Shenkt looked him in the eye as he came close, and gave him a chance. “Nothing you want.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” His gaze settled on the ruby ring on Shenkt’s forefinger. “What about that?”
“It isn’t mine to give.”
“Then it’s ours to take.” They closed in, the one with the pocked face prodding at Shenkt with his sword. “Hands behind your head, bastard, and get on your knees.”
Shenkt frowned. “I do not kneel.”
The three zipping flies slowed, drifting lazily, then hanging almost still.
Slowly, slowly, the spoon-thief’s hungry leer turned into a snarl.
Slowly, slowly, his arm drifted back for a thrust.
Shenkt stepped around his sword, the edge of his hand sank deep into the thief’s chest then tore back out. A great chunk of rib and breastbone was ripped out with it, flew spinning through the air to embed itself deep in the ceiling.
Shenkt brushed the sword aside, seized the next man by his breastplate and flung him across the room, his head crumpling against the far wall, blood showering out under such pressure it made a great star of spatters across the gilded wallpaper from floor to ceiling. The flies were sucked from their places by the wind of his passing, dragged through the air in mad spirals. The ear-splitting bang of his skull exploding joined the hiss of blood spraying from his friend’s caved-in chest and all over the gaping boy as time resumed its normal flow.
“The woman who made your friend lose his cutlery.” Shenkt flicked the few drops of blood from his hand. “Murcatto?”
The boy nodded dumbly.
“Which way did she go?”
His wide eyes rolled towards the far door.
“Good.” Shenkt would have liked to be kind. But then this boy might have run and brought more men, and there would have been further entanglements. Sometimes you must take one life to spare more, and when those times come, sentiment helps nobody. One of his old master’s lessons that Shenkt had never forgotten. “I am sorry for this.”
With a sharp crack, his forefinger sank up to the knuckle in the boy’s forehead.
They smashed their way through the kitchens, both doing their level worst to kill each other. Shivers hadn’t planned on this but his blood was boiling now. Friendly was in his fucking way, and had to be got out of it, simple as that. It had become a point of pride. Shivers was better armed, he had the reach, he had the shield. But Friendly was slippery as an eel and patient as winter. Backing off, dropping away, forcing nothing, giving no openings. All he had was his cleaver, but Shivers knew he’d killed enough men with that alone, and didn’t plan on adding his name to the list.
They tangled again, Friendly weaving round an axe-blow and darting in close, hacking with the cleaver. Shivers stepped into it, caught it on his shield then charged on, sent Friendly stumbling back against a table, metal rattling. Shivers grinned, until he saw the table was covered with knives. Friendly snatched up a blade, arm going back to throw. Shivers dropped down behind his shield, felt the thud as the knife buried itself in the wood. He peered over the edge, saw another spinning at him. It bounced from the metal rim and flashed up into Shivers’ face, left him a burning scratch across the cheek. Friendly whipped up another knife.
Shivers weren’t about to crouch there and be target practice. He roared as he rushed forwards, shield leading the way. Friendly leaped back, rolled across the table, Shivers’ axe just missed him, leaving a great wound in the wood and sending knives jumping in the air. He followed while the convict was off balance, punching away with the edge of his shield, swinging wild with his axe, skin burning, sweat tickling, one eye bulging wild, growling through gritted teeth. Plates shattered, pans scattered, bottles broke, splinters flew, a jar of flour burst open and filled the air with blinding dust.
Shivers left a trail of waste through that kitchen the Bloody-Nine himself might’ve been proud to make, but the convict dodged and danced, nipped and slashed with knife and cleaver, always just out of reach. All Shivers had to show for his fury by the time they’d done their ugly dance the length of the long room was a bleeding cut on his own arm and a reddening mark on the side of Friendly’s face where he’d caught him with his shield.
The convict stood ready and waiting, a couple of steps up the flight leading out, knife and cleaver hanging by his sides, sheen of sweat across his flat chunk of face, skin bloody and battered from a dozen different little cuts and kicks, plus a fall off a balcony and a tumble down some stairs, of course. But Shivers hadn’t landed nothing telling on him yet. He didn’t look halfway to being finished.
