Utter dark. Monza opened her eyes wide, squinted and stared, and saw nothing but fizzing, tingling blackness. She wouldn’t have been able to see her hand before her face. But she couldn’t move her hand there anyway, or anywhere else.
They’d chained her to the ceiling by her wrists, to the floor by her ankles. If she hung limp, her feet just brushed the clammy stones. If she stretched up on tiptoe, she could ease the throbbing ache through her arms, through her ribs, through her sides, a merciful fraction. Soon her calves would start to burn, though, worse and worse until she had to ease back down, teeth gritted, and swing by her skinned wrists. It was agonising, humiliating, terrifying, but the worst of it was, she knew—this was as good as things were going to get.
She wasn’t sure where Day was. Probably she’d blinked those big eyes, shed a single fat tear and said she knew nothing, and they’d believed her. She had the sort of face that people believed. Monza never had that sort of face. But then she probably didn’t deserve one. Shivers was struggling somewhere in the inky black, metal clinking as he twisted at his chains, cursing in Northern, then Styrian. “Fucking Styria. Fucking Vossula. Shit. Shit.”
“Stop!” she hissed at him. “Might as well… I don’t know… keep your strength.”
“Strength going to help us, you reckon?”
She swallowed. “Couldn’t hurt.” Couldn’t help. Nothing could.
“By the dead, but I need to piss.”
“Piss, then,” she snapped into the darkness. “What’s the difference?”
A grunt. The sound of liquid spattering against stone. She might’ve joined him if her bladder hadn’t been knotted up tight with fear. She pushed up on her toes again, legs aching, wrists, arms, sides burning with every breath.
“You got a plan?” Shivers’ words sank away and died on the buried air.
“What fucking plan do you think I’d have? They think we’re spies in their city, working for the enemy. They’re sure of it! They’re going to try and get us to talk, and when we don’t have anything to say they want to hear, they’re going to fucking kill us!” An animal growl, more rattles. “You think they didn’t plan for you struggling?”
“What d’you want me to do?” His voice was strangled, shrill, as if he was on the verge of sobbing. “Hang here and wait for them to start cutting us?”
“I…” She felt the unfamiliar thickness of tears at the back of her own throat. She didn’t have the shadow of an idea of a way clear of this. Helpless. How could you get more helpless than chained up naked, deep underground, in the pitch darkness? “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know.”
There was the clatter of a lock turning and Monza jerked her head up, skin suddenly prickling. A door creaked open and light stabbed at her eyes. A figure came down stone steps, boots scraping, a torch flickering in his hand. Another came behind him.
“Let’s see what we’re doing, shall we?” A woman’s voice. Langrier, the one who’d caught them in the first place. The one who’d knocked Monza down the stairs and taken her ring. The other one was Pello, with the moustache. They were both dressed like butchers, stained leather aprons and heavy gloves. Pello went around the room, lighting torches. They didn’t need torches, they could’ve had lamps. But torches are that bit more sinister. As if, at that moment, Monza needed scaring. Light crept out across rough stone walls, slick with moisture, splattered with green moss. There were a couple of tables about, heavy cast-iron implements on them. Unsubtle-looking implements.
She’d felt better when it was dark.
Langrier bent over a brazier and got it lit, blowing patiently on the coals, orange glow flaring across her soft face with each breath.
Pello wrinkled his nose. “Which one of you pissed?”
“Him,” said Langrier. “But what’s the difference?” Monza watched her slide a few lengths of iron into the furnace, and felt her throat close up tight. She looked sideways at Shivers, and he looked back at her, and said nothing. There was nothing to say. “More than likely they’ll both be pissing soon enough.”
“Alright for you, you don’t have to mop it up.”
“I’ve mopped up worse.” She looked at Monza, and her eyes were bored. No hate in them. Not much of anything. “Give them some water, Pello.”
The man offered a jug. She would’ve liked to spit in his face, scream obscenities, but she was thirsty, and it was no time for pride. So she opened her mouth and he stuck the spout in it, and she drank, and coughed, and drank, and water trickled down her neck and dripped to the cold flags between her bare feet.
Langrier watched her get her breath back. “You see, we’re just people, but I have to be honest, that’s probably the last kindness you’ll be getting out of us if you’re not helpful.”
