‘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.
Greylock gave a mighty roar and came charging forwards, swinging the club and swinging it hard. Gave Shivers the bastard of a shock. He got his shield up in time, but the weight of the blow knocked him clean over, sliding across the ground on his arse, left arm struck numb. He sprawled out, all tangled up with his sword, nicked his eyebrow on the edge. Lucky not to get the point in his eye. He rolled, the club crashing down where he’d lain a moment before and sending stone chips flying. Even as he was clambering up, Greylock was at him again, looking like he meant deadly business, and Shivers had to scramble away with all the dignity of a cat in a wolf-pen. He didn’t remember this being what they discussed. Seemed the big man meant to give these bastards a show to remember after all.
‘Kill him!’ Someone laughed.
‘Give us some blood, you idiots!’
Shivers tightened his hand round the grip of the sword. He suddenly had a bad feeling. Even worse’n before.
Rolling dice normally made Friendly feel calm, but not tonight. He had a bad feeling. Even worse than before. He watched them tumble, clatter, spin, their clicking seeming to dig at his clammy skin, and come to rest.
‘Two and four,’ he said.
‘We see the numbers!’ snapped the man with the mask like a crescent moon. ‘Damn dice hate me!’ He tossed them angrily over, bouncing against the polished wood.
Friendly frowned as he scooped them up and rolled them gently back. ‘Five and three. House wins.’
‘It seems to be making a habit of it,’ growled the one with the mask like a ship, and some of their friends muttered angrily. They were all of them drunk. Drunk and stupid. The house always makes a habit of winning, which is why it hosts games of chance in the first place. But it was hardly Friendly’s job to educate them on that point. Someone at the far end of the room cried out with shrill delight as the lucky wheel brought up their number. A few of the card players clapped with mild disdain.
‘Bloody dice.’ Crescent Moon slurped from his glass of wine as Friendly carefully gathered up the counters and added them to his own swelling stacks. He was having trouble breathing, the air was so thick with strange smells – perfume, and sweat, and wine, and smoke. He realised his mouth was hanging open, and snapped it shut.
The King of the Union looked from Monza, to Vitari, and back – handsome, regal and most extremely unwelcome. Monza realised her mouth was hanging open, and snapped it shut.
‘I mean no disrespect, but one of you will be more than adequate and I have . . . always had a weakness for dark hair.’ He gestured to the door. ‘I hope I will not offend by asking you to leave us. I will make sure you are paid.’
‘How generous.’ Vitari glanced sideways and Monza gave her the tiniest shrug, her mind flipping around like a frog in hot water as it sought desperately for a way clear of this self-made trap. Vitari pushed herself away from the wall and strutted to the door. She brushed the front of the king’s coat with the back of her hand on the way past. ‘Curse my red-haired mother,’ she sneered. The door clicked shut.
‘A most . . .’ The king cleared his throat. ‘Pleasing room.’
‘You’re easily pleased.’
He snorted with laughter. ‘My wife would not say so.’
‘Few wives say good things about their husbands. That’s why they come to us.’
‘You misunderstand. I have her blessing. My wife is expecting our third child and therefore . . . well, that hardly interests you.’
‘I’ll seem interested whatever you say. That’s what I’m paid for.’
‘Of course.’ The king rubbed his hands somewhat nervously together. ‘Perhaps a drink.’
She nodded towards the cabinet. ‘There they are.’
‘Do you need one?’
‘No.’
‘No, of course, why would you?’ Wine gurgled from the bottle. ‘I suppose this is nothing new for you.’
‘No.’ Though in fact it was hard to remember the last time she’d been disguised as a whore in a room with a king. She had two choices. Bed him, or murder him. Neither one held much appeal. Killing Ario would make trouble enough. To kill a king – even Orso’s son-in-law – would be asking for a great deal more.
When faced with two dark paths, Stolicus wrote, a general should always choose the lighter. She doubted these were quite the circumstances he’d had in mind, but that changed nothing. She slid one hand around the nearest bedpost, lowered herself until she was sitting awkwardly on the garish covers. Then her eye fell on the husk pipe.
When faced with two dark paths, Farans wrote, a general should always find a third.
‘You seem nervous,’ she murmured.
The king had made it as far as the foot of the bed. ‘I must confess it’s been a long time since I visited . . . a place like this one.’
‘Something to calm you, then.’ She turned her back on him before he had the chance to say no, and began to fill the pipe. It didn’t take her long to make it ready. She did it every night, after all.
‘Husk? I’m not sure that I—’
‘You need your wife’s blessing for this too?’ She held it out to him.
‘Of course not.’
She stood, lifting the lamp, holding his eye, and set the flame to the bowl. His first breath in he coughed out straight away. The second not much later. The third he managed to hold, then blow out in a plume of white smoke.
‘Your turn,’ he croaked, pressing the pipe back into her hand as he sank down on the bed, smoke still curling up from the bowl and tickling her nose.
