Best Served Cold

Mauthis showed no emotion at the number. Fortunes and small change, all one. He opened the heavy cover of a huge ledger upon his desk. He licked one finger and flicked steadily through the pages, paper crackling. Morveer felt a warm satisfaction spread out from his stomach to every extremity at the sight, and it was only with an effort that he prevented himself from whooping with triumph. He settled for a prim smile. “Takings from my last trip to Sipani. Wine from Ospria is always a profitable venture, even in these uncertain times. Not everyone has our temperance, Master Mauthis, I am happy to say!”

“Of course.” The banker licked his finger once again as he turned the last few pages.

“Five thousand, two hundred and eleven,” said the clerk.

Mauthis’ eyes flickered up. “Trying to get away with something?”

“Me?” Morveer passed it off with a false chuckle. “Damn that man Charming, he can’t count for anything! I swear he has no feel for numbers whatsoever.”

The nib of Mauthis’ pen scratched across the ledger; the clerk hurried over and blotted the entry as his master neatly, precisely, emotionlessly prepared the receipt. The clerk carried it to Morveer and offered it to him along with the empty strongbox.

“A note for the full amount in the name of the Banking House of Valint and Balk,” said Mauthis. “Redeemable at any reputable mercantile institution in Styria.”

“Must I sign anything?” asked Morveer hopefully, his fingers closing around the pen in his inside pocket. It doubled as a highly effective blow-gun, the needle concealed within containing a lethal dose of “No.”

“Very well.” Morveer smiled as he folded the paper and slid it away, taking care that it did not catch on the deadly edge of his scalpel. “Better than gold, and a great deal lighter. For now, then, I take my leave. It has been a decided pleasure.” And he held out his hand again, poisoned ring glinting. No harm in making the effort.

Mauthis did not move from his chair. “Likewise.”

Evil Friends

I t had been Benna’s favourite place in Westport. He’d dragged her there twice a week while they were in the city. A shrine of mirrors and cut glass, polished wood and glittering marble. A temple to the god of male grooming. The high priest-a small, lean barber in a heavily embroidered apron-stood sharply upright in the centre of the floor, chin pointed to the ceiling, as though he’d been expecting them that very moment to enter.

“Madam! A delight to see you again!” He blinked for a moment. “Your husband is not with you?”

“My brother.” Monza swallowed. “And no, he… won’t be back. I’ve an altogether tougher challenge for you-”

Shivers stepped through the doorway, gawping about as fearfully as a sheep in a shearing pen. She opened her mouth to speak but the barber cut her off. “I believe I see the problem.” He made a sharp circuit of Shivers while the Northman frowned down at him. “Dear, dear. All off?”

“What?”

“All off,” said Monza, taking the barber by the elbow and pressing a quarter into his hand. “Go gently, though. I doubt he’s used to this and he might startle.” She realised she was making him sound like a horse. Maybe that was giving him too much credit.

“Of course.” The barber turned, and gave a sharp intake of breath. Shivers had already taken his new shirt off and was looming pale and sinewy in the doorway, unbuckling his belt.

“He means your hair, fool,” said Monza, “not your clothes.”

“Uh. Thought it was odd, but, well, Southern fashions…” Monza watched him as he sheepishly buttoned his shirt back up. He had a long scar from his shoulder across his chest, pink and twisted. She might’ve thought it ugly once, but she’d had to change her opinions on scars, along with a few other things.

Shivers lowered himself into the chair. “Had this hair all my life.”

“Then it is past time you were released from its suffocating embrace. Head forwards, please.” The barber produced his scissors with a flourish and Shivers lurched out of his seat.

“You think I’m letting a man I never met near my face with a blade?”

“I must protest! I trim the heads of Westport’s finest gentlemen!”

“You.” Monza caught the barber’s shoulder as he backed away and marched him forwards. “Shut up and cut hair.” She slipped another quarter into his apron pocket and gave Shivers a long look. “You, shut up and sit still.”

He sidled back into the chair and clung so tight to its arms that the tendons stood from the backs of his hands. “I’m watching you,” he growled.

The barber gave a long sigh and with lips pursed began to work.

Monza wandered around the room while the scissors snip-snipped behind her. She walked along a shelf, absently pulling the stoppers from the coloured bottles, sniffing at the scented oils inside. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. A hard face, still. Thinner, leaner, sharper even than she used to be. Eyes sunken from the nagging pain up her legs, from the nagging need for the husk that made the pain go away.

You look especially beautiful this morning, Monza…