“Come ’ere, you tricky fucker!” Shivers hissed, arm aching shoulder to fingers from swinging his axe. “Let’s put an end to you.”
“You come here,” Friendly grunted back at him. “Let’s put an end to you.”
Shivers shrugged his shoulders, shook out his arms, wiped blood off his forehead on the back of his sleeve, twisted his neck one way then the other. “Right… you… fucking are!” And he came on again. He didn’t need asking twice.
Cosca frowned down at his knife. “If I said I was just going to peel an orange with it, any chance you’d believe me?”
Victus grinned, causing Cosca to reflect that no man he had ever met had a shiftier smile. “Doubt I’ll believe another word you say. But don’t worry. You won’t be saying many more.”
“Why is it that men pointing loaded flatbows always feel the need to gloat, rather than simply letting fly?”
“Gloating’s fun.” Victus reached for his glass, smirking eyes never leaving Cosca, glinting point of the flatbow bolt steady as stone, and quickly tossed back his spirit in one swallow. “Yeuch.” He stuck his tongue out. “Damn, that stuff is sour.”
“Sweeter than my situation,” muttered Cosca. “I suppose now the captain general’s chair will be yours.” A shame. He’d only just got used to sitting in it again himself.
Victus snorted. “Why would I want the fucking thing? Hasn’t done much good for the arses on it up to now, has it? Sazine, you, the Murcattos, Faithful Carpi, and you again. Each one ended up dead or close to it, and all the while I’ve stood behind, and got a lot richer than a nasty little bastard like me deserves.” He winced, put one hand on his stomach. “No, I’ll find some new idiot to sit there, I think, and make me richer’n ever.” He grimaced again. “Ah, shit on that stuff. Ah!” He staggered up from his chair, clutching the edge of the table, a thick vein bulging from his forehead. “What’ve you done to me, you old bastard?” He squinted over, flatbow suddenly wobbling.
Cosca flung himself forwards. The trigger clicked, the bowstring twanged, the bolt clattered against the plaster just to his left. He rolled up beside the table with a whoop of triumph, raising his knife. “Hah hah—”
Victus’ bow bashed him in the face, just above his eye. “Gurgh!” Cosca’s vision was suddenly filled with light, his knees wobbling wildly. He clutched at the table, waved his knife at nothing. “Sfup.” Hands closed around his throat. Hands crusted with heavy rings. Victus’ pink face loomed up before his, spit spluttering from his twisted mouth.
Cosca’s boots went out from under him, the room flipped over, his head crashed into the table. And all was dark.
The battle under the dome was over, and between the two sides they’d made quite a mess of Orso’s cherished rotunda. The glittering mosaic floor and the sweeping steps above it were strewn with corpses, scattered with fallen weapons, dashed and spattered, pooled and puddled with dark blood.
The mercenaries had won—if a dozen of them left standing counted as a victory. “Help me!” one of the wounded was screeching. “Help me!” But his fellows had other things on their minds.
“Get these fucking things open!” The one taking charge was Secco, the corporal who’d been on guard when she rode into the Thousand Swords’ camp only to find Cosca there ahead of her. He dragged a dead Talinese soldier out of the way of the lion-head doors and dumped the corpse down the stairs. “Y
ou! Find an axe!”
Monza frowned. “Orso’ll have more men in there for sure. We’d better wait for help.”
“Wait? And split the takings?” Secco gave her a withering sneer. “Fuck yourself, Murcatto, you don’t give us orders no more! Get it open!” Two men started battering away with axes, splinters of veneer flying. The rest of the survivors jostled dangerously close behind them, breathless with greed. It seemed the doors had been made to impress guests, not keep out armies. They shuddered, loosening on their hinges. A few more blows and one axe broke clean through, a great chunk of wood splintering away. Secco whooped in triumph as he rammed his spear into the gap, levering the bar on the other side out of its brackets. He fumbled with the ragged edge, pulling the doors wide.
Squealing like children on a feast day, tangled up with each other, drunk on blood and avarice, the mercenaries spilled through into the bright hall where Benna died. Monza knew it was a bad idea to follow. She knew Orso might not even be in there, and if he was, he’d be ready.
