“Your wholehearted commitment. Alas for the poor city of Visserine.”
“They’ll do better than they did with that art-thieving gourmand.”
“Now they’ll have an all-thieving drunk.”
“You misjudge me, Monzcarro. A man can change.”
“I thought you just said nothing ever does?”
“Changed my mind. And why not? In one day I bagged myself a fortune, and one of the richest dukedoms in Styria too.”
She shook her head in combined disgust and amazement. “And all you did was sit here.”
“Therein lies the real trick. Anyone can earn rewards.” Cosca tipped his head back, smiled up at the black branches and the blue sky beyond them. “Do you know, I think it highly unlikely that ever in history has one man gained so much for doing absolutely nothing. But I am hardly the only one to profit from yesterday’s exploits. Grand Duke Rogont, I daresay, is happy with the outcome. And you are a great stride nearer to your grand revenge, are you not?” He leaned close to her. “Speaking of which, I have a gift for you.”
She frowned at him, ever suspicious. “What gift?”
“I would hate to spoil the surprise. Sergeant Friendly, could you take your ex-employer and her Northern companion into the house, and show her what we found yesterday? For her to do with as she pleases, of course.” He turned away with a smirk. “We’re all friends now!”
In here.” Friendly pushed the low door creaking open. Monza gave Shivers a look. He shrugged back. She ducked under the lintel and into a dim room, cool after the sun outside, with a ceiling of vaulted brick and patches of light across a dusty stone floor. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom she saw a figure wedged into the furthest corner. He shuffled forwards, chain between his ankles rattling faintly, and criss-cross shadows from the grubby window panes fell across one half of his face.
Prince Foscar, Duke Orso’s younger son. Monza felt her whole body stiffen.
It seemed he’d finally grown up since she last saw him, running from his father’s hall in Fontezarmo, wailing that he wanted no part in her murder. He’d lost the fluff on his top lip, gained a bloom of bruises ringing one eye and swapped the apologetic look for a fearful one. He stared at Shivers, then at Friendly as they stepped through into the room behind her. Not two men to give a prisoner hope, on the whole. He met Monza’s eye, finally, reluctantly, with the haunted look of a man who knows what’s coming.
“It’s true then,” he whispered. “You’re alive.”
“Unlike your brother. I stabbed him through his throat then threw him out of the window.” The sharp knobble in Foscar’s neck bobbed up and down as he swallowed. “I had Mauthis poisoned. Ganmark run through with a ton of bronze. Faithful’s stabbed, slashed, drowned and hung from a waterwheel. Still turning on it, for all I know. Gobba was lucky. I only smashed his hands, and his knees, and his skull to bonemeal with a hammer.” The list gave her grim nausea rather than grim satisfaction, but she forced her way through it. “Of the seven men who were in that room when they murdered Benna, there’s just your father left.” She slid the Calvez from its sheath, the gentle scraping of the blade as ugly as a child’s scream. “Your father… and you.”
The room was close, stale. Friendly’s face was empty as a corpse’s. Shivers leaned back against the wall beside her, arms folded, grinning.
“I understand.” Foscar came closer. Small, unwilling steps, but towards her still. He stopped no more than a stride away, and sank to his knees. Awkwardly, since his hands were tied behind him. The whole time his eyes were on hers. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re fucking sorry?” she squeezed through gritted teeth.
“I didn’t know what was going to happen! I loved Benna!” His lip trembled, a tear ran down the side of his face. Fear, or guilt, or both. “Your brother was like… a brother to me. I would never have wanted… that, for either of you. I’m sorry… for my part in it.” He’d had no part in it. She knew that. “I just… I want to live!”
“So did Benna.”
“Please.” More tears trickled, leaving glistening trails down his cheeks. “I just want to live.”
Her stomach churned, acid burning her throat and washing up into her watering mouth. Do it. She’d come all this way to do it, suffered all this and made all those others suffer just so she could do it. Her brother would have had no doubts, not then. She could almost hear his voice.
Do what you have to. Conscience is an excuse. Mercy and cowardice are the same.
It was time to do it. He had to die.
Do it now.