“It’s a war, boy.” Pello offered the jug to Shivers. “A war, and you’re on the other side. We don’t have the time to be gentle.”
“Just give us something,” said Langrier. “Just a little something I can give to my colonel, then we can leave you be, for now, and we’ll all be a lot happier.”
Monza looked her right in the eye, unwavering, and did her best to make her believe. “We’re not with Orso. The opposite. We’re here—”
“You had his uniforms, didn’t you?”
“Only so we could drop in with them if they broke into the city. We’re here to kill Ganmark.”
“Orso’s Union general?” Pello raised his brows at Langrier and she shrugged back.
“It’s either what she said, or they’re spies, working with the Talinese. Here to assassinate the duke, maybe. Now which of those seems the more likely?”
Pello sighed. “We’ve been in this game a long time, and the obvious answer, nine times out of ten, is the right one.”
“Nine times out of ten.” Langrier spread her hands in apology. “So you might have to do better than that.”
“I can’t do any fucking better,” Monza hissed through gritted teeth, “that’s all I—”
Langrier’s gloved fist thudded suddenly into her ribs. “The truth!” Her other fist into Monza’s other side. “The truth!” A punch in the stomach. “The truth! The truth! The truth!” She sprayed spit in Monza’s face as she screamed it, knocking her back and forth, the sharp thumps and Monza’s wheezing grunts echoing dully from the damp walls of the place.
She couldn’t do any of the things her body desperately needed to do—bring her arms down, or fold up, or fall over, or breathe even. She was helpless as a carcass on a hook. When Langrier got tired of pounding the guts out of her she shuddered silently for a moment, eyes bulging, every muscle cramped up bursting tight, creaking back and forth by her wrists. Then she coughed watery puke into her armpit, heaved half a desperate, moaning breath in and drooled out some more. She drooped limp as a wet sheet on a drying line, hair tangled across her face, heard that she was whimpering like a beaten dog with every shallow breath but couldn’t stop it and didn’t care.
She heard Langrier’s boots scraping over to Shivers. “So she’s a fucking idiot, that’s proven. Let’s give you a chance, big man. I’ll start with something simple. What’s your name?”
“Caul Shivers,” voice high and tight with fear.
“Shivers.” Pello chuckled.
“Northerners. Who dreams up all these funny names? What about her?”
“Murcatto, she calls herself. Monzcarro Murcatto.” Monza slowly shook her head. Not because she blamed him for saying her name. Just because she knew the truth couldn’t help.
“What do you know? The Butcher of Caprile herself in my little cell! Murcatto’s dead, idiot, months ago, and I’m getting bored. You’d think none of us would ever die, the way you’re wasting our time.”
“You reckon they’re very stupid,” asked Pello, “or very brave?”
“What’s the difference?”
“You want to hold him?”
“You mind doing it?” Langrier winced as she worked one elbow around. “Damn shoulder’s aching tod
ay. Wet weather always gets it going.”
“You and your bloody shoulder.” Metal rattled as Pello let a stride of chain out through the pulley above and Shivers’ hands dropped down around his head. Any relief he felt was short lived, though. Pello came up behind and kicked him in the back of his legs, sent him lurching onto his knees, arms stretched out again, kept him there by planting one boot on the back of his calves.
“Look!” It was cold but Shivers’ face was all beaded up with sweat. “We’re not with Orso! I don’t know nothing about his army. I just… I just don’t know!”
“It’s the truth,” Monza croaked, but so quiet no one could hear her. Even that started her coughing, each heave stabbing through her battered ribs.
Pello slid one arm around Shivers’ head, elbow under his jaw, his other hand firm behind, tilting his face back.
“No!” squawked Shivers, the one bulging eye Monza could see rolling towards her. “It was her! Murcatto! She hired me! To kill seven men! Vengeance, for her brother! And… and—”
“You’ve got him?” asked Langrier.
“I’ve got him.”
Shivers’ voice rose higher. “It was her! She wants to kill Duke Orso!” He was trembling now, teeth chattering together. “We did Gobba, and a banker! A banker… called Mauthis! Poisoned him, and then… and then… Prince Ario, in Sipani! At Cardotti’s! And now—”
Langrier stuck a battered wooden dowel between his jaws, putting a quick end to his wasted confession. “Wouldn’t want you to chew your tongue off. Still need you to tell me something worth hearing.”
