Best Served Cold

M onza frowned at the bed, and she frowned at Shivers in it. He lay flat out, blanket rumpled across his stomach. One big long arm hung off the edge of the mattress, white hand lying limp on its back against the floorboards. One big foot stuck from under the blanket, black crescents of dirt under the nails. His face was turned towards her, peaceful as a child’s, eyes shut, mouth slightly open. His chest, and the long scar across it, rose and fell gently with his breathing.

By the light of day, it all seemed like a serious error.

She tossed the coins at Shivers and they jingled onto his chest and scattered across the bed. He jerked awake, blinking around.

“Whassis?” He stared blearily down at the silver stuck to his chest.

“Five scales. More than a fair price for last night.”

“Eh?” He pushed sleep out of his eye with two fingers. “You’re paying me?” He shoved the coins off his skin and onto the blanket. “I feel something like a whore.”

“Aren’t you one?”

“No. I’ve got some pride.”

“So you’ll kill a man for money, but you won’t suck a cunt for it?” She snorted. “There’s morals for you. You want my advice? Take the five and stick to killing in future. That you’ve got a talent for.”

Shivers rolled over and dragged the blanket up around his neck. “Shut the door on your way out, eh? It’s dreadful cold in here.”

– 

T he blade of the Calvez slashed viciously at the air. Cuts left and right, high and low. She spun in the far corner of the courtyard, boots shuffling across the broken paving, lunging with her left arm, bright point darting out chest-high. Her quick breath smoked around her face, shirt stuck to her back in spite of the cold.

Her legs were a little better each day. They still burned when she moved quickly, were stiff as old twigs in the morning and ached like fury by evening time, but at least she could almost walk without grimacing. There was some spring in her knees even, for all their clicking. Her shoulder and her jaw were loosening. The coins under her scalp barely hurt when she pressed them.

Her right hand was as ruined as ever, though. She tucked Benna’s sword under her arm and pulled the glove off. Even that was painful. The twisted thing trembled, weak and pale, the scar from Gobba’s wire lurid purple round the side. She winced as she forced the crooked fingers closed, little one still stubbornly straight. The thought that she’d be cursed with this hideous liability for the rest of her life brought on a sudden rush of fury.

“Bastard,” she hissed through gritted teeth, and dragged the glove back on. She remembered her father giving her a sword to hold for the first time, no more than eight years old. She remembered how heavy it had felt, how strange and unwieldy in her right hand. It hardly felt much better now, in her left. But she had no choice but to learn.

To start from nothing, if that was what it took.

She faced a rotten shutter, blade out straight towards it, wrist turned flat to the ground. She snapped out three jabs and the point tore three slats from the frame, one above the other. She snarled as she twisted her wrist and slashed downwards, splitting it clean in two, splinters flying.

Better. Better each day.

“ Magnificent. ” Morveer stood in a doorway, a few fresh scratches across one cheek. “There is not a shutter in Styria that will dare oppose us.” He ambled forwards into the courtyard, hands clasped behind him. “I daresay you were even more impressive when your right hand still functioned.”

“I’ll worry about that.”

“A great deal, I should think. Recovered from your… exertions of last night with our Northern acquaintance?”

“My bed, my business. And you? Recovered from your little drop through my window?”

“No more than a scratch or two.”

“Shame.” She slapped the Calvez back into its sheath. “Is it done?”

“It will be.”

“He’s dead?”

“He will be.”

“When?”

Morveer grinned up at the square of pale sky above them. “Patience is the first of virtues, General Murcatto. The bank has only just opened its doors, and the agent I used takes some time to work. Jobs done well are rarely done quickly.”

“But it will work?”

“Oh, absolutely so. It will be… masterful.”

“I want to see it.”

“Of course you do. Even in my hands the science of death is never utterly precise, but I would judge about an hour’s time to be the best moment. I strongly caution you to touch nothing within the bank, however.” He turned away, wagging one finger at her over his shoulder. “And take care you are not recognised. Our work together is only just commencing.”

–