‘I . . .’ Oh, how she wanted it. She was trembling with her need for it. ‘I . . .’ Right there, right in her hand. But this was no time to indulge herself. She needed to stay in control.
His mouth curled up in a gormless grin. ‘Whose blessing do you need?’ he croaked. ‘I promise I won’t tell a . . . oh.’
She was already setting the flame to the grey-brown flakes, sucking the smoke in deep, feeling it burn at her lungs.
‘Damn boots,’ the king was saying as he tried to drag his highly polished footwear off. ‘Don’t bloody fit me. You pay . . . a hundred marks . . . for some boots . . . you expect them to—’ One flew off and clattered into the wall, leaving a bright trace behind it. Monza was finding it hard to stand up.
‘Again.’ She held the pipe out.
‘Well . . . where’s the harm?’ Monza stared at the lamp flame as it flared up
. Shimmering, shining, all the colours of a hoard of priceless jewels, the crumbs of husk glowing orange, turning from sweet brown to blazing red to used-up grey ash. The king breathed a long plume of sweet-smelling smoke in her face and she closed her eyes and sucked it in. Her head was full of it, swelling with it, ready to burst open.
‘Oh.’
‘Eh?’
He stared around. ‘That is . . . rather . . .’
‘Yes. Yes it is.’ The room was glowing. The pains in her legs had become pleasurable tickles. Her bare skin fizzed and tingled. She sank down, mattress creaking under her rump. Just her and the King of the Union, perched on an ugly bed in a whorehouse. What could’ve been more comfortable?
The king licked lazily at his lips. ‘My wife. The queen. You know. Did I mention that? Queen. She does not always—’
‘Your wife likes women,’ Monza found she’d said. Then she snorted with laughter, and had to wipe some snot off her lip. ‘She likes them a lot.’
The king’s eyes were pink inside the eyeholes of his mask. They crawled lazily over her face. ‘Women? What were we talking of?’ He leaned forwards. ‘I don’t feel . . . nervous . . . any more.’ He slid one clumsy hand up the side of her leg. ‘I think . . .’ he muttered, working his tongue around his mouth. ‘I . . . think . . .’ His eyes rolled up and he flopped back on the bed, arms outspread. His head tipped slowly sideways, mask skewing across his face, and he was still, faint snoring echoing in Monza’s ears.
He looked so peaceful there. She wanted to lie down. She was always thinking, thinking, worrying, thinking. She needed to rest. She deserved to. But there was something nagging at her – something she needed to do first. What was it? She drifted to her feet, swaying uncertainly.
Ario.
‘Uh. That’s it.’ She left his Majesty sprawled across the bed and made for the door, the room tipping one way and then the other, trying to catch her out. Tricky bastard. She bent down and tore one of the high shoes off, tottered sideways and nearly fell. She flung the other away and it floated gently through the air, like an anchor sinking through water. She had to force her eyes open wide as she looked at the door, because there was a mosaic of blue glass between her and the world, candle flames beyond it leaving long, blinding smears across her sight.
Morveer nodded to Day, and she nodded back, a deeper black shape crouched in the fizzing darkness of the attic, the slightest strip of blue light across her grin. Behind her, the joists, the laths, the rafters were all black outlines touched down the edges with the faintest glow. ‘I will deal with the pair beside the Royal Suite,’ he whispered. ‘You . . . take the others.’
‘Done, but when?’
When was the question of paramount importance. He put his eye to the hole, blowpipe in one hand, fingertips of the other rubbing nervously against his thumb. The door to the Royal Suite opened and Vitari emerged from between the guards. She frowned up, then walked away down the corridor. There was no sign of Murcatto, no sign of Foscar, no further sign of anything. This was not part of the plan, of that Morveer was sure. He had still to kill the guards, of course, he had been paid to do so and always followed through on a contracted task. That was one thing among many that separated him from the obscene likes of Nicomo Cosca. But when, when, when . . .
Morveer frowned. He was sure he could hear the vague sound of someone chewing. ‘Are you eating?’
‘Just a bun.’
‘Well stop it! We are at work, for pity’s sake, and I am trying to think! Is an iota of professionalism too much to ask?’
Time stretched out to the vague accompaniment of the incompetent musicians down in the courtyard, but with the exception of the guards rocking gently from side to side, there was no further sign of movement. Morveer slowly shook his head. In this case, it seemed, as in so many, one moment was much like another. He breathed in deep, lifted the pipe to his lips, taking aim on the furthest of his allotted pair—
The door to Ario’s chamber banged open. The two women emerged, one still adjusting her skirts. Morveer held his breath, cheeks puffed out. They pulled the door shut then made off down the corridor. One of the guards said something to the other, and he laughed. There was the most discreet of hisses as Morveer discharged his pipe, and the laughter was cut short.
‘Ah!’ The nearest guard pressed one hand to his scalp.
