Best Served Cold

Monza jerked her head sideways. “That fucking bed’s giving me a headache. Especially against that wallpaper.” A particularly vile shade of azure blue and turquoise stripes with gilt stars splashed across them.

“Enough to drive a woman to smoking.” Vitari prodded at the ivory pipe lying on the marbled table beside the bed, a lump of husk in a cut-glass jar beside it. Monza hardly needed it drawn to her attention. For the last hour her eyes had rarely been off it.

“Mind on the job,” she snapped, jerking her eyes away and back towards the door.

“Always.” Vitari hitched up her skirt. “Not easy with these bloody clothes. How does anyone-”

“Shhh.” Footsteps, coming down the corridor outside.

“Our guests. You ready?”

The grips of the two knives jabbed at the small of Monza’s back as she shifted her hips. “Bit late for second thoughts, no?”

“Unless you’ve decided you’d rather fuck them instead.”

“I think we’ll stick to murder.” Monza slid her right hand up the window frame in what she hoped was an alluring pose. Her heart was thumping, the blood surging painfully loud in her ears.

The door creaked ever so slowly open, and a man stepped through into the room. He was tall and dressed all in white, his golden mask in the shape of half a rising sun. He had an impeccably trimmed beard, which failed to disguise a ragged scar down his chin. Monza blinked at him. He wasn’t Ario. He wasn’t even Foscar.

“Shit,” she heard Vitari breathe.

Recognition hit Monza like spit in the face. It wasn’t Orso’s son, but his son-in-law. None other than the great peacemaker himself, his August Majesty, the High King of the Union.

– 

R eady?” asked Cosca.

Shivers cleared his throat one more time. It had felt like there was something stuck in it ever since he’d walked into this damn place. “Bit late for second thoughts, no?”

The old mercenary’s mad grin spread even wider. “Unless you’ve decided you’d rather fuck them instead. Gentlemen! Ladies! Your attention, please!” The band stopped playing and the violin began to hack out a single, sawing note. It didn’t make Shivers feel much better.

Cosca jabbed with his cane, clearing the guests out of the circle they’d marked in the middle of the yard. “Step back, my friends, for you are in the gravest danger! One of the great moments of history is about to be acted out before your disbelieving eyes!”

“When do I get a fuck?” someone called, to ragged laughter.

Cosca leaped forwards, nearly took the man’s eye out on the end of his cane. “Once someone dies!” The drum had joined in now, whack, whack, whack. Folk pressed round the circle by flickering torchlight. A ring of masks-birds and beasts, soldiers and clowns, leering skulls and grinning devils. Men’s faces underneath-drunk, bored, angry, curious. At the back, Barti and Kummel teetered on each other’s shoulders, whichever was on top clapping along with the drumbeats.

“For your education, edification and enjoyment…” Shivers hadn’t a clue what that meant. “Cardotti’s House of Leisure presents to you…” He took a rough breath, hefting sword and shield, and pushed through into the circle. “The infamous duel between Fenris the Feared…” Cosca flicked his cane out towards Greylock as he lumbered into the circle from the other side. “And Logen Ninefingers!”

“He’s got ten fingers!” someone called, making a ripple of drunken laughter.

Shivers didn’t join ’em. Greylock might’ve been a long way less frightening than the real Feared had been, but he was a long way clear of a comforting sight still, big as a house with that mask of black iron over his face, left side of his shaved head and his great left arm painted blue. His club looked awful heavy and very dangerous, right then, clutched in those big fists. Shivers had to keep telling himself they were on the same side. Just pretending was all. Just pretending.

“You gentlemen would be well advised to make room!” shouted Cosca, and the three Gurkish dancers pranced round the edge of the circle, black-cat masks over their black faces, herding the guests towards the walls. “There may be blood!”

“There’d better be!” Another wave of laughter. “I didn’t come here to watch a pair of idiots dance with each other!”

The onlookers whooped, whistled, booed. Mostly booed. Shivers somehow doubted his plan-hop around the circle for a few minutes flailing at the air, then stab Greylock between his arm and his side while the big man burst a bladder of pig blood-was going to get these fuckers clapping. He remembered the real duel, outside the walls of Carleon with the fate of all the North hanging on the outcome. The cold morning, the breath smoking on the air, the blood in the circle. The Carls gathered round the edge, shaking their shields, screaming and roaring. He wondered what those men would’ve made of this nonsense. Life took you down some strange paths, alright.

“Begin!” shouted Cosca, springing back into the crowd.