Best Served Cold

“I suppose we could all be wiser than we are. I’ll leave that up to her, though.”

“Where is she?” snapped Shivers, patience drying up.

“Monza?”

“Who else?”

“She doesn’t want anyone to see her face that doesn’t have to. But not to worry. I have hired fighting men all across the Circle of the World. And my fair share of entertainers too, as it goes. Do you have any issue with my taking charge of the proceedings?”

Shivers had a pile of issues with it. It was plain the only thing Cosca had taken charge of for a good long while was a bottle. After the Bloody-Nine killed his brother, and cut his head off, and had it nailed up on a standard, Shivers’ father had taken to drinking. He’d taken to drinking, and rages, and having the shakes. He’d stopped making good choices, and he’d lost the respect of his people, and he’d wasted all he’d built, and died leaving Shivers nought but sour memories.

“I don’t trust a man who drinks,” he growled, not bothered about dressing it up. “A man takes to drinking, then he gets weak, then his mind goes.”

Cosca sadly shook his head. “You have it back to front. A man’s mind goes, then he gets weak, then he takes to drink. The bottle is the symptom, not the cause. But though I am touched to my core by your concern, you need not worry on my account. I feel a great deal steadier today!” He spread his hands out above the tabletop. It was true they weren’t shaking as bad as they had been. A gentle quiver rather than a mad jerk. “I’ll be back to my best before you know it.”

“I can hardly wait to see that.” Vitari strutted out from the kitchen, arms folded.

“None of us can, Shylo!” And Cosca slapped Shivers on the arm. “But enough about me! What criminals, footpads, thugs and other such human filth have you dug from the slimy backstreets of old Sipani? What fighting entertainers have you for our consideration? Musicians who murder? Deadly dancers? Singers with swords? Jugglers who… who…”

“Kill?” offered Shivers.

Cosca’s grin widened. “Brusque and to the point, as always.”

“Brusque?”

“Thick.” Vitari slid into the last chair and unfolded a sheet of paper on the scarred tabletop. “First up, there’s a band I found playing for bits near the docks. I reckon they make a fair stretch more from robbing passers-by than serenading them, though.”

“Rough-and-tumble fellows, eh? The very type we need.” Cosca stretched out his scrawny neck like a cock about to crow. “Enter!”

The door squealed open and five men wandered in. Even where Shivers came from they would’ve been reckoned a rough-looking set. Greasy-haired. Pock-faced. Rag-dressed. Their eyes darted about, narrow and suspicious, dirty hands clutching a set of stained instruments. They shuffled up in front of the table, one of them scratching his groin, another prodding at a nostril with his drumstick.

“And you are?” asked Cosca.

“We’re a band,” the nearest said.

“And has your band a name?”

They looked at each other. “No. Why would it?”

“Your own names, then, if you please, and your specialities both as entertainer and fighter.”

“My name’s Solter. I play the drum, and the mace.” Flicking his greasy coat back to show the dull glint of iron. “I’m better with the mace, if I’m honest.”

“I’m Morc,” said the next in line. “Pipe, and cutlass.”

“Olopin. Horn, and hammer.”

“Olopin, as well.” Jerking a thumb sideways. “Brother to this article. Fiddle, and blades.” Whipping a pair of long knives from his sleeves and spinning ’em round his fingers.

The last had the most broken nose Shivers had ever seen, and he’d seen some bad ones. “Gurpi. Lute, and lute.”

“You fight with your lute?” asked Cosca.

“I hits ’em with it just so.” The man showed off a sideways swipe, then flashed two rows of shit-coloured teeth. “There’s a great-axe hidden in the body.”

“Ouch. A tune, then, if you please, my fellows, and make it something lively!”

Shivers weren’t much for music, but even he could tell it was no fine playing. The drum was out of time. The pipe was tuneless tooting. The lute was flat, probably on account of all the ironware inside. But Cosca nodded along, eyes shut, like he’d never heard sweeter music.

“My days, what multi-talented fellows you are!” he shouted after a couple of bars, bringing the din to a stuttering halt. “You’re hired, each one of you, at forty scales per man for the night.”

“Forty… scales… a man?” gawped the drummer.

“Paid on completion. But it will be tough work. You will undoubtedly be called upon to fight, and possibly even to play. It may have to be a fatal performance, for our enemies. You are ready for such a commitment?”

“For forty scales a man?” They were all grinning now. “Yes, sir, we are! For that much we’re fearless.”

“Good men. We know where to find you.”

Vitari leaned across as the band made their way out. “Ugly set of bastards.”

“One of the many advantages of a masked revel,” whispered Cosca. “Stick ’em in motley and no one will be any the wiser.”

Shivers didn’t much care for the idea of trusting his life to those lot. “They’ll notice the playing, no?”