Best Served Cold

“The circle’s no laughing matter,” and the big man didn’t look like laughing either.

“Down here it is. First we pretend, then we might have some others to fight for real. Forty scales if you can make it work.”

“Right you are, then. First we pretend. Then we fight for real. Got it.” Greylock gave Shivers a long, slow look, then lumbered away.

“Next!” bellowed Cosca. A skinny man pranced through the doorway in orange tights and a bright red jacket, big bag in one hand. “Your name?”

“I am none other than”-he gave a fancy bow-“the Incredible Ronco!”

The old mercenary’s brows shot up as fast as Shivers’ heart sank. “And your specialities, both as entertainer and fighter?”

“They are one and the same, sirs!” Nodding to Cosca and Shivers. “My lady!” Then to Vitari. He turned slowly round, reaching stealthily into his bag, then spun about, one hand to his face, cheeks puffed out There was a rustle and a blaze of brilliant fire shot from Ronco’s lips, close enough for Shivers to feel the heat sting his cheek. He would’ve dived from his chair if he’d had the time, but instead he was left rooted-blinking, staring, gasping, as his eyes got used to the darkness of the warehouse again. A couple of patches of fire clung to the table, one just beyond the ends of Cosca’s trembling fingers. The flames sputtered, in silence, and died, leaving behind a smell that made Shivers want to puke.

The Incredible Ronco cleared his throat. “Ah. A slightly more… vigorous demonstration than I intended.”

“But damned impressive!” Cosca wafted the smoke away from his face. “Undeniably entertaining, and undeniably deadly. You are hired, sir, at the price of forty scales for the night.”

The man beamed. “Delighted to be of service!” He bowed even lower this time round. “Sirs! My lady! I take… my leave!”

“You sure about that?” asked Shivers as Ronco strutted to the door. “Bit of a worry, ain’t it? Fire in a wooden building?”

Cosca looked down his nose again. “I thought you Northmen were all wrath and bad teeth. If things turn sour, fire in a wooden building could be just the equaliser we need.”

“The what we need, now?”

“Leveller,” said Vitari.

That seemed a bad word to pick. They called death the Great Leveller, up in the hills of the North. “Fire indoors could end up levelling the lot of us, and in case you didn’t notice, that bastard weren’t too precise. Fire is dangerous.”

“Fire is pretty. He’s in.”

“But won’t he-”

“Ah.” Cosca held up a silencing hand.

“We should-”

“Ah.”

“Don’t tell me-”

“Ah, I said! Do you not have the word ‘ah’ in your country? Murcatto put me in charge of the entertainers and, with the greatest of respect, that means I say who is in. We are not taking votes. You concentrate on mounting a show to make Ario’s gentlemen cheer. I’ll handle the planning. How does that sound?”

“Like a short cut to disaster,” said Shivers.

“Ah, disaster!” Cosca grinned. “I can’t wait. Who have we to consider in the meantime?”

Vitari cocked one orange brow at her list. “Barti and Kummel-tumblers, acrobats, knife-artists and walkers on the high wire.”

Cosca nudged Shivers in the ribs with his elbow. “Walkers on the high wire, there you go. How could that end badly?”

The Peacemakers

I t was a rare clear day in the City of Fogs. The air was crisp and cold, the sky was perfectly blue and the King of the Union’s conference of peace was due to begin its noble work. The ragged rooflines, the dirty windows, the peeling doorways were all thick with onlookers, waiting eagerly for the great men of Styria to appear. They trickled down both gutters of the wide avenue below, a multicoloured confusion, pressing up against the grim grey lines of soldiers deployed to hold them back. The hubbub of the crowd was a weight on the air. Thousands of murmuring voices, stabbed through here and there by the shouts of hawkers, bellowed warnings, squeals of excitement. Like the sound of an army before a battle.

Nervously waiting for the blood to start spilling.

Five more dots, perched on the roof of a crumbling warehouse, were nothing to remark upon. Shivers stared down, big hands dangling over the parapet. Cosca had his boot propped carelessly on the cracked stonework, scratching at his scabby neck. Vitari leaned back against the wall, long arms folded. Friendly stood bolt upright to the side, seeming lost in a world of his own. The fact that Morveer and his apprentice were away on their own business gave Monza scant confidence. When she first met the poisoner, she hadn’t trusted him at all. Since Westport, she trusted him an awful lot less. And these were her troops. She sucked in a long, bitter breath, licked her teeth and spat down into the crowd below.

When God means to punish a man, the Kantic scriptures say, he sends him stupid friends, and clever enemies.

“That’s a lot o’ people,” said Shivers, eyes narrowed against the chilly glare. Just the kind of stunning revelation Monza had come to expect from the man. “An awful lot.”