Best Served Cold

“Yes.” Friendly’s eyes flickered over the crowds, lips moving silently, giving Monza the worrying impression that he was trying to count them.

“This is nothing.” Cosca dismissed half of Sipani with an airy wave. “You should have seen the throng that packed the streets of Ospria after my victory at the Battle of the Isles! They filled the air with falling flowers! Twice as many, at the least. You should have been there!”

“I was there,” said Vitari, “and there were half as many at the most.”

“Does pissing on my dreams give you some sick satisfaction?”

“A little.” Vitari smirked at Monza, but she didn’t laugh. She was thinking of the triumph they’d put on for her in Talins, after the fall of Caprile. Or the massacre at Caprile, depending on who you asked. She remembered Benna grinning while she frowned, standing in his stirrups and blowing kisses to the balconies. The people chanting her name, even though Orso was riding in thoughtful silence just behind with Ario at his shoulder. She should’ve seen it coming then…

“Here they are!” Cosca shielded his eyes with one hand, leaning out dangerously far over the railing. “All hail our great leaders!”

The noise of the crowd swelled as the procession came into view. Seven mounted standard-bearers brought up the front, flags on lances all at the exact same angle-the illusion of equality deemed necessary for peace talks. The cockleshell of Sipani. The white tower of Ospria. The three bees of Visserine. The black cross of Talins. The symbols of Puranti, Affoia and Nicante stirred lazily in the breeze alongside them. A man in gilded armour rode behind, the golden sun of the Union drooping from his black lance.

Sotorius, Chancellor of Sipani, was the first of the great and good to appear. Or the mean and evil, depending on who you asked. He was truly ancient, with thin white hair and beard, hunched under the weight of the heavy chain of office he’d worn since long before Monza was born. He hobbled along doggedly with the aid of a cane and with the eldest of his many sons, probably in his sixties himself, at his elbow. Several columns of Sipani’s leading citizens followed, sun twinkling on jewels and polished leather, bright silk and cloth of gold.

“Chancellor Sotorius,” Cosca was noisily explaining to Shivers. “According to tradition, the host goes on foot. Still alive, the old bastard.”

“Looks like he needs a rest though,” muttered Monza. “Someone get the man a coffin.”

“Not quite yet, I think. Half-blind he may be, but he still has clearer sight than most. The long-established master of the middle ground. One way or another he’s kept Sipani neutral for two decades. Right through the Years of Blood. Ever since I gave him a bloody nose at the Battle of the Isles!”

Vitari snorted. “Didn’t stop you taking his coin when it all turned sour with Sefeline of Ospria, as I recall.”

“Why should it have? Paid soldiers can’t be too picky over their employers. You have to blow with the wind in this business. Loyalty on a mercenary is like armour on a swimmer.” Monza frowned sideways, wondering whether that was meant for her, but Cosca was blathering on as though it meant nothing to anyone. “Still, he never suited me much, old Sotorius. It was a wedding of necessity, an unhappy marriage and, once victory was won, a divorce we were both happy to agree to. Peaceful men find little work for mercenaries, and the old Chancellor of Sipani has made a rich and glorious career from peace.”

Vitari sneered down at the wealthy citizens tramping by below. “Looks like he’s hoping to make an export of it.”

Monza shook her head. “One thing Orso will never be buying.”

The leaders of the League of Eight came next. Orso’s bitter enemies, which had meant Monza’s too, until her tumble down a mountain. They were attended by a regiment of hangers-on, all decked out in a hundred clashing liveries. Duke Rogont rode at the front on a great black charger, reins in one sure hand, giving the occasional nod to the crowds as someone shouted for him. He was a popular man, and was called on to nod often, almost to the point that his head bobbed like a turkey’s. Salier had somehow been wedged into the saddle of a stocky roan beside Rogont, pink jowls bulging out over the gilded collar of his uniform, on one side, then the other, in time to the movement of his labouring mount.

“Who’s the fat man?” asked Shivers.

“Salier, Grand Duke of Visserine.”

Vitari sniggered. “For another month or two, maybe. He squandered his city’s soldiers in the summer.” Monza had charged them down on the High Bank, with Faithful Carpi beside her. “His city’s food in the autumn.” Monza had merrily burned the fields about the walls and driven off the farmers. “And he’s fast running out of allies.” Monza had left Duke Cantain’s head rotting on the walls of Borletta. “You can almost see him sweating from here, the old bastard.”