But her stiff arm seemed to weigh a thousand tons. She stared at Foscar’s ashen face. His big, wide, helpless eyes. Something about him reminded her of Benna. When he was young. Before Caprile, before Sweet Pines, before they betrayed Cosca, before they joined up with the Thousand Swords, even. When she’d wanted just to make things grow. Long ago, that boy laughing in the wheat.
The point of the Calvez wobbled, dropped, tapped against the floor.
Foscar took a long, shuddering breath, closed his eyes, then opened them again, wet glistening in the corners. “Thank you. I always knew you had a heart… whatever they said. Thank—”
Shivers’ big fist crunched into his face and knocked him on his back, blood bubbling from his broken nose. He got out a shocked splutter before the Northman was on top of him, hands closing tight around his throat.
“You want to fucking live, eh?” hissed Shivers, teeth bared in a snarling grin, the sinews squirming in his forearms as he squeezed tighter and tighter. Foscar kicked helplessly, struggled silently, twisted his shoulders, face turning pink, then red, then purple. Shivers dragged up Foscar’s head with both his hands, lifted it towards him, close enough to kiss, almost, then rammed it down against the stone flags with a sharp crack. Foscar’s boots jerked, the chain between them rattling. Shivers worked his head to one side then the other as he shifted his hands around Foscar’s neck for a better grip, tendons standing stark from their scabbed backs. He dragged him up again, no hurry, and rammed his head back down with a dull crunch. Foscar’s tongue lolled out, one eyelid flickering, black blood creeping down from his hairline.
Shivers growled something in Northern, words she couldn’t understand, lifted Foscar’s head, smashed it down with all the care of a stonemason getting the details right. Again, and again. Monza watched, her mouth half-open, still holding weakly onto her sword, doing nothing. Not sure what she could do, or should do. Whether to stop him or help him. Blood dashed the rendered walls and the stone flags in spots and spatters. Over the pop and crackle of shattering bone she could hear a voice. Benna’s voice, she thought for a minute, still whispering at her to do it. Then she realised it was Friendly, calmly counting the number of times Foscar’s skull had been smashed into the stones. He got up to eleven.
Shivers lifted the prince’s mangled head once more, hair all matted glistening black, then he blinked, and let it drop.
“Reckon that’s got it.” He came slowly up to standing, one boot planted on either side of Foscar’s corpse. “Heh.” He looked at his hands, looked around for something to wipe them on, ended up rubbing them together, smearing black streaks of blood dry brown to his elbows. “One more to the good.” He looked sideways at her with his one eye, corner of his mouth curled up in a sick smile. “Six out o’ seven, eh, Monza?”
“Six and one,” Friendly grunted to himself.
“All turning out just like you hoped.”
She stared down at Foscar, flattened head twisted sideways, crossed eyes goggling up at the wall, blood spreading out across the stone floor in a black puddle from his broken skull. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off, reedy thin. “Why did you—”
“Why not?” whispered Shivers, coming close. She saw her own pale, scabbed, pinched-in face reflected, bent and twisted in that dead metal ball of an eye. “What we came here for, ain’t it? What we fought for all the day, down in the mud? I thought you was all for never turning back
? Mercy and cowardice the same and all that hard talk you gave me. By the dead, Chief.” He grinned, the mass of scar across his face squirming and puckering, his good cheek all dotted with red. “I could almost swear you ain’t half the evil bitch you pretend to be.”
Shifting Sands
With the greatest of care not to attract undue attention, Morveer insinuated himself into the back of Duke Orso’s great audience chamber. For such a vast and impressive room, it numbered but a few occupants. Perhaps a function of the difficult circumstances in which the great man found himself. Having catastrophically lost the most important battle in the history of Styria was bound to discourage visitors. Still, Morveer had always been drawn to employers in difficult circumstances. They tended to pay handsomely.