‘What?’
‘Something . . . I don’t know, stung me.’
‘Stung you? What would’ve—’ It was the other guard’s turn to rub at his head. ‘Bloody hell!’
The first had found the needle in his hair, and now held it up to the light. ‘A needle.’ He fumbled for his sword with a clumsy hand, lurched back against the wall and slid down onto his backside. ‘I feel all . . .’
The second guard took an unsteady stride into the corridor, reached up at nothing, then pitched over on his face, arm outstretched. Morveer allowed himself the slightest nod of satisfaction, then crept over to Day, crouching over two of the holes with her blowpipe in her hand.
‘Success?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’ She held the bun in the other, and now took a bite from it. Through the hole Morveer saw the two guards beside Ario’s suite slumped motionless.
‘Fine work, my dear. But that, alas, is all the work with which we were trusted.’ He began to gather up their equipment.
‘Should we stay, see how it goes?’
‘I see no reason so to do. The best we can hope for is that men will die, and that I have witnessed before. Frequently. Take it from me. One death is much like another. You have the rope?’
‘Of course.’
‘Never too soon to secure the means of escape.’
‘Caution first, always.’
‘Precisely so.’
Day uncoiled the cord from her pack and made one end of it fast around a heavy joist. She lifted one foot and kicked the little window from its frame. Morveer heard the sound of it splashing down into the canal behind the building.
‘Most neatly done. What would I do without you?’
‘Die!’ And Greylock came charging across the circle with that great lump of wood high over his head. Shivers gasped along with the crowd, only just scrambled clear in time, felt the wind of it ripping at his face. He caught the big man in a clumsy hug and they tottered together round the outside of the circle.
‘What the fuck are you after?’ Shivers hissed in his ear.
‘Vengeance!’ Greylock dealt him a knee in the side then flung him off.
Shivers stumbled away, finding his balance, picking his brains for some slight he’d given the man. ‘Vengeance? For what, you mad bastard?’
‘For Uffrith!’ He slapped his great foot down, feinting, and Shivers hopped back, peering over the top of his shield.
‘Eh? No one got killed there!’
‘You sure?’
‘A couple o’ men down on the docks, but—’
‘My brother! No more’n fourteen years old!’
‘I had no part o’ that, you great turd! Black Dow did them killings!’
‘Black Dow ain’t before me now, and I swore to my mother I’d make someone pay. You’d a big enough part for me to knock it out o’ you, fucker!’ Shivers gave a girlish kind of squeak as he ducked back from another great sweep, heard men cheering around him, as keen for blood as the watchers might be at a real duel.
Vengeance, then. A double-edged blade if ever there was one. You never could tell when that bastard was going to cut you. Shivers stood, blood creeping down the side of his face from a knock he took just before, and all he could think was how fucking unfair it was. He’d tried to do the right thing, just the way his brother had always told him he should. He’d tried to be a better man. Hadn’t he? This was where good intentions put you. Right in the shit.
‘But I just . . . I done my best!’ he bellowed in Northern.
Greylock sent spit spinning through the mouth-hole of his mask. ‘So did my brother!’ He came on, club coming down in a b
lur. Shivers ducked round it, jerked his shield up hard and smashed the rim under the big man’s jaw, sent him staggering back, spluttering blood.
Shivers still had his pride. That much he’d kept for himself. He was damned if he was going to be put in the mud by some great thick bastard who couldn’t tell a good man from a bad. He felt the fury boiling up his throat, the way it used to back home in the North, when the battle was joined and he was in the thick of it.
‘Vengeance, is it?’ he screamed. ‘I’ll show you fucking vengeance!’
Cosca winced as Shivers caught a blow on his shield and staggered sideways. He snarled something extremely angry-sounding in Northern, lashed at the air with his sword and missed Greylock by no more than the thickness of a finger, almost chopping deep into the onlookers on the backswing and making them shuffle nervously away.
‘Amazing stuff!’ someone frothed. ‘It looks almost real! I must hire them for my daughter’s wedding . . .’
It was true, the Northmen were mounting a good show. Rather too good. They circled warily, eyes fixed on each other, one of them occasionally jabbing forwards with foot or weapon. The furious, concentrated caution of men who knew the slightest slip could mean death. Shivers had his hair matted to the side of his face with blood. Greylock had a long scratch through the leather on his chest and a cut under his chin where the shield-rim had cracked him.
The onlookers had stopped yelling obscenities, cooing and gasping instead, eyes locked hungrily on the fighters, caught between wanting to press forwards to see, and press back when the weapons were swung. They felt something on the air in the courtyard. Like the weight of the sky before a great storm. Genuine, murderous rage.
The band had more than got the trick of the battle music, the fiddle stabbing as Shivers slashed with the sword, drum booming whenever Greylock heaved his great club, adding significantly to the near-unbearable tension.
The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country Page 24