“I’ve got money!” croaked Monza, her voice starting to come back.
“What?”
“I’ve got money! Gold! Boxes full of it! Not with me, but… Hermon’s gold! Just—”
Langrier chuckled. “You’d be amazed how everyone remembers buried treasure at a time like this. Doesn’t often work out.”
Pello grinned. “If I had just a tenth of what I’ve been promised in this room I’d be a rich man. I’m not, in case you’re wondering.”
“But if you did have boxes full of gold, where the hell would I spend it now? You came a few weeks too late to bribe us. The Talinese are all around the city. Money’s no use here.” Langrier rubbed at her shoulder, winced, worked her arm in a circle, then dragged an iron from the brazier. It squealed out with the sound of metal on metal, sent up a drifting shower of orange sparks and a sick twist of fear through Monza’s churning guts.
“It’s true,” she whispered. “It’s true.” But all the strength had gone out of her.
“ ’Course it is.” And Langrier stepped forwards and pressed the yellow-hot metal into Shivers’ face. It made a sound like a slice of bacon dropped into a pan, but louder, and with his mindless, blubbering screech on top of it, of course. His back arched, his body thrashed and trembled like a fish on a line, but Pello kept his grip on him, grim-faced.
Greasy steam shot up, a little gout of flame that Langrier blew out with a practised puff of air through pursed lips, grinding the iron one way then the other, into his eye. While she did it, she had the same look she might have had wiping a table. A tedious, distasteful chore that had fallen to her and unfortunately had to be done.
The sizzling grew quieter. Shivers’ scream had become a moaning hiss, the last air in his lungs being dragged out of him, spit spraying from his stretched-back lips, frothing from the wood between his bared teeth. Langrier stepped away. The iron had cooled to dark orange, smeared down one side with smoking black ash. She tossed it clattering back into the coals with some distaste.
Pello let go and Shivers’ head dropped forwards, breath bubbling in his throat. Monza didn’t know if he was awake or not, aware or not. She prayed not. The room smelled of charred meat. She couldn’t look at his face. Couldn’t look. Had to look. A glimpse of a great blackened stripe across his cheek and through his eye, raw-meat-red around it, bubbled and blistered, shining oily with fat cooked from his face. She jerked her eyes back to the floor, wide open, the air crawling in her throat, all her skin as clammy-cold as a corpse dragged from a river.
“There we go. Aren’t we all better off for that, now? All so you could keep your secrets for a few minutes longer? What you won’t tell us, we’ll just get out of that little yellow-haired bitch later.” She waved a hand in front of her face. “Damn, that stinks. Drop her down, Pello.”
The chains rattled and she went down. Couldn’t stand, even. Too scared, too hurting. Her knees grazed the stone. Shivers’ breath crackled. Langrier rubbed at her shoulder. Pello clicked his tongue softly as he made the chains fast. Monza felt the sole of his boot dig into the backs of her calves.
“Please,” she whispered, whole body shivering, teeth rattling. Monzcarro Murcatto, the dreaded Butcher of Caprile, the fearsome Serpent of Talins, that monster who’d washed herself in the Years of Blood, all that was a distant memory. “Please.”
“You think we enjoy doing this? You think we wouldn’t rather get on with people? I’m well liked mostly, aren’t I, Pello?”
“Mostly.”
“For pity’s sake, give me something I can use. Just tell me…” Langrier closed her eyes and rubbed at them with the back of her wrist. “Just tell me who you get your orders from, at least. Let’s just start with that.”
“Alright, alright!” Monza’s eyes were stinging. “I’ll talk!” She could feel tears running down her face. “I’m talking!” She wasn’t sure what she was saying. “Ganmark! Orso! Talins!” Gibberish. Nothing. Anything. “I… I work for Ganmark!” Anything to keep the irons in the brazier for a few more moments. “I take my orders from him!”
