Best Served Cold

Seemed one of Volfier’s lads was a fresh recruit, went pale when he saw them dead men. Strange, but seeing him all broken up just made Shivers wonder when he got so comfortable around a corpse or two. To him they were just bits of the scenery now, no more meaning than the broken tree-stumps. It was going to take more’n a corpse or two to spoil his good mood that morning.

Monza reined her horse in and slid from the saddle. “Dismount,” grunted Volfier, and the rest followed her.

“Why do some of ’em have bare feet?” The boy was still staring at the dead.

“Because they had good boots,” said Shivers. The lad looked down at his own foot-leather, then back to those wet bare feet, then put one hand over his mouth.

Volfier clapped the boy on the back and made him start, gave Shivers a wink while he did it. Seemed baiting the new blood was the same the world over. “Boots or no boots, don’t make no difference once they’ve killed you. Don’t worry, boy, you get used to it.”

“You do?”

“If you’re lucky,” said Shivers, “you’ll live long enough.”

“If you’re lucky,” said Monza, “you’ll find another trade first. Wait here.”

Volfier gave her a nod. “Your Excellency.” And Shivers watched her pick her way around the wreckage and off.

“Get on top of things in Talins?” he muttered.

“Hope so,” grunted the scarred sergeant. “Got the fires put out, in the end. Made us a deal with the criminals in the Old Quarter they’d keep an eye on things there for a week, and we wouldn’t keep an eye for a month after.”

“Coming to something when you’re looking to thieves to keep order.”

“It’s a topsy-turvy world alright.” Volfier narrowed his eyes at the inner wall. “My old master’s on the other side o’ that. A man I fought my whole life for. Never had any riots when he was in charge.”

“Wish you were with him?”

Volfier frowned sideways. “I wish we’d won at Ospria, then the choice wouldn’t have come up. But then I wish my wife hadn’t fucked the baker while I was away in the Union on campaign three years ago. Wishing don’t change nothing.”

Shivers grinned, and tapped at his metal eye with a fingernail. “That there is a fact.”

– 

C osca sat on his field chair, in the only part of the gardens that was still anything like intact, and watched his goat grazing on the wet grass. There was something oddly calming about her gradual, steady progress across the last remaining bit of lawn. The wriggling of her lips, the delicate nibbling of her teeth, the tiny movements that by patient repetition would soon shave that lawn down to stubble. He stuck a fingertip in his ear and waggled it around, trying to clear the faint ringing that still lurked at the edge of his hearing. It persisted. He sighed, raised his flask, heard footsteps crunching on gravel and stopped. Monza was walking towards him. She looked beyond tired, shoulders hunched, mouth twisted, eyes buried in dark pits.

“Why the hell do you have a goat?”

Cosca took a slow swig from his flask, grimaced and took another. “Noble beast, the goat. She reminds me, in your absence, to be tenacious, single-minded and hard-working. You have to stick at something in your life, Monzcarro.” The goat looked up, and bleated in apparent agreement. “I hope you won’t take offence if I say you look tired.”

“Long night,” she muttered, and Cosca judged it to be a tremendous understatement.

“I’m sure.”

“The Osprians pulled out of Talins. There was a riot. Panic.”

“Inevitable.”

“Someone spread a rumour that the Union fleet was on its way.”

“Rumours can do more damage than the ships themselves.”

“The crown was poisoned,” she muttered.

“The leaders of Styria, consumed by their own lust for power. There’s a message in there, wouldn’t you say? Murder and metaphor combined. The poisoner-poet responsible has managed to kill a chancellor, a duke, a countess, a first citizen and a king, and teach the world an invaluable lesson about life all in one evening. Your friend and mine, Morveer?”

She spat. “Maybe.”

“I never thought that pedantic bastard had such a sense of humour.”

“Forgive me if I don’t laugh.”

“Why did he spare you?”

“He didn’t.” Monza held up her gloved right hand. “My glove did.”

Cosca could not help a snort of laughter. “Just think, one could say that by crushing your right hand, Duke Orso and his cohorts saved your life! The ironies pile one upon the other!”

“I might wait for a more settled moment to enjoy them.”