But sometimes you have to grasp the nettle.
She dashed round the doorframe after them, keeping low. An instant later she heard the rattling of flatbows. The mercenary in front of her fell and she had to duck around him. Another tumbled backwards, clutching at a bolt in his chest. Boots hammered, men bellowed, the grand room with its great windows and its paintings of history’s winners wobbled around her as she ran. She saw figures in full armour, glimpses of steel shining. Orso’s closest guards.
She saw Secco jabbing away at one with his spear, the blade scraping uselessly off heavy plate. She heard a loud bonk as a mercenary smashed in a helmet with a big mace, then a scream as he was cut down himself, chopped near in half across the back with a two-handed sword, blood jumping. Another bolt snatched a man from his feet as he charged in and sent him sprawling backwards. Monza crouched, setting her shoulder under the edge of a marble table and heaved it over, a vase that had been on top shattering across the floor. She ducked down behind it, flinched as a flatbow bolt glanced off the stone and clattered away.
“No!” she heard someone shout. “No!” A mercenary flashed past her, running for the door he’d burst through with such enthusiasm a moment before. There was the sound of a bowstring and he stumbled, a bolt sticking from his back, tottered another step and fell, slid along on his face. He tried to push himself up, coughed blood, then sagged down. He died looking right at her.
This was what you got for being greedy. And here she was, wedged in behind a table and all out of friends, more than likely next.
“Grasp the fucking nettle,” she cursed at herself.
Friendly backed up the last of the steps, his boots suddenly striking echoes as a wide space opened up behind him. A great round room under a dome painted with winged women, seven lofty archways leading in. Statues looked down from the walls, sculptures in relief, hundreds of pairs of eyes following him as he moved. The defenders must have made a stand here, there were bodies scattered across the floor and up the two curving staircases. Cosca’s mercenaries and Orso’s guards mixed up together. All on the same side, now. Friendly thought he could hear fighting echoing from somewhere above, but there was still plenty of fight for him down here.
Shivers stepped out from the archway. His hair was dark with blood on one side, plastered to his skull, scarred face streaked red. He was covered with nicks and grazes, right sleeve ripped wide, blood running down his arm. But Friendly hadn’t been able to put in that final blow. The Northman still had his axe in one fist, ready to fight, shield criss-crossed with gouges. He nodded as his one eye moved slowly around the room.
“Lot o’ corpses,” he whispered.
“Forty-nine,” said Friendly. “Seven times seven.”
“Fancy that. We add you, we’ll make fifty.”
He threw himself forwards, feinting high then swinging his axe in a great low, ankle-chopping sweep. Friendly jumped it, cleaver coming down towards the Northman’s head. Shivers jerked his shield up in time and the blade clanged from its dented boss, sending a jolt up Friendly’s arm right to his shoulder. He stabbed at Shivers’ side as he passed, got his arm tangled with the haft of the axe as it swung back, but still left the Northman a long cut down his ribs. Friendly spun, raising his cleaver to finish the job, got Shivers’ elbow in his throat before he could bring it down, staggered back, near tripping over a corpse.
They faced each other again, Shivers bent over, teeth bared, arm pressed to his wounded side, Friendly coughing as he fought to get his breath and his balance back both at once.
“Another?” whispered Shivers.
“One more,” croaked Friendly.
They went at each other again, their snatched breath, squeaking boots, grunting and growling, the scrape of metal on metal, the clang of metal on stone, all echoing from the marble walls and the painted ceiling, as though men were fighting to the death all around them. They chopped, hacked, spat, kicked, stabbed at each other, jumping over bodies, stumbling over weapons, boots slipping and squeaking in black blood on polished stone.
Friendly jerked away from a clumsy axe-swing that hit the wall and sent chips of marble spinning, found he was backing up the steps. They were both tiring now, slowing. A man can only fight, sweat, bleed for so long. Shivers came after him, breathing hard, shield up in front.
