Best Served Cold

Monza moved to one of the narrow windows. It was almost night, now, and she could barely see any sign of the assault. Perhaps the odd flicker of movement at the tiny battlements, the odd glint of metal in the light of the bonfires scattered across the rocky slopes. But she could hear it. Vague shouting, faint screaming, clattering metal, floating indistinctly on the breeze.

Cosca slid into the battered captain general’s chair and rattled the bottles by putting his muddy boots up on the table. “We four, together again! Just like Cardotti’s House of Leisure! Just like Salier’s gallery! Happy times, eh?”

There was the creaking swoosh of a catapult released and a blazing missile sizzled overhead, shattered against the great foremost tower of the fortress, sending up a gout of flame, shooting out arcs of glittering embers. The dull flare illuminated ladders against the stonework, tiny figures crawling up them, steel glimmering briefly then fading back into the black.

“You sure this is the best time for jokes?” Monza muttered.

“Unhappy times are the best for levity. You don’t light candles in the middle of the day, do you?”

Shivers was frowning up the slope towards Fontezarmo. “You really think you’ve a chance of carrying those walls?”

“Those? Are you mad? They’re some of the strongest in Styria.”

“Then why-”

“Bad form to just sit outside and do nothing. They have ample stocks of food, water, weapons and, worst of all, loyalty. They might last months in there. Months during which Orso’s daughter, the Queen of the Union, might prevail upon her reluctant husband to send aid.” Monza wondered whether the king learning that his wife preferred women would make any difference…

“How’s watching your men fall off a wall going to help?” asked Shivers.

Cosca shrugged. “It will wear down the defenders, deny them rest, keep them guessing and distract them from any other efforts we might make.”

“Lot of corpses for a distraction.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a distraction without them.”

“How do you get men to climb the ladders for that?”

“Sazine’s old method.”

“Eh?”

Monza remembered Sazine displaying the money to the new boys, all laid out in sparkling stacks. “If the walls fall, a thousand scales to the first man on the battlements, a hundred each to the next ten who follow him.”

“Provided they survive to collect the bounty,” Cosca added. “If the task’s impossible, they’ll never collect, and if they do, well, you achieved the impossible for two thousand scales. It ensures a steady flow of willing bodies up the ladders, and has the added benefit of weeding the bravest men out of the company to boot.”

Shivers looked even more baffled. “Why would you want to do that?”

“ ‘Bravery is the dead man’s virtue,’ ” Monza muttered. “ ‘The wise commander never trusts it.’ ”

“Verturio!” Cosca slapped one leg. “I do love an author who can make death funny! Brave men have their uses but they’re damned unpredictable. Worrying to the herd. Dangerous to bystanders.”

“Not to mention potential rivals for command.”

“Altogether safest to cream them off,” and Cosca mimed the action with a careless flick of two fingers. “The moderately cowardly make infinitely better soldiers.”

Shivers shook his head in disgust. “You people got a pretty fucking way of making war.”

“There is no pretty way of making war, my friend.”

“You said a distraction,” cut in Monza.

“I did.”

“From what?”

There was a sudden fizzing sound and Monza saw fire out of the corner of her eye. A moment later the heat of it washed across her cheek. She spun, the Calvez already part-drawn. Ishri was draped across the crates behind them, sprawled out lazily as an old cat in the sun, head back, one long, thin, bandaged leg dangling from the edge of the boxes and swinging gently back and forth.

“Can’t you ever just say hello?” snapped Monza.

“Where would be the fun in that?”

“Do you have to answer every question with another?”

Ishri pressed one hand to her bandaged chest, black eyes opening wide. “Who? Me?” She rolled something between her long finger and thumb, a little black grain, and flicked it with uncanny accuracy into the lamp beside Shivers. It went up with a flash and sizzle, cracking the glass hood and spraying sparks. The Northman stumbled away, cursing, flicking embers off his shoulder.

“Some of the men have taken to calling it Gurkish sugar.” Cosca smacked his lips. “Sounds sweeter, to my ear, than Gurkish fire.”

“Two dozen barrels,” murmured Ishri, “courtesy of the Prophet Khalul.”

Monza frowned. “For a man I’ve never met he likes us a lot.”

“Better yet…” The dark-skinned woman slithered from the boxes like a snake, waves running through her body from shoulders down to hips as if she had no bones in her, arms trailing after. “He hates your enemies.”