The Grand Duke of Talins was without doubt still a majestic presence. He sat upon a gilded chair, on a high dais, all in sable velvet trimmed with gold, and frowned down with regal fury over the shining helmets of half a dozen no less furious guardsmen. He was flanked by two men who could not have been more polar opposites. On the left a plump, ruddy-faced old fellow stood with a respectful but painful-looking bend to his hips, gold buttons about his chubby throat fastened to the point of uncomfortable tightness and, indeed, considerably beyond. He had ill-advisedly attempted to conceal his utter and obvious baldness by combing back and forth a few sad strands of wiry grey hair, cultivated to enormous length for this precise purpose. Orso’s chamberlain. On the right, a curly-haired young man slouched with unexpected ease in travel-stained clothes, resting upon what appeared to be a long stick. Morveer had the frustrating sensation of having seen him somewhere before, but could not place him, and his relationship to the duke was, for now, a slightly worrying mystery.
The only other occupant of the chamber had his well-dressed back to Morveer, prostrate upon one knee on the strip of crimson carpet, clutching his hat in one hand. Even from the very back of the hall the gleaming sheen of sweat across his bald patch was most evident.
“What help from my son-in-law,” Orso was demanding in stentorian tones, “the High King of the Union?”
The voice of the ambassador, for it appeared to be none other, had the whine of a well-whipped dog expecting further punishment. “Your son-in-law sends his earnest regrets—”
“Indeed? But no soldiers! What would he have me do? Shoot his regrets at my enemies?”
“His armies are all committed in our unfortunate Northern wars, and a revolt in the city of Rostod causes further difficulties. The nobles, meanwhile, are reluctant. The peasantry are again restless. The merchants—”
“The merchants are behind on their payments. I see. If excuses were soldiers he would have sent a mighty throng indeed.”
“He is beset by troubles—”
“He is beset? He is? Are his sons murdered? Are his soldiers butchered? Are his hopes all in ruins?”
The ambassador wrung his hands. “Your Excellency, he is spread thin! His regrets have no end, but—”
“But his help has no beginning! High King of the Union! A fine talker, and a goodly smile when the sun is up, but when the clouds come in, look not for shelter in Adua, eh? My intervention on his behalf was timely, was it not? When the Gurkish horde clamoured at his gates! But now I need his help… forgive me, Father, I am spread thin. Out of my sight, bastard, before your master’s regrets cost you your tongue! Out of my sight, and tell the Cripple that I see his hand in this! Tell him I will whip the price from his twisted hide!” The grand duke’s furious screams echoed out over the hurried footsteps of the ambassador, edging backwards as quickly as he dared, bowing profusely and sweating even more. “Tell him I will be revenged!”
The ambassador genuflected his way past Morveer, and the double doors were heaved booming shut upon him.
“Who is that skulking at the back of the chamber?” Orso’s voice was no more reassuring for its sudden calmness. Quite the reverse.
Morveer swallowed as he processed down the blood-red strip of carpet. Orso’s eye held a look of the most withering command. It reminded Morveer unpleasantly of his meeting with the headmaster of the orphanage, when he was called to account for the dead birds. His ears burned with shame and horror at the memory of that interview, more even than his legs burned at the memory of his punishment. He swept out his lowest and most sycophantic bow, unfortunately spoiling the effect by rapping his knuckles against the floor in his nervousness.
“This is one Castor Morveer, your Excellency,” intoned the chamberlain, peering down his bulbous nose.
Orso leaned forwards. “And what manner of a man is Castor Morveer?”
“A poisoner.”
“Master… Poisoner,” corrected Morveer. He could be as obsequious as the next man, when it was required, but he flatly insisted on his proper title. Had he not earned it, after all, with sweat, danger, deep wounds both physical and emotional, long study, short mercy and many, many painful reverses?
“Master, is it?” sneered Orso. “And what great notables have you poisoned to earn the prefix?”
Morveer permitted himself the faintest of smiles. “Grand Duchess Sefeline of Ospria, your Excellency. Count Binardi of Etrea, and both his sons, though their boat subsequently sank and they were never found. Ghassan Maz, Satrap of Kadir, and then, when further problems presented themselves, his successor Souvon-yin-Saul. Old Lord Isher, of Midderland, he was one of mine. Prince Amrit, who would have been heir to the throne of Muris—”
“I understood he died of natural causes.”
