounded men lining the next trench-grimaces, groans, bloody bandages. “Wherever is my noble employer, his Excellency Duke Rogont?”

“In Talins.” And Monza spat into the dirt. There was plenty of it for the purpose. “Preparing for his coronation.”

“So soon? He is aware Orso’s still alive, I suppose, and by all indications will be for some time yet? Isn’t there a saying about selling the lion’s skin before he’s killed?”

“I’ve mentioned it. Many times.”

“I can only imagine. The Serpent of Talins, counselling caution to the Duke of Delay. Sweet irony!”

“Some good it’s done. He’s got every carpenter, clothier and jeweller in the city busy at the Senate House, making it ready for the ceremony.”

“Sure the bloody place won’t fall in on him?”

“We can hope,” muttered Shivers.

“It will bring to mind proud shadows of Styria’s Imperial past, apparently,” said Monza.

Cosca snorted. “That or the shameful collapse of Styria’s last effort at unity.”

“I’ve mentioned that too. Many times.”

“Ignored?”

“Getting used to it.”

“Ah, hubris! As a long-time sufferer myself I quickly recognise the symptoms.”

“You’ll like this one, then.” Monza couldn’t stop herself sneering. “He’s importing a thousand white songbirds from distant Thond.”

“Only a thousand?”

“Symbol of peace, apparently. They’ll be released over the crowd when he rises to greet them as King of Styria. And admirers from all across the Circle of the World-counts, dukes, princes and the God of the fucking Gurkish too for all I know-will applaud his gigantic opinion of himself, and fall over themselves to lick his fat arse.”

Cosca raised his brows. “Do I detect a souring of relations between Talins and Ospria?”

“There’s something about crowns that makes men act like fools.”

“One takes it you’ve mentioned that too?”

“Until my throat’s sore, but surprisingly enough, he doesn’t want to hear it.”

“Sounds quite the event. Shame I won’t be there.”

Monza frowned. “You won’t?”

“Me? No, no, no. I’d only lower the tone. There are concerns about some shady deal done for the Dukedom of Visserine, would you believe.”

“Never.”

“Who knows how these far-fetched rumours get started? Besides, someone needs to keep Duke Orso company.”

She worked her tongue sourly round her mouth and spat again. “I hear the two of you have been chatting already.”

“No more than small talk. Weather, wine, women, his impending destruction, you know the sort of thing. He said he would have my head. I replied I quite understood his enthusiasm, as I find it hugely useful myself. I was firm yet amusing throughout, in fact, while he was, in all honesty, somewhat peevish.” Cosca waved one long finger around. “The siege, possibly, has him out of sorts.”

“Nothing about you changing sides, then?”

“Perhaps that would have been his next topic, but we were somewhat interrupted by some flatbow fire and an abortive assault upon the walls. Perhaps it will come up when we next take tea together?”

The trench opened into a dugout mostly covered with a plank ceiling, almost too low to stand under. Ladders leaned against the right-hand wall, ready for men to climb and join the attack. A good three score of armed and armoured mercenaries knelt ready to do just that. Cosca went bent over between their ranks, slapping backs.

“Glory, boys, glory, and a decent pay-off!”

Their frowns turned to grins, they tapped their weapons against their shields, their helmets, their breastplates, sending up an approving rattle.

“General!”

“The captain general!”

“Cosca!”

“Boys, boys!” He chuckled, thumping arms, shaking hands, giving out lazy salutes. All as far from her style of command as could’ve been. She’d had to stay cold, hard, untouchable, or there would have been no respect. A woman can’t afford the luxury of being friendly with the men. So she’d let Benna do the laughing for her. Probably why the laughter had been thin on the ground since Orso killed him.

“And up here is my little home from home.” Cosca led them up a ladder and into a kind of shed built from heavy logs, lit by a pair of flickering lamps. There was a wide opening in one wall, the setting sun casting its last glare over the dark, flat country to the west. Narrow windows faced towards the fortress. A stack of crates took up one corner, the captain general’s chair sat in another. Beside it a table was covered with a mess of scattered cards, half-eaten sweetmeats and bottles of varying colour and fullness. “How goes the fight?”

Friendly sat cross-legged, dice between his knees. “It goes.”