Backing up steps is a bad enough idea when they’re not scattered with bodies. Friendly was so busy watching Shivers he put his boot down on a corpse’s hand, twisted his ankle. Shivers saw it, jabbed with his axe. Friendly couldn’t get his leg out of the way in time and the blade tore a gash out of his calf, half-dragged him over. Shivers growled as he lifted his axe high. Friendly lurched forwards, slashed Shivers’ forearm with his knife, left a red-black wound, blood running. The Northman grunted, fumbled his axe, the heavy weapon clattering down beside them. Friendly chopped at his skull with the cleaver but Shivers got his shield arm in the way, the two of them getting tangled, the blade only slitting Shivers’ scalp, blood bubbling from the wound, pattering over them both. The Northman grabbed Friendly’s shoulder with his bloody hand, dragging him close, good eye bulging with crazy rage, steel eye spattered shining red, lips twisted in a mad snarl as he tipped his head backwards.
Friendly drove his knife into Shivers’ thigh, felt the metal slide in to the hilt. Shivers gave a kind of squeal, pain and fury together. His forehead smashed into Friendly’s mouth with a sick crunch. The hall reeled around, the steps hit Friendly in the back, his skull cracked against marble. He saw Shivers loom over him, thought it would be a good idea to bring the cleaver up. Before he could do it, Shivers rammed his shield down, metal rim clanging against stone. Friendly felt the two bones in his forearm break, cleaver dropping from his numb fingers and clattering down the steps.
Shivers reached down, specks of pink spit flicking from his clenched teeth with each moaning breath, fist closing around the grip of his axe. Friendly watched him do it, feeling no more than a mild curiosity. Everything was bright and blurry, now. He saw the scar on the Northman’s thick wrist, in the shape of a number seven. Seven was a good number, today, just as it had been the first day they met. Just as it always was.
“Excuse me.” Shivers froze for a moment, his one eye sliding sideways. He reeled around, axe coming after. A man stood behind him, a lean man with pale hair. It was hard to see what happened. The axe missed, Shivers’ shield shattered in a tangle of flying wood, he was snatched off his feet and sent tumbling across the chamber. He crashed into the far wall with a gurgle, bounced off and rolled slowly down the opposite set of steps, flopping over once, twice, three times, and lying still at the bottom.
“Three times,” gurgled Friendly through his split lips.
“Stay,” said the pale man, stepping around him and off up the stairway. It was not so difficult to obey. Friendly had no other plans. He spat a lump of tooth out of his numb mouth, and that was all. He lay there, blinking slowly, staring up at the winged women on the ceiling.
A rapid spectrum of emotions had swept over Morveer during the past few moments. Triumphant delight, as he had seen Cosca drink from his flask and all unknowing doom himself. Horror and a pointless search for a hiding place as the old mercenary declared his intention to visit the latrine. Curiosity, as he then saw Victus produce a loaded flatbow from beneath the table and train it on his general’s back. Triumph once again as he watched Victus consume his own fatal measure of spirit. Finally he was forced to clamp one hand over his mouth to smother his amusement as the poisoned Cosca flung himself clumsily at his poisoned opponent and the two men wrestled, fell to the floor and lay still in a final embrace.
The ironies positively piled one upon the next. Most earnestly they had attempted to kill each other, never realising that Morveer had already done both their jobs for them.
With the smile still on his face he slid his mounted needle from its hidden pocket within the lining of his mercenary’s jerkin. Caution first, always. In case any trace of life remained in either of the two murderous old mercenaries, the lightest prick with this shining splinter of metal, coated with his own Preparation Number Twelve, would extinguish it for good and to the general benefit of the world. Morveer carefully eased the latrine door open with the gentlest of creaks, and on pointed toes crept out into the room beyond.
The table was tipped over on its side, coins and cards widely scattered. Cosca lay on his back beside it, left hand hanging nerveless, his flask not far away. Victus was draped on top of him, small flatbow still gripped in one fist, the clasp at its end spotted with red blood. Morveer knelt beside the deceased, hooked his free hand under Victus’ corpse and with a grunting effort rolled it off.
Cosca’s eyes were closed, his mouth open, blood streaked his cheek from a wound on his forehead. His skin was waxy pale with the unmistakable sheen of death.
“A man can change, eh?” sneered Morveer. “So much for your promises!”
Best Served Cold Page 67