“From him directly?” Langrier frowned over at Pello, and he took a break from picking at the dry skin on one palm to frown back. “Of course you do, and his Excellency Grand Duke Salier is constantly down here checking how we’re getting along. Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” She cuffed Monza across the face, one way and back the other, turned her mouth bloody and set her skin burning, made the room jerk and sway. “You’re making this up as you go along!”
Monza tried to shake the mud out of her head. “Wha’ d’you wan’ me to tell you?” Words all mangled in her swollen mouth.
“Something that fucking helps me!”
Monza’s bloody lip moved up and down, but nothing came out except a string of red drool. Lies were useless. The truth was useless. Pello’s arm snaked around her head from behind, tight as a noose, dragged her face back towards the ceiling.
“No!” she squawked. “No! N—” The piece of wood was wedged into her mouth, wet with Shivers’ spit.
Langrier loomed into Monza’s blurry vision, shaking one arm out. “My damn shoulder! I swear I’m in more pain than anyone, but no one has mercy on me, do they?” She dragged a fresh iron clear of the coals, held it up, yellow-white, casting a faint glow across her face, making the beads of sweat on her forehead glisten. “Is there anything more boring than other people’s pain?”
She raised the iron, Monza’s weeping eye jammed wide open and fixed on its white tip as it loomed towards her, fizzing ever so softly. The breath wheezed and shuddered in her throat. She could almost feel the heat from it on her cheek, almost feel the pain already. Langrier leaned forwards.
“Stop.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a blurry figure in the doorway. She blinked, eyelids fluttering. A great fat man, standing at the top of the steps in a white dressing gown.
“Your Excellency!” Langrier shoved the iron back into the brazier as though it was her it was burning. The grip round Monza’s neck was suddenly released, Pello’s boot came off the back of her calves.
Grand Duke Salier’s eyes shifted slowly in his great expanse of pale face, from Monza, to Shivers, and back to Monza. “Are these they?”
“Indeed they are.” Nicomo Cosca peered over the duke’s shoulder and down into the room. Monza couldn’t remember ever in her life being so glad to see someone. The old mercenary winced. “Too late for t
he Northman’s eye.”
“Early enough for his life, at least. But whatever have you done to her skin, Captain Langrier?”
“The scars she had already, your Excellency.”
“Truly? Quite the collection.” Salier slowly shook his head. “A most regrettable case of mistaken identity. For the time being, these two people are my honoured guests. Some clothes for them, and do what you can for his wound.”
“Of course.” She snatched the dowel out of Monza’s mouth and bowed her head. “I deeply regret my mistake, your Excellency.”
“Quite understandable. This is war. People get burned.” The duke gave a long sigh. “General Murcatto, I hope you will accept a bed in my palace, and join us for breakfast in the morning?”
The chains rattled free and her limp hands fell down into her lap. She thought she managed to gasp out a “yes” before she started sobbing so hard she couldn’t speak, tears running free down her face.
Terror, and pain, and immeasurable relief.
The Connoisseur
Anyone would have supposed it was an ordinary morning of peace and plenty in Duke Salier’s expansive dining chamber, a room in which his Excellency no doubt spent much of his time. Four musicians struck up sweet music in a far-distant corner, all smiling radiantly, as though serenading the doomed in a palace surrounded by enemies was all they had ever wished for. The long table was stacked high with delicacies: fish and shellfish, breads and pastries, fruits and cheeses, sweets, meats and sweetmeats, all arranged as neatly on their gilded plates as medals on a general’s chest. Too much food for twenty, and there were but three to dine, and two of those not hungry.
Monza did not look well. Both of her lips were split, her face was ashen in the centre, swollen and bruised shiny pink on both sides, the white of one eye red with bloodshot patches, fingers trembling. Cosca felt raw to look at her, but he supposed it might have been worse. Small help to their Northern friend. He could have sworn he could hear the groans through the walls all night long.
He reached out with his fork, ready to spear a sausage, well-cooked meat striped black from the grill. An image of Shivers’ well-cooked, black-striped face drifted through his mind, and he cleared his throat and caught himself instead a hard-boiled egg. It was only when it was halfway to his plate that he noticed its similarity to an eyeball. He shook it hastily off his fork and into its dish with a rumbling of nausea, and contented himself with tea, silently pretending it was heavily laced with brandy.
Best Served Cold Page 32
