Best Served Cold

“Indeed you are,” said Ario. “And by the presence of my brother.” He wafted a languid hand at the man beside him, dressed all in spotless white with a mask in the form of half a golden sun, somewhat twitchy and reluctant-seeming, Cosca rather thought. Foscar, no doubt, though he had grown a beard which very much suited him. “Not to mention that of our mutual friend, Master Sulfur.”

“Alas, I cannot stay.” A nondescript fellow had slipped in behind the two brothers. He had a curly head of hair, a simple suit and a faint smile. “So much to do. Never the slightest peace, eh?” And he grinned at Cosca. Inside the holes of his plain mask, his eyes were different colours: one blue, one green. “I must to Talins tonight, and speak to your father. We cannot allow the Gurkish a free hand.”

“Of course not. Damn those Gurkish bastards. Good journey to you, Sulfur.” Ario gave the slightest bow of his head.

“Good journey,” growled Foscar, as Sulfur turned for the gate.

Cosca jammed his hat back on his head. “Well, your two honours are certainly most welcome! Please, enjoy the entertainments! Everything is at your disposal!” He sidled closer, flashing his most mischievous grin. “The top floor of the building has been reserved for you and your brother. Your Highness will find, I rather think, a particularly surprising diversion in the Royal Suite.”

“There, brother. Let us see if, in due course, we can divert you from your cares.” Ario frowned towards the band. “By the heavens, could that woman not have found some better music?”

The thickening throng parted to let the brothers pass. Several sneering gentlemen followed in their wake, as well as four more of the grim men with their swords and armour. Cosca frowned after their shining backplates as they stepped through the door into the gaming hall.

Nicomo Cosca felt no fear, that was a fact. But a measure of sober concern at all these well-armed men seemed only prudent. Monza had asked for control, after all. He hopped over to the entrance and touched one of the guards outside upon his arm. “No more in tonight. We are full.” He shut the gate in the man’s surprised face, turned the key in the lock and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. Prince Ario’s friend Master Sulfur would have the honour of being the last man to pass through the front gate tonight.

He flung one arm up at the band. “Something livelier lads, strike up a tune! We are here to entertain!”

– 

M orveer knelt, hunched in the darkness of the attic, peering from the eaves of the roof into the courtyard far below. Men in ostentatious attire formed knots that swelled, dissolved, shifted and flowed in and out through the two doors that led into the building. They glittered and gleamed in pools of lamplight. Ribald exclamations and hushed chatter, poor music and good-natured laughter floated up through the night, but Morveer was not inclined to celebrate.

“Why so many?” he whispered. “We were anticipating less than half this number. Something… is awry.”

A gout of incandescent flame went up into the frigid night and there was an eruption of clapping. That imbecile Ronco, endangering his own existence and that of every other person in the yard. Morveer slowly shook his head. If that was a good idea then he was the Emperor of Day hissed at him, and he fumbled his way back across the rafters, old wood creaking gently, and applied his eye to one of the holes. “Someone’s coming.”

A group of eight persons emerged from the stairway, all of them masked. Four were evidently guards, armoured in highly polished breastplates. Two were even more evidently women employed by Cardotti’s. It was the final two men that were of interest to Morveer.

“Ario and Foscar,” whispered Day.

“So it would undoubtedly appear.” Orso’s sons exchanged a brief word while their guards took up positions flanking the two doors. Then Ario bowed low, his snigger echoing faintly around the attic. He swaggered down the corridor to the second door, one of the women on each arm, leaving his brother to approach the Royal Suite.

Morveer frowned. “Something is most seriously awry.”

– 

I t was an idiot’s idea of what a king’s bedchamber might look like. Everything was overpatterned, gaudy with gold and silver thread. The bed was a monstrous four-poster suffocated with swags of crimson silk. An obese cabinet burst with coloured liquor bottles. The ceiling was crusted with shadowy mouldings and an enormous, tinkling chandelier that hung too low. The fireplace was carved like a pair of naked women holding up a plate of fruit, all in green marble.

There was a huge canvas in a gleaming frame on one wall-a woman with an improbable bosom bathing in a stream, and seeming to enjoy it a lot more than was likely. Monza never had understood why getting out a tit or two made for a better painting. But painters seemed to think it did, so tits is what you got.

“That bloody music’s giving me a headache,” Vitari grumbled, hooking a finger under her corset and scratching at her side.