“What could be a more natural death for a powerful man than a dose of Leopard Flower administered into the ear by a dangling thread? Then Admiral Brant, late of the Murisian fleet, and his wife. His cabin boy too, alas, who happened by, a young life cut regrettably short. I would hate to prevail upon your Excellency’s valuable time, the list is long indeed, most distinguished and… entirely dead. With your permission I will add only the most recent name upon it.”
Orso gave the most minute inclination of his head, sneering no longer, Morveer was pleased to note. “One Mauthis, head of the Westport office of the Banking House of Valint and Balk.”
The duke’s face had gone blank as a stone slab. “Who was your employer for that last?”
“I make it a point of professionalism never to mention the names of my employers… but I believe these are exceptional circumstances. I was hired by none other than Monzcarro Murcatto, the Butcher of Caprile.” His blood was up now, and he could not resist a final flourish. “I believe you are acquainted.”
“Some… what,” whispered Orso. The duke’s dozen guards stirred ominously as if controlled directly by their master’s mood. Morveer became aware that he might have gone a flourish too far, felt his bladder weaken and was forced to press his knees together. “You infiltrated the offices of Valint and Balk in Westport?”
“Indeed,” croaked Morveer.
Orso glanced sideways at the man with the curly hair. “I congratulate you on the achievement. Though it has been the cause of some considerable discomfort to me and my associates. Pray explain why I should not have you killed for it.”
Morveer attempted to pass it off with a vivacious chuckle, but it died a slow death in the chilly vastness of the hall. “I… er… had no notion, of course, that you were in any way to be discomfited. None. Really, it was all due to a regrettable failing, or indeed a wilful oversight, deliberate dishonesty, a lie, even, on the part of my cursed assistant that I took the job in the first place. I should never have trusted that greedy bitch…” He realised he was doing himself no good by blaming the dead. Great men want living people to hold responsible, that they might have them tortured, hanged, beheaded and so forth. Corpses offer no recompense. He swiftly changed tack. “I was but the tool, your Excellency. Merely the weapon. A weapon I now offer for your own hand to wield, as you see fit.” He bowed again, even lower this time, muscles in his rump, already sore from climbing the cursed mountainside to Fontezarmo, trembling in their efforts to preve
nt him from pitching on his face.
“You seek a new employer?”
“Murcatto proved as treacherous towards me as she did towards your illustrious Lordship. The woman is a snake indeed. Twisting, poisonous and… scaly,” he finished lamely. “I was lucky to escape her toxic clutches with my life, and now seek redress. I am prepared to seek it most earnestly, and will not be denied!”
“Redress would be a fine thing for us all,” murmured the man with the curly hair. “News of Murcatto’s survival spreads through Talins like wildfire. Papers bearing her face on every wall.” A fact, Morveer had seen them as he passed through the city. “They say you stabbed her through the heart but she lived, your Excellency.”
The duke snorted. “Had I stabbed her, I would never have aimed for her heart. Without doubt her least vulnerable organ.”
“They say you burned her, drowned her, cut her into quarters and tossed them from your balcony, but she was stitched back together and lived again. They say she killed two hundred men at the fords of the Sulva. That she charged alone into your ranks and scattered them like chaff on the wind.”
“The stamp of Rogont’s theatrics,” hissed the duke through gritted teeth. “That bastard was born to be an author of cheap fantasies rather than a ruler of men. We will hear next that Murcatto has sprouted wings and given birth to the second coming of Euz!”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Bills are posted on every street corner proclaiming her an instrument of the Fates, sent to deliver Styria from your tyranny.”
“Tyrant, now?” The duke barked a grim chuckle. “How quickly the wind shifts in the modern age!”
“They say she cannot be killed.”
“Do… they… indeed?” Orso’s red-rimmed eyes swivelled to Morveer. “What do you say, poisoner?”
“Your Excellency,” and he plunged down into the lowest of bows once more, “I have fashioned a successful career upon the principle that there is nothing that lives that cannot be deprived of life. It is the remarkable ease of killing, rather than the impossibility of it, that has always caused me astonishment.”
Best Served Cold Page 56
